Tom Riddle on a Walt Whitman poem.

Professor Dumbledore has put a thought in Headmaster Dippet's head. If our dear headmaster were able to think for himself, we may have been spared the fate that has befallen us, but since he is completely dependent on our Transfigurations teacher to think, escape was never an option. Due to the attacks on mudbloods last year, they are convinced that taking Muggle Studies would help with the pureblood prejudices that inspired the chamber a thousand years ago. As of now, every third year or higher is required to take the course, including the Head Boy.

The biggest problem I have with that is that I will have to hide what I know about muggles. If the Slytherins knew about that…I could lose followers. I could lose power. That is unacceptable.

We are currently covering the American poets that transitioned from romanticism to realism. More specifically we are reading Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. One poem in particular caught my eye for somewhat obvious reasons. A Riddle Song.

THAT which eludes this verse and any verse,
Unheard by sharpest ear, unform'd in clearest eye or cunningest mind,
Nor lore nor fame, nor happiness nor wealth,
And yet the pulse of every heart and life throughout the world
incessantly,
Which you and I and all pursuing ever ever miss,
Open but still a secret, the real of the real, an illusion,
Costless, vouchsafed to each, yet never man the owner,
Which poets vainly seek to put in rhyme, historians in prose,
Which sculptor never chisel'd yet, nor painter painted,
Which vocalist never sung, nor orator nor actor ever utter'd,
Invoking here and now I challenge for my song.

Indifferently, 'mid public, private haunts, in solitude,
Behind the mountain and the wood,
Companion of the city's busiest streets, through the assemblage,
It and its radiations constantly glide.

In looks of fair unconscious babes,
Or strangely in the coffin'd dead,
Or show of breaking dawn or stars by night,
As some dissolving delicate film of dreams,
Hiding yet lingering.

Two little breaths of words comprising it.
Two words, yet all from first to last comprised in it.

How ardently for it!
How many ships have sail'd and sunk for it!
How many travelers started from their homes and ne'er return'd!
How much of genius boldly staked and lost for it!
What countless stores of beauty, love, ventur'd for it!
How all superbest deeds since Time began are traceable to it--and
shall be to the end!
How all heroic martyrdoms to it!
How, justified by it, the horrors, evils, battles of the earth!
How the bright fascinating lambent flames of it, in every age and
land, have drawn men's eyes,
Rich as a sunset on the Norway coast, the sky, the islands, and the
cliffs,
Or midnight's silent glowing northern lights unreachable.

This is where Whitman and I disagree. He thinks the riddle is heaven.

Haply God's riddle it, so vague and yet so certain,
The soul for it, and all the visible universe for it,
And heaven at last for it.

The real riddle is immortality. How many ships have sunk, travelers gone lost, genius been lost, beauty ventured for it? For immortality? What has and will be justified for the sake of living forever? What will I justify for it?

Author's note: Most of the credit for this goes to Walt Whitman, who wrote A Riddle Song. Credit for Tom Riddle goes to JKR. Credit for his thoughts goes to me. For now, this is going to be a one-shot thing, but if I feel the need for Tom to comment on anything else muggle… Reviews are appreciated.