Chapter One
Tragic Beginnings


August, 1943

Rowan Sorbus Riddle, while caressing the silver bird pendant between her fingers, stared blankly at the plump police officer sat across the table. He had offered her tea, even a biscuit despite the rations nowadays, but she had shook her tiny head at both. She didn't want a tea or a biscuit. She wanted her father. She wanted her father to be alive again.

The police officer's pity wasn't helping either. She didn't want his pity. She wanted her father. And yet she sat there, not even daring to swing her legs, and waited. She had already told them everything they had wanted from her, though their annoyed looks as they had walked out of the room meant they weren't happy with her answers. She couldn't help it! She didn't remember anything peculiar happening last night. She had told them everything clearly and vividly:

Father had put her to bed at the usual seven o'clock, then around 9 o'clock she woke up needing a drink and went downstairs to get a glass of water. She had heard her father and her grandparents talking in the drawing room but quickly went straight back to bed in case they got angry. And then the next thing she knew the maid was screaming in the early hours of the morning. And then she found out they were all dead.

She didn't hear anything, she didn't see anything, and yet they were still annoyed at her? Wouldn't they be more concerned about the war going on than a couple of dead people? She didn't want to be at the police station anymore, but she didn't want to go home either. What if their bodies were still there? What if their ghosts were there? Grandad Thomas had said that ghosts were just a bunch 'rubbish', but would he think the same if he was one? She shivered. He would certainly be an angry ghost.

The plump officer suddenly coughed. She blinked a few times before her vibrant green eyes landed on him. "Erm, got someone 'ere wantin' to talk to yer. Says he's 'ere to offer you somethin'."

Offer her something? That was...strange. However, she nodded her head and the plump officer went away to get the person. When he stepped into the small room she scrunched her nose. He looked strange too. He wore purple robes, very formal-looking, and his grey beard stretched down to his waist. He smiled warmly behind half-moon spectacles.

"Good evening, lad."

"Hello," she squeaked cautiously and made no attempt to correct him. She had been taught early on not to.

The officer awkwardly stomped away to likely eat some more biscuits. The strange man towered over her and yet she didn't feel threatened at all.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore, I'm a professor at a very special school," he explained slowly. "A school for people like you."

People like her? Her eyes bulged. Oh. Now she understood why father had ripped up that letter a few weeks ago, muttering angrily with tears pricking his eyes. "Did you send a letter?"

"Yes," he answered instantly.

"Father ripped it up. Said I don't belong there."

"I see," Dumbledore paused to sit down at the opposite side of the table, "I believe you do belong there. What do you know of magic, Mr Riddle? Actually, may I call you Rowan?"

She leaned back. Was he mad? "Magic is a trick magicians do on people. It's just illusions. And you can call me Pidge, I guess."

"Pidge?"

"My father's nickname for me, I always remind him of a pigeon. Or did."

"Very well, Pidge it is. And magic isn't just illusions, magic is very very real." Rowan simply snorted. Dumbledore continued, "would you like me to prove it?"

When she shrugged her little shoulders Dumbledore winked and suddenly the silver bird flew from her hands, slipped over her neck and levitated in front of her. Her black, wire-like hair had been pulled over her face so she had to move it out of her way to see properly the levitating pendant. She shook her head. "It's just a trick, it's just a trick."

"Pidge, have you done things you can't explain? Things while you were scared?" Her tight-lipped response answered his question. She quickly grabbed the pendant and slotted it back over head where it sat limply against her chest. "Your father was likely scared too. Scared for you. But you have my word that you have nothing to fear at Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts? What kind of name is that?" She blurted out.

"Wait until you hear the school song," Dumbledore quipped. "Speaking of which, I have your letter here." He pulled a small envelope out of a concealed pocket and handed it to her. She stared at it, as if it would explode any second, but snatched it from his grip and greedily ripped it open. Her eyes read every word twice, just to be sure it was all real and that he was telling the truth. From what she could see he was. She let out a childish giggle. Magic was real. She had been telling her father the truth when she said the tulips burst into flames when the gardener, Mr Bryce, had yelled at her for being outside in the garden. And when she had 'accidentally' ruined her Sunday clothes, the colours faded and worn seemingly overnight.

Her bright eyes shot up to smile at Dumbledore. Her impulse got the better of her and she latched onto him with a tight hug, he chuckled and she felt the vibrations in his itchy beard. She was so happy. She would never have to go to that awful house ever again. She wouldn't be haunted by their ghosts. But then her blood froze, her face dropped and she pulled away from Dumbledore looking very sickly. "I'm alone," she murmured.

Dumbledore's sad smile and a pat on her head voiced his sympathy. At least, she thought, it wasn't pity like all the police officers. But in all the chaos she had forgotten all about that fact. She was truly alone. Her father hadn't mentioned family outside her grandparents, and now all three were dead and gone. She shuddered. Tears pricked her eyes but she quickly wiped them away. It was no good crying in front of a stranger.

"You are not alone."

Her brow furrowed curiously, "pardon?"

Dumbledore didn't blink once as he continued, "your father fathered another child before you. A young boy who is already attending at Hogwarts."

That wasn't possible. Was it? Her father had never mentioned a brother, then again, he was very secretive about her mother and got angry whenever she asked about her. In fact, they all got very angry at her a lot. "I...have a brother?" She asked in disbelief.

"Yes, a brilliant boy too, you can meet him soon once this sad business is done."

Sad business? Oh right her family. She supposed a funeral would take place though who would pay for it she had no idea. Perhaps they would just be buried and get the whole ordeal over with. Would her brother go to the funeral if there was one? Was he allowed? Was she allowed? Actually, she didn't want to think about any of that. She wanted to meet this brother. And more importantly she wanted to know more about magic.

"Sir-"

"Professor Dumbledore will do."

"Professor Dumbledore, what is my brother like? What other magic is there? What is Hogwarts like?" She asked insistently.

He smiled. All children were the same, no matter where they came from, they were all excited to learn more. Curiosity. "Calm, calm, you'll find out soon enough. Right now, it's best to continue to help these muggles."

"But Professor, I really don't know what happened. I was asleep."

"You never heard anyone enter the house? Never saw anything strange?"

Rowan paused, thinking hard, but nothing really came to mind. She sighed. "I just heard them talking in the drawing room, the door was closed and there was this bright green flash for a few seconds…" She stopped when Dumbledore's smile faded. Though he already looked old, somehow without that smile he aged another fifty years. "Professor?" She said, concerned.

"A green flash, you are sure of this?"

"I think so, Professor. It was so bright it nearly lit up the hallway."

Dumbledore leaned back in the chair, the creaking wood straining against the action, he really had aged. He said nothing for a moment, but once again he warmly looked to her. "Perhaps, it would be best if you met your brother sooner. Once these muggles are ready for you to leave I'll accompany you to London."

"London?" She asked.

"Yes London, I'm sure the Leaky Cauldron will accommodate you until September."

"You mean, I don't have to stay in Little Hangleton?"

"If you do wish to stay here-"

"No, no!" She cried, but then relaxed, "sorry, but I really don't want to stay here."

Dumbledore nodded his head. "Then I'll ask the muggle police officer when he thinks you can go. I'll be back."

He then stood up, gave her one last smile before disappearing out of the room. Excitement tingled through her. A brother? A real, magical brother? Her spirits suddenly dropped. Why didn't her father tell her about him? Why did he rip up her letter? She sat there reading it repeatedly. Did he want her to just be normal? A hand rose to her head and gently tugged at the strands of short, black hair. She looked down at her grey clothes, particularly the shorts and the brown, shiny shoes.

A normal boy. Something she had pretended to be for so long. Something she couldn't be.


Professor Dumbledore had been right, The Leaky Cauldron 's barmen, Tom, had happily given her a room despite not having any money. Though she supposed it was mainly down to Dumbledore asking for her. Even so, first entering the small yet welcoming pub had been a delight. The smell of brandy had hit her first, the familiar smell churning her stomach, but then she saw the people with the goblets of brandy. Witches, Wizards, all of them with pointy hats and robes and sticks which they used effortlessly to stir tea or other beverages. And then there was the other barman who cleared the middle table with a quick flick of his stick, goblets and pots levitating in the air and following him behind the bar. She had wanted more eyes so that she could see everything at once.

Dumbledore had stayed with her for a short while longer to make sure she was settled into her room for the night, even buying her some soup from the pub's menu. She realised she hadn't actually eaten all day. She slowly slurped a green-coloured soup when he suddenly pulled out a pocket watch. Rowan noticed it shimmered like gold. "I must be off soon," he said while putting the pocket watch away again.

Rowan delicately dropped the spoon into the soup and trembled ever so slightly. "Can't you stay longer?"

"As much as I would like to, I have important work to do. Tom will keep an eye on you and should you need anything just ask him."

"Before you go," Rowan said tentatively, "can you tell me something about my brother? Please?"

Dumbledore sighed, wondering what he could say about the boy in only small words. "He's...he's a brilliant boy. Smart. Craves to learn. But," he paused, noticing that Rowan was hung on his every word, "understand he didn't know about you either, so he may not...open fully towards you at first."

Rowan understood, but still joy filled her heart. She wasn't alone, not completely.

"And one last thing, how long are you going to continue to pretend?"

Rowan's eyes popped wide at the question. He knew? Of course he knew, he was a wizard. Pink warmth spread across her cheeks. "I didn't want to, father made me," she explained softly. Dumbledore thankfully didn't pursue the matter more.

Rowan didn't finish the soup but graciously thanked Dumbledore again just before he disappeared from the chair, literally, vanishing before her eyes. Tom came around a while later to take the bowl, she thanked him too, though she nervously avoided his dark eyes and his hunched back as she sprinted up the wooden steps towards her room. She didn't sleep, as much as she wanted to, the day had started as one of sadness and had ended as one of joy. It felt wrong to feel happy. Her family was dead all the way back in Little Hangleton and she was here in London with witches and wizards. It was insane thinking about it let alone saying it out loud.

When her heavy eyelids did finally close she was haunted by the green flash, the vividness of the vibrant colour far more real after mentioning it to Dumbledore. It filled her with fear and at the same time she was curious about it.

She awoke early the next morning by gargled roaring from the room opposite her own. It didn't bother her. Rowan dressed herself in her grey clothes again, placing the white nightgown back into the briefcase she had 'borrowed' from the Riddle House yesterday afternoon when Dumbledore had gone with her to collect a few things. She had hated being in the house again. Every patch of coldness chilled her bones and every dark corner made her imagine the ghost of her father suddenly appearing grabbing her, dragging her into the gloom in an attempt to stop her from leaving. It was childish, true, but imagination was something she enjoyed above everything.

As she left her room to get breakfast Rowan witnessed a housekeeper nearly being blown off her feet as a door slammed shut in her face. Unperturbed, the witch moved onto the next door and knocked once. "Housekeeping," she drawled. This time the door didn't even open. Rowan leaned her head around to see a battered old broom was following behind the witch, all on its on and sweeping the thick layer of dust on the floor.

"Excuse me," she asked politely.

"Yes?"

"You don't need to do anything with my room, it's clean."

The witch appeared indifferent at Rowan saving her from knocking on one less do. The witch squinted her beady eyes and then huffed, "you're that little tyke Tom was on about last night." Rowan's cheeks burned but she nodded. "Don't know what Dumbledore was thinking leaving an eleven year old 'ere alone. 'Specially a muggle-born."

Rowan's brow creased. "Muggle-born?"

"Ha, hasn't even told you what you are either. Well listen well, boy, a muggle-born is a magical child with non-magic parents and believe me that's not something worth shouting about. So, if I were you I'd keep it to meself, savvy?"

Rowan nodded her again, though more fervently, before speeding down the corridor and as far away from the housekeeper witch as possible. Though it was quite early the main room of the pub was already filling with wizards and witches, many had bags under their eyes and some were nursing sore heads. She sat down at the main wooden table, goblets and jugs were yet to be cleaned and a few hopped up and down the table looking for their owners. A wizard across from her was hidden behind a newspaper. In big, black letters the words Daily Prophet was printed at the top of the paper. It wasn't the words that intrigued her though, it was the pictures on the pages. They was moving. One was of rubble being ripped apart from a building with the headline Grindelwald strikes again above it. The other was that of a poorly dressed and ugly-looking man with a sneer on his face, the face made her skin crawl. Before she could read the caption the wizard flicked the newspaper closed and grunted something along the lines of 'darn Americans'. Rowan's eyes quickly snapped away from the newspaper but the keen-eyed wizard had already caught her staring.

"Would you like to read it?"

"If you don't mind, that is."

"Of course not, I'm done with it anyway," he said, lightly tossing the newspaper to her.

With a timid 'thank you', Rowan's hungry eyes found the man with the sneering face. She gasped sharply. The headline read murder of muggles perpetrator found, her family's names were printed clearly beneath the photo. So the green flash, it had been magic after all. Rowan read on and learnt the man's name was Morfin Gaunt, she was sure her father had mentioned the name Gaunt before, and colour drained from her already pale face. This was the face of the man that had killed her family. He didn't even look sorry. The newspaper had made sure the article on it was small, concealed, at the bottom of the page but there was no denying that Morfin Gaunt was guilty. He had admitted to it, proudly. She wondered if her half brother had read the same article already.

"You alright?" The wizard asked.

"Er yes thank you," she lied. "May I keep this?"

"Yes, yes."

Like a springer spaniel she was up out of the chair and sprinting up to her room where she folded the newspaper and locked it away in her briefcase. She stood there looming over it for a moment, solemnly watching Morfin Gaunt's sneer twitch upwards the longer she stared at it. She hoped Azkaban was terrible.

Another bowl of questionable soup and a chatter with the wizard who had lent her the newspaper and suddenly Dumbledore walked through the pub's front door. Tom greeted him with a handshake. Rowan watched silently as Dumbledore glided towards her with that warm smile of his.

"How are you today?"

"Better," she lied, well, a half lie. Her eyes sparkled brightly. "Is my brother with you?"

"Yes he's just outside," Dumbledore answered, he paused, "are you sure you're ready?"

She had never been so ready in her life. "Yes," she said.

Dumbledore then turned around and went back outside. Rowan sat deathly still with her head only moving when a barman got in the way of her view of the front door. She seemed to be waiting ages before Dumbledore stepped back inside followed by a shadow. When Dumbledore stepped aside she nearly fell out of her chair. He looked exactly like her father, their father, with the same dark eyes and dark hair and the way he stood stiffly with his arms clasped behind his back. It was a mirror image. All the words in the world left her and she could only stare at him.

It was Dumbledore that finally broke the silence as he said, "Pidge this is Tom Riddle. Tom, you know who this is."

"Yes I do, Professor," he answered with a silky voice. That was one difference at least. Her - their - father's voice was always slurred due to his drinking. He didn't look pleased, in fact she would even go as far to say that his expression was that of boredom. She gulped, suddenly self-conscious. She supposed that being a muggle-born was likely the cause. Tom made the first move and held out his hand. Smooth and slender. She stood up on lead knees and shook it gingerly. "Hello there," he greeted.

"Hello," she squeaked back.

"I was just advising Tom that perhaps it would be worth buying your things for Hogwarts...as a means to get to know each other."

"Won't you be helping?" Rowan asked, her tone that of sudden fright. What if she didn't get along with Tom? What if he just wore that bored expression the entire time? At least Dumbledore was there to encourage her with a warm smile.

"No, I have to prepare my classes for this next year. Tom here is in his fifth year at the present so he's here to buy his own items too. Good luck," and just like that Dumbledore vanished.

Rowan gulped. Tom's expression did seem to change slightly to disgust as his eyes scanned the pub. "Never did like this place," he muttered.

"It's alright," she replied, "the soup tastes like...I don't know."

Tom scoffed, "I hear the pea soup eats people." The corner of his mouth twitched upwards at the sight of her scared little eyes. "Well, let us get this over with, shall we?"

Tom didn't give her a chance to reply as he sauntered towards the back of the pub and through a door that lead out onto a small courtyard. Weeds grew through the cracks in the stone and brown bottles rolled in the early morning breeze. The mid-summer mist hung heavy in the air. Rowan silently stood behind Tom who faced a brick wall. He whipped out his stick, which Rowan now knew was called a wand thanks to the wizard earlier, and tapped a brick three times. Suddenly the bricks began to move, sliding over each other until an archway formed. Rowan peeked from behind Tom's back and stared at the busy alleyway with her mouth open. Rows and rows of wonky shops on either side with witches and wizards bustling through with their big pointy hats. She swore she saw an owl swoop down for a second before vanishing.

"What is this place?" She asked, mystified.

"How much do you actually know about the wizarding world?" Tom asked exasperatedly, his tone making her feel stupid.

"I know enough," she huffed back.

"Clearly. This is Diagon Alley," he said before storming forward. Rowan chased after him but soon began to panic as people really were bustling everywhere really close together. For a horrible second she thought she was lost in the crowds before she saw Tom's dark hair a little way ahead. Without thinking she yanked on his jumper. He spun around and spat viciously, "what do you think you're doing?"

She flinched. It was one thing to be told off by Frank Bryce or be screamed at my Grandma Mary, this was far more terrifying. "I-I panicked I'm sorry. There's so many people I just…" she trailed off into a whimper.

That didn't improve his mood but it did soften his dark eyes. "Just stay close. Here, hold onto this gently," he muttered as he pinched the arm of his jumper. She complied and ghosted her fingers on the rough material. And then they were off walking again but soon Rowan realised something else.

"Tom I don't have my letter with me, how will we know-"

"I remember what you need."

"But what about mon-"

"I have enough money with me for the both of us."

She stayed quiet after that, sensing his growing frustration. This wasn't how she wanted it to go at all. Tom paused in front of a shop with large black cauldron's levitating in the window. He told her to wait outside and to not touch anything while he disappeared inside to buy items. Across from the cauldron shop was another shop with cages upon cages of owls hung up high. The owls screeched and flapped their wings but carefully made sure they didn't injure them on the bars. There were all different species and sizes and Rowan was more than thrilled when a ruffled brown owl looked straight at her and bobbed its head. The blue sign above it read Eeylops Owl Emporium. She wondered why witches and wizards needed owls, wasn't it always black cats?

Tom reappeared with a small cauldron under his arm and he outstretched the other for Rowan to grab again as they walked further up towards a tired-looking building. A sign outside held a worn picture of a wand laid upon a cushion. They were getting her wand already?

"Tom?"

"What is it now?" He grunted, the cauldron heavy under his arm.

"What if none of the wands work for me? What if Dumbledore was wrong and I don't have magic?"

"Then you wouldn't be here now," came his short answer. When he looked down to see her head was bowed sadly he huffed and added, "a wand will choose you. I promise. No one else is better than Ollivander...as everyone says."

Entering the building Rowan was bombarded with smells similar to a library. Tom lead them up to the counter and practically dropped the cauldron on the floor with a loud clank. Rowan jumped at the noise but was more fearful of the man that scuttled towards them from the dark recesses of the shop.

"Ah, ah, ah what have we hear?" the old man sung, he smiled madly before turning his attention to Tom, "Yew, phoenix feather core. I trust it's been good to you so far?"

"It's been excellent, Ollivander."

Ollivander's gaze befell Rowan again. "A sister?"

"Half sister," Tom corrected.

"Well, I'm sure your wand will prove to be as good a match as the one Tom has. Hold still a moment," Ollivander commanded softly and a measuring tape measured her right arm. To Rowan's surprise it was measuring itself on its own as Ollivander disappeared into the shadows. She could hear him uttering different wand types before bringing back a handful. She waved them all but Ollivander didn't seem satisfied. "No, no another look." He disappeared and then came back with a larger pile. Still he didn't seem satisfied with any of them. Panic set in her again. Tom tapping the counter loudly didn't help either. One last time he disappeared and with a shrilled laugh came back with only one box. "Try this one, my dear."

He opened the box carefully and noticed that, unlike the other wands he had pulled out, this one was rather bendy. She carefully picked it up and gave it a slight wave, sparks flew from the end. She grinned. Finally.

"Eleven three-quarter hazel wood with unicorn hair, slightly springy. Yes, very interesting."

"Interesting?" She asked eagerly.

"Hazel wood is a sensitive wand and often reflects its owner's own emotional state. Quite dangerous in the hands of anyone else but it's owner." Ollivander leaned in close, "and more interestingly the unicorn hair, though not powerful, is just as loyal to it's owner."

"Is it true that unicorn hair makes it difficult to master the Dark Arts?" Tom interrupted, curiously.

Ollivander nodded slowly. "History does show few unicorn hair cores master the Dark Arts...but that's not to say it can't. We can certainly expect great things from you."

"Thank you so much, Mr Ollivander." Rowan said graciously.

Soon enough they had bought everything they needed for September. Tom had tried to carry all of it firstly, but after a few dropped items Rowan forcefully helped carry the robes and books. Tom didn't portray he was grateful.

Once her new items were packed away in her room at The Leaky Cauldron Tom sat with her for a while. He chose a shadowed table in the far corner away from everyone else, Rowan assumed it was both equally because he hated the place and because of her.

She tried to smile at him. "Thank you for today, I couldn't have done it on my own."

"You will have to learn someday that people won't always be around to help you. I certainly won't," he snapped. So much for trying to be nice. He sighed and continued, "it would have been less hassle doing it on my own, but I suppose I should thank you for helping me carry the items."

That warmed her heart a little. It was the nicest thing he had said all day. She yawned, tiredness rushing on her suddenly. "Tom," she said sleepily, "I heard people talking about Hogwarts Houses. What are they?"

As if she had flicked a switch Tom straightened up and his dark eyes swirled with pride. "There's four of them, for the four Founders of Hogwarts. They are Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. I am in Slytherin," he explained proudly.

"I hope I'm in Slytherin too."

Tom chuckled darkly. When he looked back to her quizzical expression he explained with glee, "Slytherin would never accept a muggle-born into it's house. It would disgrace the entire Slytherin legacy."

Rowan's cheeks burned with embarrassment. So she was right, being muggle-born did make him hate her. Her brights eyes flared suddenly. "Maybe I'm not muggle-born, maybe my mother was a witch, father never talked about her, so maybe she is a witch."

"Unlikely," Tom sneered.

"I'll prove you wrong," she growled, "I will be in Slytherin."

Tom said no more. She had the nerve to think she could somehow prove herself? No, she was a mudblood through and through. Related or not, he would have as little to do with her as possible.