The Beginning of The End

by JennaRose13

Have you ever wondered what Tom Riddle's life at Hogwarts was like? Let me bring you back to the year 1938, his first year at Hogwarts, where he finds a friend in the most unlikely of places: Albus Dumbledore's daughter, Amaris Quinn Dumbledore-but she prefers Quinn. Rated T for first year angst and just so I won't feel so naughty if I use swears later. May contain bits of humor.

Quinn shut the door to her father's study and padded softly down the hall in her ivory nightgown. Her light brown hair curled gently over her shoulders and she blinked her long-lashed hazel eyes. Tears were threatening to spill down over her cheeks but the seven-year-old was determined not to cry. She hadn't cried since her mother was accidentally killed during a dangerous job working in conjunction with the Ministry of Magic's Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The day, September first, was the anniversary of her young mother's untimely death. A brief talk with her father was all it had taken to make all the sad memories come surging back up in a tide of pain.

She absent-mindedly tucked the strand of hair that was always out-of-place back behind her ear as she scurried barefoot through the castle's empty halls. When Quinn finally reached the entrance hall she hurried through the cavernous door which was not locked at night simply because there was no need—yet.

Quinn began to sprint as she reached the cool night air. She was squeezing her eyes shut as if the peaceful stars and mild September air caused her physical pain. Gasping, she finally slowed when she reached the lake and threw herself down underneath her favorite tree. Its leaves were just beginning to turn yellow and orange; her unshed tears made the bright leaves blur together with the inky night sky in juxtaposition.

The breeze wound its fingers gently through Quinn's hair and threatened to make the tears overflow. She blinked furiously and managed to swallow the great lump in her throat.

The thoughts of her mother were kept at bay for three-hundred sixty-five days a year, then they all flooded out in one outpour of grief. Quinn had been through more than most little girls at her age. She had been four years old the day that her father had come to wake her out of bed. She had expected to see a meteor shower or another of his finally finished inventions. Instead, he had taken her hand and whispered the awful news—"Mummy isn't coming home."

He had answered all of her questions: where had she gone? Why had she left us? Why wouldn't she come back to us? Why, why, why?

After a few months, when she stopped asking him questions, she finally understood. Mummy was gone. Mummy hadn't loved her and daddy enough to stay. Soon enough, she began to blame him, and he her. They tried to repair their once-loving bond, but no words could be said to fix it.

Then, today, her daddy had finally told her the truth: mummy hadn't left, she was inside that giant box they buried a week after she left. Mummy was dead. Quinn assumed that she had known once, but she finally understood what it really meant. It was hard for her and her father being around each other after that. They tried, but as Quinn lay on her back staring up into the bright leaves, she knew that no matter how they tried to pretend, things would never be the same. And that pivotal moment may have been what started it all.