The Second Coming

"The Second Coming"

A Harry Potter Fanfiction By Peeler

Chapter One: The Child of Ten Centuries' Blood

Dr. Robert Aldridge first noticed the woman when he checked his appointments with the nurses' aide at the front desk, after his morning patients had been finished with. She had been sitting in one of the unnaturally uncomfortable wicker chairs that made up the far-too-small hospital waiting area. It was an uncharacteristically busy day, and the doctor was up to his neck in work, but something about this particular woman struck him as odd. Dr. Aldridge had noticed her because she seemed a study in contradictions: she sat rigidly straight, with her hands folded in her lap and her chin thrust out. When he'd walked by she'd looked down her nose at him, as if daring him to ask her if she needed any help. She sat like an aristocrat's daughter, he remembered musing. Yet, she was unmistakably very pregnant- he was sure that must be why she was here- and there were no family members anywhere in sight, not even a husband. The doctor had thought she looked rather malnourished, or at least thinner than he was used to seeing, especially in pregnant women. Her tattered clothes were certainly too thin to be wearing about in late November, and with the weather they were having! Uncertain whether she had an appointment with one of the other doctors or not, and not wishing to pry, he had not spoken to her earlier. But when she was still there, sitting just as stiffly, two hours later, he resolved to see if she needed anything.

"Excuse me, Madam," he asked politely, and she turned slowly to face him. "Have you got an appointment?" She shook her head quickly.

"No, doctor...I was hoping perhaps someone would have the time to help me?" she asked, a nervous shudder in her throat.

"I'm sure I could fit you into my schedule within the next couple of hours, if you don't mind waiting just a little longer," he said, and the woman nodded briefly. "Could I get your name, please?"

"Juliana-" she hesitated. "Juliana Marvolo."

"Thank you," replied the doctor, noting it on his schedule, checking his pocket watch, and hurrying off to attend to a patient.

~*~

He was just starting to look over an elderly man who had complained of back spasms when one of the nurses came rushing in to tell him that the woman, Julia Marvelo, wasn't it? was having contractions. They'd taken her from the waiting area, and they'd cleared some space for an extra bed in the maternity ward, and could he please come and assist the midwife? Apologizing profusely to his patient, the doctor hurried out.

By the time he reached the maternity ward, which was about as far away from his rooms as could be, the midwife and nurses seemed to have everything under control, and the doctor was relegated to finding extra cushions to prop up Juliana Marvolo's head.

"Do you have anyone who should be here, ma'am?" asked the doctor politely. Juliana's face was pinched with pain.

"No," she said, gritting her teeth against the pain in her stomach. "There's no-one."

"No one?" inquired the midwife obtusely. "What about the father? What about your family?" It might have only been the pain, but Juliana's face screwed up into a very tight grimace.

"Fuck the father!" A tear rolled down her cheek. "He- aah-" her body shook with a particularly strong contraction. "There's no family. They wouldn't- they're dead," she finished. One of the nurses looked at her doubtfully.

"Surely there's someone who-" Juliana cut her off.

"Shut up! I told you, I have no one, no one! Come on, damn it, I want this done!" she shouted, sweat beading on her forehead.

~*~

It had been a long and difficult birth, but the baby was healthy, if a little premature. His mother, however, was exhausted, and her eyes had taken on a glassy sheen. The midwife shot Dr. Aldridge a worried glance, and he pressed his stethoscope to Juliana's chest. Her heartbeat was slow and irregular, and her breathing had grown unnaturally shallow. Noting the look the doctor gave to the midwife, Juliana shifted her head slightly and said something inaudible. The doctor and midwife both leaned closer to try to hear.

"I'm dying, aren't I?" she said, her head drooping forward. "I put everything I had into him." She drew her child closer. Doctor Aldridge nodded; the midwife looked away. "His name is Tom," she said, mustering what strength she had, "Tom Marvolo Riddle." She looked down at the baby again; he was sucking his thumb furiously. "You will make sure he goes to someplace safe? An orphanage? Not the streets?" Doctor Aldridge nodded again.

"We- the hospital- we'll do our best, ma'am," she said. "Do you have anything you want him to have, later?"

"There is a key, and a letter, in one of my pockets," she said, her voice dying away to a whisper, "make certain they stay with him. Wherever he ends up, make sure he will get them." She stroked the baby's thin black hair, and he looked up into her face- they had the same eyes. "You're going to be a great wizard, Tom."

The hospital workers gathered around the bed could only look at each other quizzically as the dying mother took her last breath, and the baby fell asleep in her arms.

~*~

The summer sun was just rising at 5:30 in the morning, and pale light crept through the gray-curtained windows of Frank Birnam's Home for Truant Young Boys. Tom Riddle was already awake, reading a copy of a battered pulp-fiction novel he'd nicked from Mr. Birnam's office. It wasn't good at all, but at least it gave Tom something to do when he was bored. Wishing briefly that he hadn't read his way through most of Mr. Birnam's much neglected collection of literature, he flipped through the pages quickly. Tom's internal clock woke him up at 5:20 every morning, unfailingly, just before Mr. Birnam entered to shout at the boys to wake up, as it was time to start work. The lock clicked open and Birnam began to yell, walking down the rows of beds and giving a sharp smack to any of the boys who were too slow getting up from their sleep and dressing. Tom quickly stashed his book under the mattress and dodged Birnam's foot as he hurried to line up for inspection, straightening his shirt as he walked. He breathed a sigh of relief, one of thousands, that his mother and the doctors had thought to record his surname; those boys who had none slept closest to the door and took the most early-morning abuse. Birnam walked down the row of hurriedly-dressed boys, pausing to hit one around the shins with his walking-stick for not buttoning his shirt all the way, and another for wearing his cap crookedly. Tom hurriedly straightened his tie as Birnam walked by, and received a swat on the forearm for his troubles. Rubbing his arm, he trotted obediently in line out to the dirty white building where the boys worked. As Birnam strolled to the front of the dull room, Tom took his place at his table. Number Forty-Five, the fifth last, with "Riddle" printed on a cheap piece of notepaper and weighted down with a box of nails. Between Radcliffe and Shatford. The same place, day after monotonous day. Mr. Birnam laid down his walking stick and clasped his hands behind his back to make an announcement.

"All right boys, one of our buyers has demanded a larger shipment this month, so I want you working extra hard these next few days. Quotas will be increased by ten each, and if you do not fill them I will be very displeased. That means no more daydreaming, Perkins, or you will regret it, more than your skin can take I daresay." Birnam picked up his walking stick and jabbed it threateningly at a boy in the third row of tables. "Go on, get to work." Tom sat still as some of the older boys brought around the boxes of smelly, cheap leather for them to take.

Mr. Birnam was in the business of producing shoes for the factory and dock workers of London. As such, there was never a decrease in the amount of shoes the boys had to stitch and hammer together from dawn until sunset. Cheap, poorly cured leather and thick spools of string passed through Tom's hands, shaping the leather into the crude form of a large foot before cutting it into the three pieces needed to make the simplest possible footwear. He then stitched it together, taking as much reasonable care not to prick himself a he could without slowing down, and then nailing on a tough sole of molded oriental rubber. He had to work quickly or risk dropping below his quota, something he had done a number of times and never wanted to experience again. On the other hand, Mr. Birnam was a connoisseur of cheap shoes, and would know immediately if Tom had been making his shoes too quickly. It had been like this every single day since Tom had been taken from the nursery and brought here to Birnam's. He was one of the few who remembered anything but snatches of life from before they had started working. Birnam, apart from seeking the most efficient way to produce large amounts of inexpensive footwear, had always made it clear that he considered it his mission to mold the boys under his care into simple, unthinking members of the working class.

Birnam himself was well above working class, of course. Tom had heard some of the older boys saying, in hushed tones, that he had "connections." What this meant, apparently, was that he could get away with working the boys much harder and longer than he was technically allowed to. It also meant that he could neglect the usual requirements for a healthy diet and basic schooling, giving them little but white bread and milk. Tom had long ago taught himself to read, and whenever the opportunity presented itself, would take a new book from Birnam's study (his favorite had been a fantastic play called "A Midsummer Night's Dream"). Most of the other boys, however, were quite illiterate, and only a few could write; Tom had learned most of his letters while still in nursery, and felt quite superior because of it. Still, there was hardly any time available for reading and writing, as the necessity of work and sleep came first.

There was only one real occasion on which the perpetual boredom of repetitive work had been broken for Tom; on his seventh birthday, Birnam had ordered him into his study. Tom had been frightened, as none of the boys were allowed in Birnam's residence on pain of "a right awful thrashing". However, Birnam had taken a small box on which was written "Riddle" from a shelf, where it had sat alongside several others with different names. He'd handed Tom the box, in which sat his birth certificate, a folded piece of paper, and a finely wrought golden key. Tom had eventually learned that all of the boys who had once had family received a box with all of their possessions in it on their seventh birthday. None had ever seen anything like Tom's key before, though. He had his three possessions in his pocket now; he always kept them in the inside pocket of his coat. Once he had forgotten to remove the key when his coat went through the laundry and had been very surprised when it appeared strangely next to the letter in his pants pocket; this had convinced him that the amazing key would stay with him no matter what. Nevertheless, he was still very careful with it, and with his letter and certificate. The first time he'd opened the letter he'd only just learned to read, and even now it still made little sense.

Son, or Daughter,

My dear child, I'm writing this to you because I think I will die very soon. It may please you to know, wherever you are now, that you are the last in the very old family of the Marvolos. We have a glorious history, far too long to relay in one small letter. Suffice to say I threw away that history when I married your father, Tom Riddle. You probably will not know what this means yet, but you will soon: he was a Muggle. I was married to him for nearly a year when I told him I was pregnant with you; when I told him all about myself, he left me. He threw me out of our house, and I made my way slowly to London. My family, the Marvolos, would never have taken me back in- they disapproved of your father and would feel that I got what I deserved; maybe I did. Now I am here, cold and hungry, on the streets of London looking for a hospital to have you in and fearing that my last pen will soon run dry.

You will probably go to an orphanage, where I understand that they will probably give this to you, eventually. You will also get the key to my Gringott's vault. The Marvolo family fortune will not go to you, but you will get what little I have left from my family. I would tell you so much more, my son, but I dare not in this letter. You will probably understand very little of this, but be patient. In your eleventh year, you will have to leave wherever you are staying. In that year you will understand everything I have written about here.

I wish so much I could be there to watch you grow up. I love you so very much.

Your Mother,

Juliana (Christine Luciana Marvolo) Riddle

While hopelessly confused by some of the letter's words, Tom had been overjoyed on receiving it. It was his one connection to something outside the dreary orphanage, and his one source of hope that some day, he would be free. Tom had, of course, committed the contents of the letter to memory, as well as his far simpler birth certificate. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, born November 23, 1927, Queen Charlotte's Hospital, to mother Juliana Marvolo and father in absentia Thomas Riddle.". On his eleventh birthday, November 23, 1938, he had stayed up all night hoping for some magical revelation, but none had come, to his great disappointment. For eight months he had waited for a reason, any reason, to leave Birnam's and find out more about his key, to find out what a "Muggle" was, and what "Gringott's" was, and all that his mother had promised. There was a loud crack in front of Tom as Birnam slammed his walking stick down on the desk.

"Riddle!" barked Birnam sharply, bringing his walking stick down again, this time on Tom's knuckles. "Stop your mind wandering and get back to work! If you can't keep your feeble brain on shoes, I'll have to give you a mighty licking!" Tom immediately resumed stitching together two pieces of leather, but Birnam brought his stick up once more, and looked ready to strike when a crisp knocking on the door distracted his attention. "If that's Jeffry again, I'll have at him good...knows better than to interrupt the workers, he does..." muttered Birnam as he went to answer it. But the person at the door was not the Irish groundskeeper Jeffry. It was a very tall man with long hair and a very long beard, both of which were a deep auburn colour. He exchanged brief words with Birnam, and all of the boys watched him with intense curiosity. Then Birnam barked,

"Riddle! Tom Riddle!" Tom looked up. "Over here, if you please! Come on, make it quick, boy." As Tom passed, Birnam gave him a nudge with his stick. The stranger ushered him out of the work building. Tom's heart was beating very quickly; could this be the revelation his mother had promised? A strange man with a beard? He barely heard Birnam shouting "Get back to work, boys, straight away," behind him. The man stopped in the middle of the path between Birnam's house and the work building, laying a hand on Tom's shoulder to stop him as well.

"This must seem very strange to you, of course," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "My name is Albus Dumbledore, and you, I presume, are Tom Riddle." Tom nodded mutely. "I believe you have a letter left to you by your mother?" Tom nodded again. "May I see it?" Tom took the letter from his pocket and handed it to Dumbledore, who took a pair of half-moon reading glasses from his breast pocket and perused the letter carefully. Then he handed the letter back to Tom and said simply, "I see." Tom looked utterly baffled.

"What's this all about, sir? Is it about my mother's family?" Dumbledore nodded vaguely.

"To a degree, Tom, to a degree. I am sure this will come as quite a shock to you...Tom, you are a wizard." Tom's bafflement increased markedly.

"I'm...sorry? A wizard? Exactly in what way do you mean? I...that is to say, I don't understand at all."

"Of course you don't. What it means is that, with proper training and schooling, you will be able to do magic. Things that right now would seem utterly bizarre to you. Something like this." Dumbledore picked a rock up off the ground, took a stick from his pocket, and gave the rock a tap. It turned into a box of biscuits. Tom blinked his eyes in astonishment, then took a step back.

"I...I can do that?" he said, rubbing his eyes again.

"Well, of course not yet," said Dumbledore, taking a biscuit from the box and biting off a corner. "That's why I'm here. I'm a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the premier magical school for all of England. You have been granted admission; here is your acceptance letter." Dumbledore took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Tom. "By the way, would you care for a biscuit?" He handed Tom one, and he took it. He felt like his head was spinning uncontrollably.

"It's, erm...it's quite good, for rock. Thank you, Mr. Dumbledore." Dumbledore laughed.

"None of that, now...it's Professor Dumbledore to you; I teach Transfiguration, turning things into other things, like I just demonstrated. Open your letter now, we haven't got all day, you know." Tom scanned the letter, written in green ink.

Dear Mr. Riddle,

You have been granted acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...

The remainder of the letter consisted of a number of regulations, and a lengthy list of books and supplies for first year students. Tom looked it over again, not sure whether or not to believe any of it.

"Erm, Professor?" he asked, uncertainly, "I'm not entirely sure where to get all this..."

"Well, I would suppose not," said Dumbledore kindly. "I don't suppose you've been out of Mr. Birnam's care much." Tom nodded his agreement. "Well, I can take you to buy your things, of course; we can do that much today. You'll have to stay here until the start of term, but I will come back and see that you reach Platform 9 ³/₄ safely on September the first. Now if you don't mind, I think we had better get going." Tom nodded and hurried after Dumbledore, whose long strides soon carried him out the gate and past the sign reading "Frank Birnam's Home for Truant Young Boys." It was all happening so quickly, he had a hard time believing he wasn't dreaming, but his foot was beginning to ache, so it must be real. Dumbledore stopped and looked about for a taxi to get a ride in; Tom was growing increasingly excited, as he had not ridden in a car before.

"Professor?" he ventured as a taxi pulled up and Dumbledore gave the driver some directions before sitting down in the back. "What's a Muggle?" Dumbledore smiled at him.

"'Muggles' is what witches and wizards usually call people who can't do magic," he explained in a low voice. "I suppose you'll want to know what Gringott's is, as well?" Tom nodded. "It's the wizard's bank. I believe your mother left you some of her belongings there?" Tom nodded once more. "Well, since it's near our destination, I suppose we can stop by for you to see what there is."

"And where are we going?" asked Tom.

"We are going to the Leaky Cauldron, the entrance to Diagon Alley is. It's the London wizard's quarter; we can do all the shopping you need for your school supplies. And I need to pick up a number of items for Professor Black as well." Tom smiled broadly; Professor Dumbledore was a veritable mine of information compared to anyone else he'd met; the other boys were as ignorant of conditions outside the orphanage as he was, Jeffry the groundskeeper spoke in such a strong Irish accent as to be incomprehensible, and Birnam answered every query with a loud "get back to work" and a rap on the knuckles. As the wind whipped their hair and the car clattered along the damp streets, Dumbledore continued to chatter.

"You seem like an inquisitive young man, Tom. Would you like me to tell you a little about Hogwarts?" Tom nodded eagerly, and Dumbledore began to talk about the founders, the four noble houses, and the many intricacies of the castle. Tom found himself deeply intrigued, especially when Dumbledore told him he might well go to Ravenclaw house, from what he'd seen of him. Tom thought Ravenclaw didn't sound so bad, but he didn't want to go to Hufflepuff; he'd had enough of hard work and toil to last him a very long lifetime. "Hold up," said Dumbledore suddenly, interrupting his story about a certain ghost at Hogwarts to stop the driver of the taxi. "This is where we stop." Dumbledore helped Tom step down out of the car and ushered him into a bustling pub, where the auburn-haired professor was greeted by several people. The pub-goers looked like a friendly, if rather motley lot of people to Tom, and he would have liked to stay and talk, but Dumbledore hustled him through the crowd to a large wall, which he tapped with what Tom deduced must be his magic wand, causing the bricks to slide apart. Tom gasped at the sheer scope of this magic, and at the narrow and busy cobble street, now revealed, that was Diagon Alley.

"Here we are, then," said Dumbledore naturally as Tom tried to conceal his amazement. "Where shall we go first? I think probably for robes, as you can't be wearing a cobbler-boy's uniform to Hogwarts. It simply won't do." Dumbledore cast Tom a wide grin.

~*~

Several hours later, Tom had acquired several bulging bags of books, potion ingredients, extra clothes besides his new robes, which he was wearing, and a thoroughly snobby-looking gray Eagle Owl whom he had named Diana after watching her squint in the sunlight for some time.

"Come along now, Tom, we still have to pick out your wand and stop by Gringott's. I would very much like to have you back before sunset so you can get some sleep, I doubt Mr. Birnam will let you off work tomorrow just because you're a wizard."

"I doubt it, it hasn't stopped him the last eleven years," said Tom. Birnam's seemed a very long way away. Dumbledore gestured in the direction of Ollivanders', Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C.

The wand shop was an impossibly ancient looking store, its shelves lined with a motley assortment of dusty boxes stretching back in winding columns and stacks. An elderly man with very thin, frizzy white hair worked at a lathe which spat green and gold sparks onto the floor. His head was bent close to the lathe, his wire-frame glasses nearly touching its spinning surface as he drew a piece of rough wood across it. Dumbledore gave a soft cough; the man looked up with surprise and not a little annoyance.

"Boy! Customers!" he snapped, and returned to his work. A boy of about eighteen with thick eyebrows appeared suddenly from between two of the piles of boxes. He wore black and silver robes with the Ollivander's legend written on the front in curling letters.

"Hullo, Professor," he said, inclining his head to Dumbledore before turning to speak to Tom. "My name is Robertus Ollivander, I'll be helping you with your selection today. This is your first wand?" he inquired, glancing at Tom. Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, just wait a moment while I take some measurements." Tom tried not to shrink away from the animated measuring-tape that unfurled and stretched all about him. Finally it rolled itself back up and Ollivander snatched it back up and fussed around amongst the boxes, pulling out a number of wands. "Alright then, try this one out. Just wave it around, don't worry." Tom swished it through the air and it let out a slight whistling noise and a puff of smoke. "Hmm...not really," said the boy. "I think you'll need something a little more powerful...wait here a moment..." he disappeared into the stacks again and returned a moment later with another box. "Try this." Tom waved it about, leaving a trail of whitish powder in the air. "No, no, that doesn't work either...hold on..." he returned again with a new wand; this one gave no result whatsoever. Tom shifted nervously on his stool as Ollivander presented him with another wand. This one emitted a small burst of flame. "All right, excellent, Phoenix feather it is, then," proclaimed the boy. "And I think that length is about right...let me just find a few more." Ollivander returned straight away with several more boxes, which Tom proceeded to wave about, with various results, none of which seemed to satisfy the young man. "He's got a bit of power in him, doesn't he?" remarked Ollivander to Dumbledore.

"He certainly does," responded the Professor, as Tom sent a procession of silver stars out of a wand. "Hasn't found his match yet, has he?" Ollivander shook his head as another wand emitted several smoke rings. "Why don't you try-" Dumbledore's suggestion was cut off as the image of a magnificent Phoenix blossomed out of Tom's latest wand and vanished.

"That's it!" shouted Ollivander happily. "Yew, thirteen and a half inches, Phoenix feather." Dumbledore, too, was smiling broadly, and Tom's eyes remained wide with surprise as the Professor paid the young man for the wand.

"What was that bird, Professor?" asked Tom as they left the store.

"It was a Phoenix," answered Dumbledore. "That one in particular is one I recognize...he is my friend, Fawkes. One of his feathers makes up the core of your wand." Tom looked at his new wand as if trying to see inside it. "Phoenixes are powerfully magical," Dumbledore continued as they walked towards Gringott's. "Among their many properties is the ability to renew their lives by immolating themselves at increments, and being reborn from the ashes." Tom listened with interest as they entered Gringott's, where he was quite distracted by the appearance of the short little guards on either side of the high door. Dumbledore must have noticed his curious apprehension, because he immediately launched into another explanation.

"Gringott's is owned and run by Goblins. They're a magical being entirely separate from humans of any sort, even wizards. They do, of course, have full rights...they're resistant to most kinds of spells and are brilliant when it comes to mathematics and Arithmancy..." Dumbledore trailed off as he approached the high desk at which a number of Goblins sat filling out and stamping forms. "Good afternoon, Thortak," he said pleasantly to one of the Goblins, who nodded curtly to him in response. "I'm escorting young Mr. Riddle here to his vault, if that's alright...Tom, your key." Tom produced the golden key from his pocket and gave it to Dumbledore, who handed it over to the Goblin.

"Very well then," he said, scratching one of his pointed ears as he climbed down. "I'll take Mr. Riddle the rest of the way, if you don't mind." The Goblin made for one of a number of carts and beckoned for Tom to follow. After a short and silent ride, the Goblin pulled himself out of the cart and unlocked the vault for Tom. "Go on then, take what you need." Tom stepped inside. The vault was large enough for him to spread his arms, but not much more. A small pile of bronze coins, and some silver ones, lay in the corner, next to a bundle of papers held together with a string. A rolled-up piece of thick fabric stood in one corner. Tom scooped up the coins and bundle of papers, putting them in his pockets, and hoisted the roll of fabric over his shoulder, wondering what it all might be. He meant to read them straight away, but the Goblin made a noise of impatience behind him. Tom left the vault and waited while the Goblin locked the door and returned his key.

In the Gringott's lobby, Dumbledore was checking his watch when Tom returned.

"Tom, I'm afraid we have to be going. I do not wish for Mr. Birnam to be upset with you, as you will still have to stay there for over a month. And, I ought to get back to Hogwarts. I have lessons to prepare."

As Dumbledore saw him off at the gate to Frank Birnam's Home for Truant Young Boys, making sure to cast a disillusionment charm on his school supplies, especially his owl, to keep them from prying eyes, Tom had to pinch himself once again to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Birnam had always done his best to remove any inkling of hope from the boys in his care, getting them used to the idea that they were born into service and would remain so for the rest of their lives. Now he had been sprung from the only life he'd ever known, given more revelations than he'd ever thought possible, had the knowledge that he, Tom Riddle, was more than just another faceless boy making shoes every single day. He was powerful, and he was going to become someone. He was going to a school where he was going to learn, of all things, magic. As he entered the compound, he saw Dumbledore and Birnam talking out of the corner of his eye, and had the feeling everything was going to work out brilliantly. Afraid to go to sleep for fear he might wake up and find it all a dream, he lay down the bags of supplies and the roll of fabric that he had acquired in Diagon Alley and took the bundle of papers from his pocket. The room was dark and filled with the sounds of other boys' breathing. Tom was certain they would not wake after their hard day's work. He took out his wand, and, hand trembling, spoke the word "Lumos," which he'd read in "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1" on the drive back from Diagon Alley. A pale blue light shone suddenly from the tip of Tom's wand, and he gasped softly at his first piece of real magic. He looked down at the bundle of papers again; the top was a yellowed newspaper clipping, from the Daily Prophet. Tom had never heard of it; the only paper he'd ever seen was Birnam's London Examiner. The headline read in bold letters "Horatio Dupont Marvolo Killed by Magical Law Enforcement Agents." Intrigued, Tom scanned the clipping further.

Horatio D. Marvolo, head of one of the oldest wizarding families in England, was pronounced Dead On Arrival at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Maladies yesterday. Mr. Marvolo had been hexed repeatedly after a dispute with four members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement regarding several items in his possession. Eyewitnesses state that Mr. Marvolo, whose worth is estimated in the millions of Galleons, was accosted by M.L.E. officers while leaving Knockturn Alley, and had on his person a number of illegal items including the remains of a Lethifold (a Class-A Non-Tradable Item). On being shoved by one of the officers, eyewitnesses report, Mr. Marvolo drew his wand and cast a blasting hex on the offending officer. The three other officers immediately drew their wands, and in the ensuing fight Mr. Marvolo was knocked backwards and struck his head on the ground. St. Mungo's has pinpointed blunt cranial trauma as the cause of death. Mr. Marvolo leaves behind a wife, Annette, and young daughter, Juliana, as well as his elderly father. On hearing of Mr. Marvolo's death, business associate and friend of the family Justinian Malfoy remarked "it is a sad day indeed when the Ministry of Magic murders one of its finest citizens in cold blood." An investigation is underway into the actions of the M.L.E. officers involved in the incident...

That man had been his grandfather, thought Tom, very interested. He placed the clipping near his arm and proceeded to the next one, Annette Marvolo Dies in St. Mungo's.

Annette Marvolo, wife to the late Horatio Marvolo, has died in St. Mungo's Hospital as a result of a protracted bout of pneumonia. The late Mrs. Marvolo, friends report, had been suffering from chest pains as late as a year ago, but passed it off as nothing. Mrs. Marvolo was unwilling to take time off of her busy schedule for treatment until her collapse only a week ago at the family home in Lincolnshire. Healers at the Hospital were able to relieve the pain, but concluded Mrs. Marvolo was beyond assistance. She died last night in her sleep at the age of forty-seven. Her death is the latest in a series of unfortunate events to befall the prestigious Marvolo clan recently; six years ago H.D. Marvolo was killed by M.L.E. officers; only three years later his father, the elderly Marion Marvolo, passed away at the family home. Tragically, the Marvolos' only heir, Juliana Marvolo, was officially disowned by her grandfather and mother four years ago following her engagement to an affluent Muggle, Thomas Riddle. Mrs. Riddle could not be reached for comment on her mother's death; indeed, her whereabouts are presently unknown. The Marvolo fortune will go to a number of wizarding families related through marriage, including the Malfoys, the Prewetts, the Blacks, and Mrs. Annette Marvolo's kin, the de Champaignes. Turn to page seven for commentary on the loss of another ancient wizarding family and the heritage they take with them...

Tom placed the second clipping on top of the other one. He had learned so much today, more, he thought, than everything he'd ever learned before. Underneath the clipping were a number of grainy pictures- Tom paused as he looked at them. They were moving. Quite put off, Tom looked at the first picture. An aristocratic, dark-haired man in wizard's robes was chatting amiably with a woman, also in robes, who was sipping a glass of wine. A very attractive girl with her hair done up stood in front of them, turning this way and that as if posing for the photographer. Tom flipped the picture over; on the back it read "Mother, Father and I, on my sixteenth birthday. J.C.L. Marvolo." The handwriting, Tom recognized instantly, was the same as on his letter. So that was his mother; this was his wizarding family, the Marvolos. And he was the last one. He could see the family resemblance; like him, his mother and grandfather were of light build with dark hair and an aristocratic nose. He would have bet their eyes were green, as well. His grandmother had slightly lighter hair, and a different face...the article had said her name was Annette de Champaigne. There were a few dozen more pictures, always with his mother and grandparents, and usually a few others. Whether cousins, nieces, aunts, or friends, Tom began to notice certain names reappeared. Malfoy, Lestrange, Black, de Champaigne, de la Court, Wilkes, Prewett, Bones, and more...Justinian Malfoy appeared in many photos, usually talking energetically to Tom's grandfather; he had a short shock of white hair and a lively hawk-like face. Tom wondered how many of the people in the photos were still alive. It took Tom a moment to realize that the last photograph was not moving. His mother was there, as always, but the man with her was unfamiliar. He had lighter hair than the Marvolos, probably brown, Tom thought, and his build was heavier. He had a good-natured look on his face, smiling for the camera. He was not wearing robes, though, but a coat and tails; he looked quite elegant and well-to-do. His mother was wearing an expensive-looking white dress. The writing on the back of the photo read "Tom and I at our wedding reception. Happiest day of my life. J. Riddle." Tom took his mother's letter out of his pocket and read it again.

...when I told him all about myself, he left me. He threw me out of our house, and I made my way slowly to London. My family, the Marvolos, would never have taken me back in- they disapproved of your father and would feel that I got what I deserved...

What had baffled Tom before began to make sense now. His father hadn't known his mother was a witch when he married her, of course. And when she'd told him, he had thrown her out. The Marvolos were an ancient wizarding family...they would not have approved of Tom's mother marrying someone who could not do any magic at all; Tom could understand this. He would hardly want to remain around Mr. Birnam when he had the power to turn him into a box of cookies. Tom wondered briefly if, had his grandfather still been alive, he would have allowed his mother back into the family. Either way, he knew now why his mother had died, and why he had been forced to grow up at Birnam's, hopeless and a slave. Tom felt his face burning. It was his father's fault. His father, the Muggle, who had thrown his pregnant mother out onto the streets with nothing. His father, Tom Riddle, the man whose name he carried- he was nothing more, essentially, than a common murderer. Like the officers in the article who had caused his grandfather's death. It was all his father's fault that he had been cut off from his true family, that he was Tom Marvolo Riddle, and not Tom Marvolo. He had the sudden desire to destroy his mother and father's wedding photo, but restrained himself...he wanted to be able to recognize his father, in case he ever met him, so that he could tell him exactly what he thought of him...

The packet of papers done with, Tom turned his curiosity to the roll of fabric under his bed. As he untied it, a piece of yellowed parchment fell to the ground. It was his not his mother's writing, but a bolder, more upright hand. "This is the extended family tree and record of the Marvolo family. Do not let Muggles, or the children of mixed parentage, see what is written on it; they are unworthy. Do not let others see it unless they are of the family, or of a family linked to us by marriage seven times or more. If you break this decree, the curse of our ancestors shall rest upon you. H.D. Marvolo." Tom went back to untying the string, then stopped. "Do not let Muggles, or the children of mixed parentage, see what is written on it...the curse of our ancestors shall rest upon you..." He, Tom, was of mixed parentage. But, he was a Marvolo. This was his birthright. His ancestors dared not curse him. His heart beating quickly, he loosed the last knot and spread the fabric over his bed. Nothing untoward happened, and Tom breathed a sigh of relief. The fabric was green on the inside, and felt incredibly smooth and expensive. The stitching was in silver (Tom suspected it was real silver), and indicated names, links to other families, marriages, divorces, deaths, and more. The legend at the top, "The Most Ancient and Most High House of Marvolo," reflected his wand's pale light. He could see at the bottom his mother's name, Juliana Christine Luciana Marvolo; his father's name and his own did not appear. His grandparents' names were there, just as he'd read in the clippings, and a whole segment of the de Champaigne family was also included, branching off and joining back again in several places farther up the tree. On the other side of the fabric were a number of Malfoy names, linked to the main branches of the Marvolos. The other families he had seen in the photos were all represented a number of times. The tree was enormous; Tom looked at some of the dates towards the base and gasped: 1412, 1203; and there were the first names, Morgan Octavius Marvolo, born anno domini 987, married to Lucretia Slytherin, a name that sounded familiar. Ah, of course, and there was the name, at the very top of the tree: Salazar Slytherin, one daughter, wife unknown, parents unknown. But it couldn't be...the Hogwarts founder Dumbledore had spoken of? From the mists of time, the one who'd given his name to the house where the ambitious, the power-seekers, and the cunning students went? Tom wondered if Dumbledore knew his ancestry...no, he thought, the Professor couldn't...not if he thought Tom could go into Ravenclaw. Dumbledore had said that these things tended to run in families, and by Jove, if his ancestor was Salazar Slytherin, then he would be in the house that his family started. Tom looked back to the family tree, feeling an immense surge of pride. He was not destined for a life of mediocrity after all...he had this connection to something so much larger than himself, than this miserable orphanage! It was all Tom could do not to burst out laughing for joy.

Morgan Marvolo and Lucretia Slytherin had two children, the elder a son, the younger a daughter, married to Trabian Mal Fois...that was something to note, thought Tom. The son was married to Bellatrice Tessio, a name that did not reappear. Tom pored over the family tree throughout the night, at one point flipping through the grossly inadequate "A History of Magic" by Bathilda Bagshot, which contained precious little on Salazar Slytherin and even less about the early Marvolos, though they came into the picture during the Renaissance. Finally, Tom's interest was broken by the rising of the sun, which he greeted with a yawn. Hurriedly rolling up his family tree and stashing it under his bed, Tom whipped out "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1" and tried desperately but unsuccessfully to find a spell for keeping himself awake. As he struggled to keep his eyes open in anticipation of Birnam's early wake-up call, Tom thought one thing was for certain- with a stack of books on magic under his bed, he wouldn't be bored in the month remaining until he began class at Hogwarts.