Voldemort: The Mastermind of the Dark Mark: The Hogwarts Years

Chapter 1: An Invitation

11 Years Later...

It was a cold, grey day at the Southwell Orphanage. Winds blew in and out of the crevices within the building and the children, engaged as they were in merriment, still stopped and shivered for a moment out of reverence to the cold. Mrs. Cole, now head of the establishment, watched their play with something approaching affection, though it was closer to exasperation, considering the remarkable amounts of medicine she had to administer. She was currently scurrying between rooms, trying frantically to find where on earth she had stashed the medicine this time and also hoping to make sure that members of the more industrious male population had not climbed any trees or hurt themselves before she got back outside. As she opened the door to a room, she heard Nancy, one of the resident girls, call to her:

"MRS. COLE!"

Cursing, Mrs. Cole made her way towards Nancy's voice, trying frantically to avoid several of the children who were scurrying upstairs. Hang it! Yet one more thing that needed doing, probably, given Nancy's tendency toward scatterbrained activity. And then she'd have to clean everything up for dinner--

"Stop the children climbing trees and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley's oozing all over his sheets," hissed Mrs. Cole to one of the passing attendants, before adding to herself:

"Chicken pox on top of everything else."

However, everything left in her mind spontaneously evaporated when she looked at the person standing in the door. Mrs. Cole considered herself a tolerant person, but this man was just - there was no other word for it - odd. He was dressed in a suit of plum velvet which, in Mrs. Cole's opinion, surpassed all possible standards of bad taste and his hair, auburn, was hideously long and untidy looking. As for his face, Mrs. Cole was unsure why, but for some reason it seemed older than it should be, looking at the rest of the man. A pair of spectacles sat on a sharp, hooked nose, and his big, bushy grey eyebrows protruded from his scalp. His eyes, though very sharp, showed a strange sort of warmth which made Mrs. Cole all the more wary of the man, and as for his beard - well, one might reasonably wonder whether the man had been to a barber in the last year, in Mrs. Cole's opinion. The man extended his hand.

"Good afternoon."

Mrs. Cole tried to respond, but could only find it in herself to gape. The visitor, apparently polite enough to overlook this, went on.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today."

Even though Mrs. Cole did not remember making the appointment very well, it was at least some element of reality which would explain the man's existence in her hall, looking very much like some alcohol-induced apparition. She found her ability to speak.

"Oh yes. Well - well then - you'd better come into my room. Yes."

Determined to ignore the stranger, Mrs. Cole led him purposefully through the halls of the orphanage to her office, where she vaguely registered telling the man (Dumpelbore, or something) to sit down before seating herself behind her desk and contenting herself with eyeing him suspiciously. Apparently deciding he had better take the initiative, her curious visitor spoke.

"I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future."

Now Mrs. Cole remembered the appointment. How on earth could she forget? She had been working outside the orphanage, helping little Dennis Bishop with a cut on his finger, when of all things, an owl had flown out of the sky and alighted next to her, handing her a small parcel which was marked:

"Mrs. Emily Cole

Southwell Orphanage - The Yard
Southwell, London"

Inside it, Mrs. Cole had found a brief letter from someone whose name sounded vaguely like the one of the man she was talking to, announcing his intention to visit her at the orphanage and discuss the fate of Tom Riddle - a boy who, next to the chicken pox, was consistently the biggest thorn in her side. It had seemed an odd way to make an appointment, to say the least, and Mrs. Cole was tempted to dismiss it as a prank, but had kept the appointment open in case the eccentric behind the letter did decide to show up.

And here he was, sitting across from her, wearing a bloody plum velvet suit. Mrs. Cole gave her visitor another suspicious glare and asked him the customary question.

"Are you family?"

The response was something of a disappointment.

"No," said the man. "I am a teacher. I have come to offer Tom a place at my school."

Mrs. Cole felt, if anything, more suspicious. Whatever institution would ever allow a nutter like this to teach could hardly be credible.

"What school's this, then?"

"It is called Hogwarts," responded the man. Mrs. Cole privately wondered if this were a prank, for she could not conceive of any school which would choose such an unattractive name. However, she decided to continue under the assumption that the school was legitimate.

"And how come you're interested in Tom?"

"We believe he has qualities we are looking for."

What?! Of all the boys Mrs. Cole would have thought likely to attract a private school, Tom Riddle was the last of them. Her bewilderment must have been apparent in her next question.

"You mean he's won a scholarship? How can he have done? He's never been entered for one." And never will be, thought Mrs. Cole, shuddering at the idea of what a boy like Tom Riddle could do with a really good education.

"Well, his name has been down for our school since birth," the man replied.

"Who registered him?" demanded Mrs. Cole. "His parents?" While she was not fond of Riddle, Mrs. Cole was not prepared to allow even him into the hands of a man like this without making damn sure that the man was really from a school and really had legitimate claims. Hell, for all she knew, a nutter like him might be some pervert who was looking for a cheap screw and thought the orphanage would be the place to find it. She registered the man picking up a piece of paper from her desk and handing it to her.

"Here," the man said kindly. "I think this will make everything clear."

Mrs. Cole gazed at the paper intently. At first, it seemed to be blank, but then information suddenly appeared on it, none of which she could recall, but all of which seemed perfectly correct. After gazing at the paper once or twice to make sure there were no forgeries, she put it back on her desk, face down, and turned toward the man, whose name she suddenly could remember, was Albus Dumbledore.

"That seems perfectly in order," said Mrs. Cole cheerily, glad that the tension had been dissipated by paperwork. Sure, the fellow was a bit odd, but if the paper was to be believed, then he really was from a genuine school - and a good one, at that. Though what such a school wanted with Riddle was beyond her, Mrs. Cole was prepared to give Professor Dumbledore the benefit of a doubt. Suddenly, noticing a bottle of gin to her right, she collected herself and decided to present more acceptable manners.

"Er - may I offer you a glass of gin?" She hoped her voice sounded polite enough. Dumbledore smiled in response.

"Thank you very much."

Mrs. Cole pulled two glasses towards her and filled them both a good amount before passing one to Dumbledore. Then, draining her own glass and smacking her lips, she turned back to him and smiled. He smiled back and asked:

"I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle's history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?"

Mrs. Cole nodded and poured herself a glass of gin. "That's right," she said. Then, deciding to make the situation a bit more dramatic, she allowed her voice to take on a nostalgic tone. "I remember it clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour."

Mrs. Cole remembered the night only too well. It had been one of the most bizarre occurrences of her time at the orphanage. She had been woken by a frantic knocking at the orphanage door and had rushed downstairs, only to open the door and discover a pitiful looking young woman staring back at her from behind a tangle of matted hair. Sobbing, the girl had begged to be let in, protesting that she was pregnant. Mrs. Cole had moved fast and delivered the baby, and it would have been an ordinary birth, had it not been for what happened after the woman took the baby.

She had started hissing at it - hissing in a manner eerily reminiscent of a snake. Perhaps even more frighteningly, the child had tried to mimic her and even succeeded in reproducing a few of the sounds, at which point the tramp had screamed and fainted and Mrs. Cole had had to find room for the baby.

However, considering that Mrs. Cole was a smart woman and knew that telling such a story to Professor Dumbledore might make him think her insane, she settled for nodding impressively and kicking back another glass of gin. Dumbledore pressed on.

"Did she say anything before she died? Anything about the boy's father, for instance?"

Mrs. Cole's first instinct was to say no, for she couldn't remember the girl making a sound besides the hissing, but then she remembered something.

"Now, as it happens, she did. I remember she said to me, 'I hope he looks like his papa'," Mrs. Cole said, and deciding to allow herself to indulge the eagerness of her audience, she went on. "And I won't lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty - and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo for her father - yes, I know," Mrs. Cole had noticed the bemused look on Dumbledore's face, "funny name, isn't it? We wondered whether she came from a circus - and she said the boy's surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word."

But plenty of hissing, thought Mrs. Cole privately. Then, seeing that Dumbledore hadn't interrupted, she went on. "Well, we named him just as she's said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but not Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he's been here ever since."

Mrs. Cole was substantially grateful for the gin she drank after this last sentence, for the thought of Riddle's tenure at the orphanage was not one she particularly enjoyed. However, deciding that regaling Dumbledore might make him change his mind about taking Riddle to a far away school, she settled for an understatement.

"He's a funny boy."

The expression on Dumbledore's face was, curiously, one of knowing understanding.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "I thought he might be."

Mrs. Cole nodded gravely and continued. "He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know."

This wasn't completely true, but Mrs. Cole preferred not to say the truth. The truth was that whenever the baby Riddle had gotten upset, it had commenced hissing and spitting in a manner so unnatural, that Mrs. Cole thought it unadvisable to respond to, in case the response would vindicate the act as acceptable. Seeing that its hissing and spitting wouldn't work, however, the child had not commenced crying like a normal baby, but had instead simply kept its mouth shut completely, a silence which Mrs. Cole thought was, if anything, more ominous than the hissing.

"And when he got older," said Mrs. Cole, who was getting increasingly uncomfortable, "he was...odd."

This was a bald-faced understatement. Riddle had been "odd" the way Hurricanes were "inconvenient."

"Odd in what way?" asked Dumbledore, in a tone whose gentleness Mrs. Cole was very thankful for.

Mrs. Cole was about to respond, but then remembered that telling the truth about Riddle might take away the salvation of his departure, and so decided to be sure of the security of her position before answering the question. She leaned in to Dumbledore conspiratorially, and asked with some trepidation:

"He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?"

"Definitely," said Dumbledore. The answer was gratifying, but Mrs. Cole was a cautious woman, and had to be sure.

"And nothing I say can change that?"

"Nothing."

"You'll be taking him away whatever?" This was the most important point.

"Whatever."

Mrs. Cole felt as though a great weight were off her chest. However, she gave Dumbledore a long, piercing look, just to make sure he was not lying. Satisfied that he wasn't, she said slowly:

"He scares the other children."

"You mean he is a bully?" asked Dumbledore.

Mrs. Cole frowned and nodded. The term "bully" wasn't fully correct to describe Riddle, because bullies typically acted in a thuggish, brutal manner, and Riddle's acts of cruelty were entirely too refined, covert and outright subtle to fit this description. However, since the closest word, "tyrant", seemed a bit extreme to describe an eleven year old, she settled for "bully."

"I think he must be," she said, "but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents...Nasty things..."

She had not wanted to think about this. It was a hard day as it was, but the mention of Tom's doings was beginning to make memories surface in her mind.

"NO! BUCKY NO! NO! NO!"

Mrs. Cole rushed through the halls of the orphanage, the cries of Billy Stubbs inducing vague hints of fear in her. She knew that Billy was not typically a boy who got into trouble, but she also knew that strange things were prone to happen to good children - especially good children who got on the wrong side of Tom Riddle. And hadn't Billy just had a fight with Riddle yesterday?

However, nothing could have prepared her for the sight which met her eyes when she rounded the corner. Suspended from a string which hung from the topmost rafters of the dining hall, slowly revolving like a grotesque cradle ornament, the corpse of a rabbit - Billy Stubbs' rabbit, Bucky - hung a few feet above the clutching hands of its sobbing former owner. Dried blood stained the string around the rabbit's neck - and the pitiful, twisted pose of the rabbit suggested that the creature had suffered the throes of unimaginable animal agony. Its eyes were still wide open from the ordeal from the experience, though any spark of life they had ever held was now extinguished.

A crowd of children was congregated around Billy, who was crying - half in horror, half in grief - at the scene. The children were crying as well, all engrossed in the vicarious pain of their compatriot.

All except one. Tom Riddle stood off to the side, watching the whole affair with a neutral expression on his face which, to Mrs. Cole, suggested far more malice than any other expression, for though Riddle's mouth was hardly twisted into a sadistic grin, the sadism was readily apparent in his eyes, which were practically sparkling with malice...

Mrs. Cole jerked herself out of the memory, realizing that Dumbledore was still listening. Deciding she was safe, she figured she could describe the exploit she'd just been forced to re-experience.

"Billy Stubbs's rabbit...well, Tom said he didn't do it and I don't see how he could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"

It was hardly a shock that Dumbledore looked slightly disturbed at this.

"I shouldn't think so, no," he said. Mrs. Cole decided she might as well vent her frustration:

"But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then on the summer outing - we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside - well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I'm sure of it."

God, was she sure of it. Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop had been crying so badly over the experience that Mrs. Cole had briefly considered putting them into an asylum, for their sanity seemed completely broken. At least, that was the only conclusion she could draw from their constant crying about Tom and "the snakes." She couldn't see how half of the accusations they made - that Riddle had set an army of snakes on them, for instance - could be true. Riddle had, of course, completely denied the charges and claimed that they were making it up to get him in trouble, but Mrs. Cole wasn't believing a word of it. If it weren't for the physical impossibility of it, she wouldn't have put it past Riddle to set snakes on unsuspecting children.

Mrs. Cole decided to change the subject, however, since this particular one was clearly not getting her or Professor Dumbledore anywhere.

"I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him," she said, as a close of the subject. Before she could go on, however, Dumbledore interrupted.

"You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently? He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer."

Mrs. Cole had been afraid of that, but resigned herself to the situation. A summer with Riddle was, after all, better than all year with him.

"Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker," she said optimistically. Then, deciding she'd rather just let the evidence of Riddle's character speak for itself, she got to her feet, maintaining her feet in spite of the effects of gin on her psyche.

"I suppose you'd like to see him?"

Dumbledore responded in the affirmative and Mrs. Cole beckoned him out of the room and began to walk up the stairs of the orphanage, making sure to give out administrative instructions as she did so. As they reached the second landing, however, she felt the distinctive chill that she always felt whenever an encounter with Tom Riddle was imminent and was not terribly happy to knock on his door.

"Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton -" she had forgotten the Professor's name in the excitement of the moment, "sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you - well, I'll let him do it."

The truth was, she was not particularly anxious to face Riddle and preferred to let Dumbledore do it. As he pushed the door open, she walked to the stairs as calmly as possible, and then ran down them to continue her administrative duties, made quite happy by the prospect of Riddle's departure. What she didn't know, however, was that by passing Riddle to Albus Dumbledore, she had just passed on a greater menace to the world than she could ever have imagined.

Tom Riddle was not particularly happy to hear Mrs. Cole knock on his door. The woman had always bored him at best, and outright annoyed him at worst. After all, she had never really bothered to redress the grievances the other children inflicted on him, but had seemed only too happy to pin any grievances inflicted on them on him. Privately, he thought that the use of his mysterious powers to redress these grievances was her fault, more than anyone else's. If she had only paid attention enough, she might have stopped him from doing what he was doing, but no one in his life had ever really cared enough to stop him. His mother certainly hadn't. Why should Mrs. Cole?

Tom didn't know it, but by most standards, he was a very handsome boy - tall for his age, with sleek black hair, deep brown eyes and creamy skin. He had high, refined cheekbones, an elegant nose, and lips which were slightly thinner than average, but which made him look pensively aristocratic. His fingers were long and thin, and his hands had the grace of a well-practiced pianist. However, Tom never heard any compliments about his looks, largely because his extremely expressive brown eyes always retained the trace of lingering malice and resentment, giving his face a sinister quality and spoiling his good looks. For this reason, Tom's opinion of his appearance was decidedly negative, though it did not bother him a great deal. Tom, as it turned out, did not like a great deal about himself, and his looks were the least of his worries.

Despite his liberal self-loathing, however, Riddle thought himself to be hardly the monster that most of the students around the orphanage thought him to be, though given his activities, it was quite possible to imagine him in that light. True, he had hung Billy Stubbs's rabbit from the roof. True, he had set snakes on the annoying ignoramuses that were Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, but to only pay attention to that was to ignore the causality of his behavior. Hadn't Billy Stubbs refused to let him play with the rabbit and called him a "freak?" Hadn't Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop teased him about his mother and spent most of their shared lives trying to make him cry (and succeeded a few times)? Hadn't all the children who'd ever mocked him made him find the necessity to defend himself by any means necessary? Hadn't they, in some sense, created him in his present form?

Tom, of course, did not think in such a profound manner. That would have been too much for any eleven-year-old, even one as clever as him, but he did subconsciously justify himself this way, and considering the long spaces of time he spent alone, he had quite enough time to nurse these feelings. They had certainly been enough to ensure that he was careful in his continued exaction of fiendish justice upon his foes.

As one may imagine, Tom had few friends, and such solitude frequently engenders the necessity of imagination for companionship, and so while Tom's friends were hardly conventional, he considered them as viable as any human, flesh and blood being. There were only two - one of them a garden snake which he had sneaked into his room which he had named Fangs - and the other solely imaginary, a disembodied voice in his head which until recently had not possessed a name. It had, in fact, taken Tom until the time he could write to produce a name for his imaginary friend, and even then, it took several times to come up with an adequate name for the entity. Tom had finally settled on a mutation of his own name which he had discovered while playing with a pencil he had stolen from Oliver West, and some paper which he had stolen from Mrs. Cole's office. Tom discovered that, if he took the letters of his own name, he could create an anagram of his name which changed the following:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Into "I AM LORD VOLDEMORT."

Deciding that his imaginary friend wouldn't mind being nobility (and because the thought of having a Lord for a friend contrasted nicely with his present situation), Tom had named the presence "Lord Voldemort", or just "Voldemort" or "Voldie" (though his friend strongly disapproved of the latter abbreviation, considering it juvenile).

The character of Tom's imaginary friend was, at best, dubious. So dubious, in fact, that Tom could reasonably have blamed most of his own crimes on "Voldie" and not been far from the truth. Voldemort was, however, not only the one who spurred Tom to attack other children, but also the one who guided him to cover up his crimes with such ruthless efficiency. Voldemort was quick, and clever, and could be very funny, but also very cruel. When Tom ignored him, in fact, Voldemort would give Tom nightmares - but when Tom was kind to him, Voldemort was more than gracious towards Tom, and would play with him in ways which none of the other children could possibly understand. As such, Voldemort's existence made the necessity of seeking out other children for companionship entirely unnecessary and made the notion of companionship in general unpleasant.

So it was with great impatience that Tom, who had just been enjoying a great conversation with Voldemort on the subject of Mrs. Cole's incompetence and had also taken to reading a book to Voldemort, allowed a visitor (Dunderbore or something) to enter his room. When the man entered, however, Tom privately thought that he might prove more entertaining company than even Voldemort could provide, if the state of his clothes were any guide.

The man stepped forward and held out his hand.

"How do you do, Tom?" said the man.

Tom was hesitant to take the man's hand, considering he was naturally distrustful of outsiders, and if anyone was odd, this man was he. However, no sooner had the thought entered his mind when Voldemort's voice echoed in his mind.

Take it, you fool. The old bat would want you to show manners, wouldn't she?

Riddle took the man's hand and shook it. Then the man let go and pulled up a chair beside Riddle, which he seated himself in.

"I am Professor Dumbledore."

A twinge of suspicion entered Riddle's mind.

"Professor?" he asked. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in here to have a look at me?"

It was something Mrs. Cole had been threatening to do for a while, and Riddle would not be surprised if that were the purpose of this "Professor Dumbledore's" visit. Dumbledore, however, shook his head.

"No, no," he said.

He's lying! hissed Voldemort.

"I don't believe you," said Riddle, agreeing with Voldemort's accusation. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!"

He had not expected to automatically address the man as a subordinate, but with Tom, such things just tended to happen. And why shouldn't he? After all, if the man were some instrument of Mrs. Cole, it would be just as well for Tom to dictate the terms of the meeting. However, Dumbledore did not respond, and that made Riddle nervous. It was a rare person who could stand up to him, and meeting any such person was cause for wariness. In desperation, he nearly shouted his next question.

"Who are you?"

"I have told you," responded Dumbledore with a calm that unnerved Riddle. "My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school - your new school, if you would like to come."

Riddle, who had been only barely patient enough up to this point, leapt from his bed in protest, quite aware of where this was going.

"You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it?" The accusation in his voice was palpable. "'Professor,' yes, of course - well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"

The last part was true more due to his own threats of future serpentine violence than anything else, but that didn't matter to Riddle, so long as he kept the exterior of strength. Dumbledore, apparently was unperturbed.

"I am not from the asylum," he responded patiently. "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you."

This last bit made Riddle almost scoff with derision. "I'd like to see them try," he sneered, trying to convince himself that he still had some power over the situation.

"Hogwarts," continued Dumbledore implacably, "is a school for people with special abilities--"

Riddle had heard enough. In a last, desperate exclamation, he blurted out what he'd hoped Dumbledore would ascertain from the start:

"I'm not mad!"

"I know you are not mad," responded Dumbledore, and his next words were enough to make Riddle's anger evaporate immediately. "Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

Riddle's mind froze. He had been prepared for anything - anything - but this. It certainly would explain his powers, but still...

"Magic?" he whispered, almost reverently. He was conscious of Dumbledore saying something, but his next question was really directed to no one in particular. "It's...it's magic, what I can do?"

"What is it that you can do?"

At these words, Riddle snapped out of his reverie and turned to face Dumbledore with an ecstatic expression of excitement. Here was a conversation topic he had never ever expected to discuss, and yet he was doing it! He would have to do his powers justice.

"All sorts," he breathed. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I tell them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

He felt his legs give way as he murmured this last statement. It certainly was true - after all, what better way to stop people hurting you than to hold the threat of hurt over their head? And yet...to think that all that time, he had been doing magic! Practically reeling with joy, Riddle thought it advisable to keep still until his head cleared. This proved it! This showed that he wasn't just another filthy orphan, just another pauper, just another vermin! It was exhilarating news, and yet...somehow...

"I always knew I was different," Tom muttered ecstatically to himself. "I always knew I was special. Always I knew there was something."

"Well, you were quite right," came Dumbledore's voice from above him. "You are a wizard."

Suddenly confident, Tom raised his face, radiant as it was with pleasure, to face Dumbledore. He was pleased to see that there was some apprehensiveness on the older man's face, but right now, all he wanted was to know as much as he could. Well, Dumbledore had said he was a teacher...

"Are you a wizard too?" Tom asked, fairly certain that the answer would be yes. Dumbledore's answer in the affirmative did not satisfy him, however. He wanted to see what real magic was like...he wanted to get a taste of what power was.

"Prove it," he said greedily, mustering his usual authoritative tone.

To his displeasure, however, Dumbledore did not immediately acquiesce. Rather, the older man merely raised his eyebrows, as though he were studying Tom. It made Tom feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts," Dumbledore began, only pausing to note Tom's interrupted assurance of his intentions, "then you will address me as 'sir' or 'Professor.'"

Insolent old gargoyle!

Tom's face hardened for a second as he heard Voldemort's exclamation of indignation from inside his head, but he hastily relaxed his expression. Then, trying his very hardest to sound contrite and humble, he responded, "I'm sorry, sir. I meant - please, Professor, could you show me - ?"

To Tom's trepidation, Dumbledore's expression did not soften. Rather, the old man drew a long stick from his inside pocket, an object whose relevance Tom did not immediately understand. Was Dumbledore going to ferrule him for being impolite? If he was, Tom was not going to take it! He would fight, oh yes, and then he'd see how much of a wizard Dumbledore really w--

NO!

Voldemort's shrill cry echoed Tom's own as Dumbledore flicked his stick at Tom's wardrobe, which instantly burst into flames. It was a horrifying sight. Tom could have dealt with being hit, but this...this was too terrible. This was too harsh! His every possession was in that wardrobe, and if Mrs. Cole saw it...there was only one option. Tom would have to physically disable Dumbledore and somehow get his stick. Perhaps he could pick up using it quickly enough to save his things...

Just as Tom was about to spring at Dumbledore, suddenly he saw Dumbledore's eyes flick to the wardrobe, extinguishing the flames and leaving it completely unharmed. Tom's brief moment of panic subsided, now overcome with awe and a deep, fierce surge of lust for the power Dumbledore wielded with his magical stick. Pointing at this glorious object, Tom breathlessly inquired where he could get one.

"All in good time," responded Dumbledore with a patience that infuriated Tom, "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe."

It was then that Tom heard it. To his immense horror, a faint rattling was coming from the inside of his wardrobe. What devilish trick was this? Feeling an alien feeling of fear gnawing at the pit of his stomach, Tom crossed to the wardrobe and flung it open, terrified at what the source of the rattling might be...

And then he saw it. The small box in which he kept reminders of his past victories over other children was shaking frantically, as if something alive was trying to escape from it. Now half hoping that he was trapped in some sort of nightmare, Tom reached for the box and lifted it from the shelf, holding it just tightly enough to steady its quaking. Then, crossing back to his bed, he placed the box down in front of Dumbledore, dreading what the man would do next.

Dumbledore's expression was one of severe curiosity. "Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at Tom.

Tom, meanwhile, was frantically deciding on the best answer to this question. In other circumstances, he would have lied, but the look on Dumbledore's face told him that Dumbledore already knew the answer to the question and was simply waiting for him to give it. Bracing himself for more punishment, Tom truthfully answered in his most colorless voice:

"Yes, I suppose so, sir."

Dumbledore did not raise his wand, however. Instead, he merely instructed Tom to open the box, which Tom did instantly, averting his eyes at the contents so as to appear less guilty. Not that Tom's "trophies" were that impressive - there was the yo-yo that he stole from Dennis Bishop when he had set the snakes on him and his sister. There was the string that he used to hang Billy Stubbs' rabbit, the mouth organ that he'd bullied Stubbs into giving him the week before, and the silver thimble which he'd stolen from Emily Burning after threatening her with a snake as well as many other seemingly innocent objects with extremely chequered pasts.

"You will return them to their owners with your apologies," Dumbledore instructed Tom, who felt a surge of rebelliousness at the words - a surge which was instantly snuffed out by Dumbledore's next words.

"I shall know whether it has been done," Dumbledore continued. "And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts."

"Yes, sir," said Tom resentfully, giving the older man his most piercing look and desperately trying to perceive any weaknesses. Dumbledore did not respond with any sort of trepidation.

"At Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, "we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have -- inadvertently, I am sure -- been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic -- yes, there is a Ministry -- will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws."

This information, useful as it was, only made Tom's feelings of inadequacy and anger more pronounced. However, he kept his face as stony as possible so as to avoid giving Dumbledore the satisfaction of victory. Picking up his stolen goods, he placed them back in their box and then replaced them in his wardrobe when a rather unpleasant thought dawned on him:

"I haven't got any money," Tom said, turning to Dumbledore and crossing his arms, as though he were entitled. To his great pleasure, Dumbledore's expression softened and the older wizard reached into his pocket to retrieve a leather money-pouch.

"That is easily remedied," Dumbledore said calmly. "There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but--"

Tom didn't wait for him to finish. Snatching the purse from Dumbledore's hands without a single indicator of gratitude, he pulled out one of the coins and began examining it with fascination before asking Dumbledore where he could buy spellbooks.

"In Diagon Alley," responded Dumbledore, confusing Tom momentarily, for Tom had never heard of such a place. Then, he added, "I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything--"

Oh no, moaned Voldemort, you're going to have to put up with this old coot for the rest of the day! Tom privately agreed with the sentiment, but instead of telling Dumbledore to piss off (as he very much wanted to), he instead turned to the Professor and asked him in as courteous as voice as possible, "You're coming with me?"

Dumbledore nodded sympathetically. "Certainly, if you--"

Before he could conclude the sentence, Tom responded.

"I don't need you. I'm used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley?" A sudden look at Dumbledore's face made him remember resentfully that he was still in a subordinate position. "Sir?"

To Tom's immense relief, Dumbledore handed him an envelope containing instructions about what to buy, and then gave him instructions about how to get to a place called "The Leaky Cauldron."

"You will be able to see it," Dumbledore said, "although Muggles around you - non-magical people, that is - will not. Ask for Tom the barman - easy enough to remember, as he shares your name - "

Tom flinched at this. He had always disliked his name, and would much prefer that Dumbledore had not mentioned it.

"You dislike the name Tom?" asked Dumbledore.

Tom did not feel like disclosing any of his feelings to Dumbledore, so instead of nodding his head, he said, simply, "There are a lot of Toms." However, this mention of Tom's name had, to Tom's immense displeasure, made him feel an old, painful curiosity about his parentage. Tom tried to suppress the question he desperately wanted to ask, but it came out anyway, as though his mouth was determined to work against him. "Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me."

To Tom's immediate revulsion, Dumbledore's voice became sickeningly gentle, as though he were trying to spare Tom's fragile orphan feelings.

"I'm afraid I don't know."

"My mother can't have been magic," said Tom, more to himself than to Dumbledore, "or she wouldn't have died. It must've been him." Then, anxious to change the subject, he continued, "So - when I've got all my stuff - when do I come to this Hogwarts?"

"All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope," responded Dumbledore. "You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too."

Tom nodded, expecting this to be the end of the conversation. However, just as Dumbledore stood up and shook his hand, Tom suddenly remembered that his power to talk to snakes, natural as it seemed to him, might not be common, even among wizards. Hoping that this power would impress Dumbledore, Tom immediately said, "I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips - they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?"

Tom was extremely satisfied to see Dumbledore taken aback for a moment by this. The older man's response only made his sense of achievement sweeter:

"It is unusual, but not unheard of."

Tom savored this news. He was special, even for a wizard! Meeting Dumbledore's gaze, Tom began searching the older wizard's eyes for clues about Dumbledore's deeper emotional reaction to his gift for serpentine linguistics. Dumbledore held his gaze for the briefest of moments - enough for Tom to catch a hint of anticipation in his Professor's eyes - and then it was gone. Dumbledore had broken Tom's gaze and was at the door.

"Good bye, Tom, I shall see you at Hogwarts."

And then the door closed. Tom stared at it for a few seconds, waiting for Dumbledore to tramp down the stairs before he resumed his conversation with Voldemort.

"Voldie, can you believe it? I'm a wizard! I'm a real wizard!"

I always told you that you were special, Tom. Ever since you were a baby, I knew. I always have.

"And now I'm going to get spellbooks! And robes! And one of those sticks that Professor Dumbledore had...Voldie, what do you think of Professor Dumbledore?"

What do I think of him? Don't waste my time with foolish questions, Riddle. What did you think of him?

"He doesn't seem to like me very much."

No, he doesn't.

"Well, I'll change that! Like he said, I'll see him at Hogwarts. I'll show him there!"

Indeed you will, Tom. Do not worry. Your Professor will learn respect...he'll learn it well, and he'll learn it hard.

"What do you mean, Voldie?"

Never mind, Tom. Let's go get your books. After all, you want us both to be clever, don't you?

"Of course I do! Oh, Voldie, I'm so excited!"

I know, Tom. So am I. I'm always excited when you're excited.

"Voldie...you'll never leave me, will you? You'll never let anyone hurt me, not even Professor Dumbledore?"

Of course not, Tom. I'll always be your friend. I'll always be here to protect you. I'll always be here to make the bad people suffer.

Always.