The Riddle Boy
Nobody knew very much about "that Riddle boy" who lived down the hall, but everyone knew how he came to live at Wool's Orphanage. It had been a snowy winter's night when his dying mother appeared on the front steps of the building, begging to be allowed in to have her child. An hour later, she died, and with her last breaths, she requested her son to take the name of his father, Tom Riddle.
But a decade after his mother's death, no one came looking for Tom Riddle. And after all those years, Tom Riddle remained in the very room he had been born in, keeping to himself and intimidating anyone who dared to confront him. However, not one person ever came to know about how dark he truly was—unique, even. Not the naive Martha, the young nurse who always saw the good in everyone one, and especially not old Mrs. Cole, the matron, who thought she was so smart, thought she saw right through him, thought she knew everything about him. But no, Tom knew that she, Mrs. Cole, would never understand him.
No one at Wool's would ever understand him.
Tom was most unlike all of the other children he lived with, and he knew it. Those who found out would soon forget, and he was sure to see to it. Little did Mrs. Cole know what Tom was really up to; he laughed at the thought of her trying to figure out what he could do. Of course he knew—at least, he had an idea—but Mrs. Cole would never know. She would just say he had too much sugar before he went to bed, said he should not be sneaking into the kitchen after curfew, punish him for it. But Tom knew for a fact that it was not sugar that had been keeping Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop silence since their trip to the seashore a couple of months ago. If only Mrs. Cole knew what she was dealing with.
But of course no one would suspect Tom Riddle of doing anything wrong, not even the interrogating Mrs. Cole! He, the quiet, introverted, handsome boy could no wrong, could he? At least that was how Mrs. Cole saw him, though she definitely saw him as something peculiar. She just couldn't place her finger on it. For years, she had been sending all sorts of doctors to come and check out Tom, but none of them had ever been able to diagnose him with something. Tom had seen to that. Whenever studied, he made sure to be his best behaved, but when the doctor finally came to a valid and scientific conclusion—and they always did—Tom made sure to do something unexplainable. How could a silly doctor explain him making a pillow fly through the air by just looking at it? How could a doctor explain all of the mice in the bedroom walls' holes to come pouring out at once? They couldn't. And because they were stumped, the doctors—one by one—left quietly, telling Mrs. Cole there was nothing abnormal about him.
Except there was one doctor who made an advance, and his name was Professor Albus Dumbledore.
Tom first heard about Mr. Dumbledore one morning at breakfast. He was sitting at the end of the table by himself, holding his hand an inch or two over his spoon, which was hovering slightly above the table. Charlie Hoke and Timmy Wiley, who were sitting a couple chairs down from him, kept sneaking nervous glances at him. Tom smirked whenever he could manage to catch their eye.
At a quarter-past-eight, Mrs. Cole came into the dining room, with Martha tailing behind her, muttering hurriedly. Mrs. Cole was holding a thick, decorated envelope in her hand, and her eyes were skimming across the page quickly, as if making sure what she was reading was right. Tom was quite surprised to see that she was approaching him. She hardly ever did that, unless he was in trouble for something.
"Tom," she said, and he let the spoon fall with a ding. Her eyes froze on the spot for a moment before continuing. "You are to be up in your bedroom by nine o'clock. There is a Mr.–er–Dumbledore that has requested a meeting with you."
"And what did I do this time?" he asked coolly, making his oatmeal churn slightly just by looking at it. "How many times do I need to tell you that I didn't do anything to Amy and Dennis? They would tell you; that is, if they would speak."
"This meeting has absolutely nothing to do with me, Mr. Riddle!" Mrs. Cole said.
Tom winced. He hated his name. Tom Riddle, how plain? How boring? Someone like him, someone so different, didn't feel much like a Tom Riddle. The only thing he liked about his name was his middle one. Marvolo. Now there's a unique name. Tom felt much more like a Marvolo than a Tom.
"You will be in your room by nine, no exceptions!" she said harshly, turning back to Martha. "Yes, Martha, dear, I understand. Now take me to Jimmy's room and we can sort this thing out..."
Mrs. Cole swept away, with Martha bouncing over her shoulder, picking up their conversation again.
Tom scowled. Why did Mrs. Cole accept another visitor for him? By having a visitor, she had knowingly accepted another doctor's appointment. What to do to this one? He had already used so many attacks to make sure he was never visited again by the same person. What to do to this Mr. Dumbledore?
No longer hungry, Tom got up from the table and made his way back up to his bedroom on the second floor, but first making sure to explode Charlie Hoke's porridge into his face with one swift hand wave.
So Mrs. Cole thinks this doctor will be able to figure me out, does she, Tom thought scathingly sitting down on his bed. It felt like a block of wood under him. He turned to face the open window. There were children and their parents holding hands down on the street below, bustling from shop to shop, smiling, laughing undoubtedly, not caring for one second that high above them, in the unnoticed Wool's Orphanage, that there was a boy of the same age, forgotten by society and loved—"loved"—by no one but Mrs. Cole, the closest and saddest excuse he had ever had for a mother.
Nearly an hour later, Tom heard footsteps coming up the spiral staircase that led to his bedroom, followed by two voices. The first was definitely Mrs. Cole's; the second was unfamiliar. It was a man's voice, and an elderly man's at that.
"Here we are," Mrs. Cole said, and Tom heard her footsteps come to a stop outside is door. She knocked twice and entered.
"Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you—well, I'll let him do it."
Mrs. Cole stepped outside to allow the man named Dumbledore to enter the room. He was old, but his long hair and beard were auburn. He was wearing a flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet. Tom hid a scoff as he set his book down on his nightstand. Mrs. Cole bowed to them and shut the door as she left the room.
"How do you do, Tom?" the man actually named Dumbledore said, walking forward, his hand outstretched. How easy it was to offer Mrs. Cole some early-morning alcohol....
Tom hesitated, looked into the man's brilliant blue eyes, and then shook his hand. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside his bed and sat down, as if he were visiting Tom in a hospital.
"I'm Professor Dumbledore."
"'Professor'?" Tom repeated, rolling his eyes and sighing heavily. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?"
Tom pointed angrily at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.
"No, no," said Dumbledore, smiling warmly. Tom scowled.
"I don't believe you," Tom said. "She wants me look at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!"
Tom hadn't meant to say it so forcefully, so bluntly, but his mental health had been questioned far too many times before, and he wasn't about to be questioned again. However, his eyes widened and he glared at Dumbledore; that always made people back off. But Dumbledore didn't recede; instead he made no response except to continue smiling so happily.
"Who are you?" Tom demanded once he realized he was not going to intimidate this Dumbledore so easily.
"I have told you. 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."
Infuriated, Tom leapt from his bed and backed away from Dumbledore. Again!, he thought. She's trying to ship me off again!
"You can't kid me!" Tom snarled. "The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course—well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one that should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, you you can ask them, they'll tell you!"
Feeling much braver because he knew that they wouldn't tell him anything, Tom straightened his posture.
"I am not from the asylum," Dumbledore said kindly. "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you are would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you—"
"I'd like to see them try," Tom sneered, smiling nastily.
"Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued, "is a school for people with special abilities—"
"I'm not mad!" Tom shouted at once. He knew it, how could Mrs. Cole be so stupid?
"I know that you are not mad," Dumbledore said patiently. "Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."
There was silence. Tom felt frozen, his eyes darting back and forth between Dumbledore and the wardrobe in the corner of his room. Surely, this fool must be lying?
"Magic?" Tom repeated, now very quiet. He didn't want wind of this getting out to Mrs. Cole. Even she would be able to put two and two together....
"That's right," Dumbledore said.
"It's...it's magic, what I can do?" Tom said, now everything starting to make sense inside of his head. Images of him bewitching things kept popping into his head. The animals, the appliances, that cave appearing out of nowhere....
"What is it that you can do?"
"All sorts," Tom breathed. He was beginning to feel excited, and he could feel the color flooding into his face. "I can make things move without touching them." Charlie Hoke's porridge from just an hour ago raced into his mind. "I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them." A hundred seagulls came swarming down on Mrs. Cole's head on a sunny beach day. "I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me." He, Amy Benson, and Dennis Bishop were climbing a very steep cliff. "I can make them hurt if I want to."
Tom could feel his legs trembling with excitement. He stumbled back to his bed and sat down again. He stared at his hands, bowing his head, his mind excited.
"I knew I was different," Tom said quietly to his shaking fingers. "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something."
"Well, you were quite right," Dumbledore said, his smile finally gone. He was watching Tom intently. "You are a wizard."
Tom lifted his head slowly. He could feel himself smiling differently than he had for a while. This wasn't one of his smiles he got when he did something nasty to someone...this was sheer pleasure.
"Are you a wizard too?" Tom asked at once.
"Yes, I am."
"Prove it," Tom said instantly, his voice stronger than he had intended. But he had to know...he had to see.... "Tell the truth."
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.
"If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—"
"Of course I am!" Tom said, almost laughing. That question was stupid.
"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'"
Tom felt as if he had just been hit. Never before had he been told what to do, forced into submission. But if it was the only way to get to this magnificent place....
"I'm sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you show me—?"
Dumbledore nodded and drew what looked like a thick twig from an inside suit pocket. He pointed it at the wardrobe in the corner and flicked his wrist. Immediately, the wardrobe burst into flames.
Tom jumped to his feet, shouting in anger and shock. How dare he set everything he owned on fire? He, Tom Marvolo Riddle, would show him, but what do to? How to show him that he was already a more superior magician? Tom rounded on Dumbledore, but at that moment, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.
Tom look from Dumbledore to the wardrobe, then he pointed to the wand.
"Where can I get one of them?"
"All in good time," Dumbledore said. "I think there is something trying to get out from your wardrobe."
Sure enough, a faint rattling was coming from within the wardrobe. Fear suddenly filled Tom.
"Open the door," Dumbledore said.
Tom hesitated, then, realizing there was no way out of this, he crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the highest shelf, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as if a small animal were trapped inside of it.
"Take it out," Dumbledore said.
Tom took it down. His lips suddenly became very dry. He was wishing the fire would have kept burning, would have destroyed this box....
"Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" Dumbledore asked.
Tom felt as if a knife had just been dug into his stomach. He stared at Dumbledore, wondering how he knew, if he had let something slip to anyone before? No, surely he would not make such a mistake.
"Yes, I suppose so, sir," Tom said dully, figuring that he was caught red-handed.
"Open it."
Tom took the lid off and tipped the objects onto his bed without looking at them. There was a yo-yo, a silver thimble, a tarnished mouth organ, and many more things that he had stolen. Once free of the box, they all stopped shaking.
"You will return them to their owners with your apologies," Dumbledore said calmly, tucking his wand away. "I shall know whether or not it has been done. And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts."
Tom no longer felt shock, he felt angry.
"Yes, sir," Tom said shortly.
"At Hogwarts, we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it," Dumbledore said. "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 more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws."
"Yes, sir."
Tom's head was rushing again as he put everything back in the cardboard box. How could this old man, this Dumbledore, know all of this about him already, having just met him? He, Tom, had been able to trick Mrs. Cole for years now, and this Dumbledore figured him out in just a matter of minutes....That would not do.
"I haven't got any money," Tom said defiantly.
"That is easily remedied," Dumbledore said, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. "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—"
"Where do you buy spellbooks?" Tom said, trying to be as rude as possible to Dumbledore, who he was infuriated with for figuring him out so easily.
"In Diagon Alley," Dumbledore said simply. "I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything—"
"You're coming with me?" Tom asked, look up at Dumbledore.
"Certainly, if you need—"
"I don't need you," Tom spat. "I'm used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get into this Diagon Alley—sir?" he added, noticing Dumbledore glaring at him.
Dumbledore handed Tom an envelope.
"In there you will find all of your school equipment and how exactly to get into Diagon Alley from the Leaky Cauldron, which is also in London," Dumbledore said. "You will be able to see it, 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 winced again. That name.
"You dislike the name 'Tom'?"
"There are a lot of Toms," Tom muttered. Then suddenly he said, "Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me."
"I'm afraid I don't know," Dumbledore said.
Tom smiled.
"My mother can't have been magic, or she wouldn't have died," Tom said simply, though he was talking more to himself than Dumbledore. "It must've been him. 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," Dumbledore said. "You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too."
Tom nodded as Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Tom took it, then said, before it was too late, "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?"
"It is unusual," Dumbledore said, hesitated, and added, "but not unheard of."
They stared at one another for a moment, then the handshake was broken. Dumbledore went to the door.
"Good-bye, Tom, I shall see you at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said kindly, bowing low, and he swept from the room, shutting the door behind him quietly, leaving Tom alone in his wake. And, for the first time in his life that he could remember, Tom was excited.