What's in a name?
"It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father's name forever?"
-Tom Riddle, "The Heir of Slytherin"
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
"It seems that he searched in vain for some trace of Tom Riddle senior... Finally he was forced to accept that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe it was then that he dropped the name forever..."
-Albums Dumbledore, "A Sluggish Memory'
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
O.o.O
Names.
"Morning, Tom."
Simple words that exude such power over us.
"How was your summer, Tommy-boy?"
They are able to, in some indescribable way, define us and limit others' perceptions of our lives.
"Oi, Riddle, those Ravenclaw girls are staring again."
The names presented to us at birth are the most restrictive titles. They are what force us into the roles that society places upon us.
"Oh, Tom, you're such a flirt."
But what if we could reclaim that power over our lives? Choose how we are seen?
"Mr. Riddle?"
Surely the names that we give ourselves would allow for the most control over our very existence?
"Mr. Riddle?"
But how to decide what to use?
"Mr. Riddle!"
With a jolt, my mind is pulled from its reverie and into the present. Before me is my transfiguration professor, Albus Dumbledore. A busybody if there ever was one. He is staring at me over his spectacles while my classmates titter stupidly at this perceived rebuke. How I loathe their inane babble.
Dumbledore is wearing a look of concern, I believe, so I put on a mask of contrition and bow my head. "I'm sorry, Sir." (The word almost chokes me.) "I was drifting."
His eyes flash in an understanding manner and his smile is accepting. I find his hypocrisy amusing. "But of course. It happens to the best of us."
I can feel my expression harden as he turns away to collect the latest homework assignment. Before he turns back, I have schooled my features into a much more pleasant arrangement. It wouldn't do to have him aware of my real thoughts. Albus Dumbledore already knows too much of my hidden side. The price of childhood ignorance and over-excitement, I suppose.
The lesson proceeds and I feign attention. In truth, my mind has returned to its previous wanderings. Mainly, what I should do with the knowledge I gained this past summer.
Since the revelation of the source of my power, I had been laboring under the delusion that my father had been the magical half of my parentage. After all, with such abilities within reach, how could the weak-willed creature who gave birth to me have the audacity to do something as common as dying? What would be the point in having magical powers if one couldn't postpone death? Or better yet, live forever?
An idea which would require further research. I filed the notion away for later contemplation.
My first three years in the wizarding world were spent fruitlessly searching for a trace or glimmer of the name Riddle. I cultivated relations with my teachers in order to access the Restricted Section of the library and formed ties with the children of the old wizarding families for information into magical genealogy. All to no avail. At the end of the last school year, I came to the conclusion that my father was not of magical descent.
What a disappointment.
I then attempted to find his name in a muggle phone book. I spent everyday of the summer holidays at the London Library, poring over the different counties. Finally I came across the name in the Yorkshire book under Little Hangleton.
It was proven. My father was a muggle.
With that revelation, I now turned my focus to my mother's family and for that I needed her maiden name. This summer, I broke into Mrs. Cole's office for my file and found the name Merope Gaunt Riddle listed.
Gaunt. Already the name has born results.
The bell signifying the end of the class period interrupts my thoughts. As I gather my things distractedly, that nosy parker Dumbledore shambles over.
"Mr. Riddle, a moment if you please?"
That name from his lips makes anger writhe within me. If only I could escape that hated surname. "Yes, Sir?" I ask with a calm I do not feel.
His twinkling eyes show false sincerity and a hint of suspicion. I smirk inwardly. I am onto his little tricks.
"You seem out of sorts today, Tom." My teeth grind together. "Has something happened recently?"
Even as I seethe at his presumption, inspiration strikes. Of all the teachers at Hogwarts, Dumbledore has been the only one not to be won over by my charming façade. But perhaps I have been going at the problem in the wrong way. Perhaps this foolish meddler would be more inclined towards confidences rather than flattery or academic excellence.
Fixing a look of shy earnestness on my face, I begin. "Well, Sir." A pause for effect. A gentle fidget of the hand for reluctance. "You know I'm an orphan?"
"Of course," he answers kindly (ha!).
Take a deep breath and look up. Should I tear up? No, not yet. "I've found my father"
"Oh?" The old man's brow furrows as if he is uncertain how to handle this information.
"Yes. Apparently he was a muggle." I am unable to completely disguise the disgust in my voice."
Dumbledore shakes his head and places a hand on my shoulder. "Ah, Tom, there's nothing wrong with having a muggle father."
The attempted sympathy and physical contact is stifling and I crack. Flinging off the touch, I roar, "He abandoned my mother to die!" This isn't the real reason I'm furious but it plays well. "And she still named me after him!"
This is closer to the truth.
If he is shocked by my outburst, Dumbledore hides it well. "I'm sure your father had his reasons. Perhaps he died?"
The fool is grasping at straws and is only proving his weakness to me. Albus Dumbledore may be a proficient wizard but his grasp of the true nature of man is flawed. Abandonment is still abandonment regardless of the reason.
I lean forward, hands on my desk, head hung low. In a soft and cracking voice, I reveal, "I hate my name."
Let him make of that what he will.
"Tom, your name doesn't make you who you are." I scoff. "I am reminded of a quote from one of my favorite authors." He clears his throat and recites:
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man.
O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
I find myself surprised, not by the fact that I recognize those lines, but by the fact that Albus Dumbledore knows and has them memorized. "You know Shakespeare'?"
Those damn eyes are twinkling again. "Of course I do. Everyone should be acquainted with the immortal bard, William Shakespeare."
"Immortal?" The word rings through me. "How could a muggle playwright be immortal?"
He frowns at the change in subject. "Immortality doesn't necessarily equate to living forever, Tom. That is only the meanest form. In this case I refer to his numerous works of literature which have survived for centuries."
The idea has me laughing inside. What would be the point of such a legacy if you were not around to enjoy the fruits of your labors.
Dumbledore is still speaking. "As for your name, if you still find yourself reluctant to accept your father, why don't you find a way to make it your own. Do something worthwhile to attach the name Tom Riddle to and not only will you transcend your father but perhaps you'll find that sense of immortality as well."
This time his words strike home. Make the name my own? What a novel idea. And I already have an inkling of what to do, but first to make my escape.
"Thank you, professor," I say with a look of gratitude that I find myself genuinely feeling. "You've given me much to think about."
He smiles and nods. "You're welcome, Mr. Riddle. Now I do believe it's dinnertime. I certainly hope there's treacle tart this evening."
I leave the old fool alone to contemplate his meal and make my way, not to the Great Hall, but to the library. My mind is whirling with all of my epiphanies that I must begin right away.
Entering the sacred space of knowledge, I find an empty table towards the back and settle in. I draw out a piece of parchment and a quill. It is time to make my name my own and regain power over my life.
I scrawl out: T O M M A R V O L O R I D D L E
The first thing I notice is I AM. Now I have T O M R V O L O R D D L E. Next I see the word LORD.
I am Lord- It has a nice ring to it. Now to work out the rest.
T O M R V O D L E
Hmm, what should I spell with those letters?
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