My Son
by: Jade
Summary: Most people wouldn't believe me if I ever told them that I, Albus Dumbledore, once had a fling with a woman... which resulted in the conceiving of one Thomas Marvolo Riddle. Albus Dumbledore has a secret that nobody but he knows...
Tonight is a beautiful, warm night much like the night seventy-three years ago, when I made a choice that would cause a very significant change in the wizarding world. That night in December, 1926... I can still remember how the moon and stars sparkled like small diamonds up in the infinite black sky. I can still remember how the light breeze felt against my skin. Most of all, I can still remember being joined with the love of my life; how her hands burned my skin; how her soft lips felt against my own.
Most people wouldn't believe me if I ever told them that I, Albus Dumbledore, once had a fling with a woman... which resulted in the conceiving of one Thomas Marvolo Riddle.
Her name was Priscilla Riddle. We met at a wedding of a mutual friend, who, in our opinions, was much too young to be marrying. We had a long conversation and discovered how our views were very much alike. We talked during our friend's reception, and then more at a small cafe in the Wizarding town in France. She told me of her ex-husband, who had recently walked out on her when he found out she was a witch; Tom Riddle was his name. Priscilla said she wanted to change back to her maiden name, Hawthorne, but it was too much trouble. As we both ordered another cup of coffee, I remember thinking how beautiful this woman was, with her long, streaming black hair, oval-shaped brown eyes, and the most flawless ivory complexion I had ever seen. She truly was the epitome of loveliness.
I'm not normally a believer in love at first sight, but the moment I set eyes on Priscilla I knew that I loved her. But I also knew that we could never have an honest-to-goodness relationship. After our third cup of coffee, I realized that Hawthorne was the name of a pureblooded wizarding family that was a supporter of the Dark Arts. I panicked and made an unbelievable excuse as to why I had to leave, but Priscilla knew.
She told me that her family reputation could not make the feelings she had for me cease. The look in her eyes told me that she loved me too.
It wasn't much later that I found myself in her small, but immaculate, Little Hangleton flat. We had wine and began discussing the up-and-coming of the Dark Arts and the role her family played in it. She let me know that she wasn't like her family and that she was in support of the Light side, rather than the Dark side. It was then that I leaned over, across our separate chairs, and kissed her.
Priscilla seemed hesitant at first, but then she returned the kiss.
It was unlike anything I had ever felt before. Her lips were soft and had the lingering traces of the coffee we'd had earlier, mixed with the taste of the wine.
And the wine... the wine I'd previously been holding had dropped to the carpeted floor, forgotten. I'm sure hers had dropped as well, but I was too caught up in the passionate moment to notice.
Hands tore desperately at the Muggle clothes both of us had donned for the wedding; breathing was labored as I picked Priscilla up from her chair and stumbled blindly into what I hoped was her room. (I had thankfully made the right choice and had entered her room.) Suddenly clothes were being tossed carelessly to the floor, our lips never parting as we undressed. I laugh now as I remember Priscilla's urgency and frustration as she tried to unbutton my shirt. She just ended up tearing it apart, scratching my chest with her long nails in the process, and the buttons popped off. I remember feeling her smile against my lips as she succeeded in getting the shirt off of me. Oh, Merlin, it was the best feeling.
At least, it was the best feeling until our bodies were joined as one - that was pure ecstasy, blissful.
Priscilla's hands left a burning, white-hot trail wherever they touched.
The next morning I awoke, still tangled in the white cotton sheets of Priscilla's bed. I looked down at the woman who was wrapped up in my arms. Priscilla Riddle. My breath caught in my throat and I couldn't help but think how beautiful she was. I was torn between remaining until she woke or fleeing because our families were so different and I didn't want to cause pain.
And I made the worst mistake of my life.
I carefully peeled myself away from her and climbed out of the bed. I found my clothes, dressed, and then walked to the door to leave the woman I loved - really, truly loved - behind. But before I left the room I paused at the door to take one last glance at her, in all her breathtaking beauty. "I love you, Priscilla," I whispered. And then I turned and walked out, being quiet so as not to wake her. I didn't stop to think about what consequences could possibly come from our little tryst, and to tell the truth, I didn't exactly sit down and overly assess the damage that I could have caused. No, I carried on with my life as Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts and, over time, pushed Priscilla Riddle to the back of my mind.
My life continued on. While I didn't think about Priscilla endlessly, I can honestly say that she never left my mind. I even mulled over whether or not I should go visit her, to ask if I was the father of her child, when I saw that Priscilla Riddle had just given birth to a healthy baby boy in the birthing records section of the Daily Prophet. (What wasn't included and I found out later was that Priscilla had died after giving birth and had lived just long enough to name her son.) In the end, I decided it was best that I didn't, for she was probably angered with me for walking out after our night of love-making without so much as a "goodbye".
Eleven years later, in 1938, a young boy named Thomas Marvolo Riddle enrolled at Hogwarts.
Tom, as everybody called him, was a spitting image of his mother. He had the same black hair, the same pale skin. What shocked me was that Tom had my own crystal blue eyes, assuring me that my worst fears were true: I was the father of this boy. This boy who had lived in an orphanage for his entire eleven years and who would continue living there until he left Hogwarts. This boy who had grown up believing that his father was that dreadful Muggle who had walked out on his mother. This boy who would never know that I was his true father.
I, again, made a very bad mistake. I went into denial, saying that Priscilla's child was Tom Riddle's and not mine, and that our one-night tryst had not created this boy. I put on a facade of sheer dislike for Tom that he surely had to notice. All the while, I kept close watch on Priscilla's and my son.
I wanted to tell him, I really did. I didn't want him to have to live in the Muggle orphanage any longer. I didn't want him to have to believe that Tom Riddle was his father when it truly was I. But I never worked up the courage.
I never really suspected that my son was turning over to the Dark side. Not until the summer after his sixth year. There had been a number of things going on at Hogwarts that could have been linked to him, including the injuries of students and the death of Myrtle Jones, but it was the death of his supposed Muggle father and his elderly grandparents that made me believe he was behind all of it, and not Rubeus Hagrid like Headmaster Armando Dippet thought it to be. When the Riddles' gardener, Frank Bryce, told the police he had seen a teenaged, dark-haired boy with pale skin near the Riddle Manor, I knew it was him.
Tom returned to Hogwarts for his seventh year. Throughout all his years at school, he had excelled in everything. He was brilliant. It pained me to realize that he could do whatever he intended to do with his powers, be it for good or for evil, and that he was probably going to use them for evil. After his seventh year concluded, Tom disappeared. I didn't hear of him again until the 1970's, when he was openly calling himself Lord Voldemort. Even then, I was one of the few who realized that he was, in fact, the same brilliant, handsome boy that had been so well liked at Hogwarts.
I began working against him, my own flesh and blood. My creation. I worked tirelessly, determinedly. I kept my secret, not wanting anybody else to know who I - or Thomas Marvolo Riddle - truly was.
Even today, two short years after the defeat of Lord Voldemort, as I stare up into the sky at the stars, I'm still the only person who knows the true identity of Thomas Marvolo Riddle, or Lord Voldemort. I'm still the only person who knows that the creature that has wreaked havoc and caused terror in the Wizarding world should be Thomas Dumbledore. I'm still the only person who knows that it's my fault all the deaths have occurred, for I'm the one that impregnated his mother. I'm still the only person who knows just who Harry Potter defeated in his seventh year. I'm still the only person who knows that Lord Voldemort is my son.
My son.
AN: I know a lot of you all are thinking, "what is wrong with this girl? Dumbledore having *sex* with a *woman*?! I think not!" But this came to me and as I began thinking more and more about how it would be so distressing for Dumbledore if he knew he was the reason the wizarding world lives in fear everyday, the more appealing this became to me. So here it is, my very first-ever fanfiction.