Response to u/First-NameLast-Name on r/HPfanfiction
In which Tom Riddle is forced to endure the most torturous detention imaginable.
The worst day of Tom Riddle's life occurred on a Friday.
Some ridiculous, simpering Ravenclaw girl had seen fit to throw him a crumpled up note in the middle of Transfiguration - the only class in which the Professor watched his every move - and then giggle along with the rest of the idiots whenever Dumbledore made him read it out loud.
"Is there something you'd like to share with the rest of the class, Mister Riddle?"
"No-there-is-not, Professor," he said through gritted teeth.
"The note in your hand seems to suggest otherwise." Dumbledore gave his best mocking grin, the one reserved only for Tom, which conveyed both stern disciplinarian and intellectually superior arsehole in one convenient expression. "Please, enlighten us."
He sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms, waiting.
Tom stood slowly, trying not to seem mortified, because that would suggest weakness and he did not want to seem weak in front of Dumbledore. He held out the note and began to read.
"'Riddle,'" it said, "'you can...'"
"Yes?" Dumbledore prodded.
Tom's cheeks betrayed him. Full mortification had taken hold once he'd seen the contents of the note.
"'You can... Slyther...' Look, sir, can I just take the detention now? This is really not necessary."
Dumbledore merely smiled. Tom vowed then and there to murder him someday.
He took a deep breath. "'Riddle, you can Slytherin to my dorm any time.'"
As the class erupted into laughter, he made a mental note to murder the Ravenclaw girl as well.
"Now you can have that detention, Riddle. See me after class."
When the bell rang the students filed out of the room, almost every one of them glancing back at Tom with a tasteless grin, and he stayed put, fuming and plotting revenge.
Dumbledore took his time erasing the board. Then put his books away. Then filed some paper. Rearranged his desk. Refilled his ink. Finally, after making Tom sit there for an unreasonable amount of time just to ensure that he would be late for his next class, he spoke.
"So," he said, folding his arms again, "detention. I think tonight at eight o'clock would be suitable."
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Meet me in the Headmaster's office."
"Sir? I have to go to the Headmaster's office to do lines?" He did not want Dippet to hear about this single blemish on his perfect record.
"Oh, you won't be doing lines tonight, Mister Riddle." Dumbledore smiled again, and Tom gripped his desk so hard his knuckles turned white. "Off you go."
He left without another word.
When it was almost eight o'clock Tom headed toward the Headmaster's office, dreading what fresh hell Dumbledore had planned that could top the one he'd endured that morning.
When he reached the top of the steps he noticed that the door was already open. Several house elves were flitting in and out, carrying trays of food. Confused, he slid in after them and scanned the room.
A small round table had been placed in the middle of the office. It was set for two. Dippet was nowhere to be seen, but Dumbledore was there, already seated in front of his meal. He gave an infuriatingly polite wave when he noticed Tom standing there.
"Ah, Mister Riddle. On time, as always. Join me, won't you?"
"What is this, Professor?" he inquired, imagining some sort of torture scenario involving food or poison.
"We are going to have dinner together, Tom. You and me. I think we have some things to discuss, and what better way to do so than over a friendly meal?"
Torture would have been preferable.
"Sir, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather-"
"Sit down, Tom."
He sat. House elves descended on him with a plate full of food and a cup of something or other, and the whole time they fussed over him Tom kept his eyes on Dumbledore.
And Dumbledore kept his eyes on Tom.
"So," Dumbledore said after a characteristically Dumbledore silence, "this is what we are going to do. I will bring up a topic, and you will provide a response. I will respond to your response, and we will go from there. Understood?"
"Yes, sir, I understand the basic mechanics of civilized conversation."
"You could have fooled me, considering how often you see fit to interrupt me in class."
Tom narrowed his eyes. This wasn't going to be a conversation. It was going to be Dumbledore's own unique brand of punishment.
Dumbledore, apparently, could sense his suspicion. "There is no need to be worried, Tom. I'm not here to torture you."
I am here to torture you, Tom interpreted in his head.
"Forgive me, Professor. I am somewhat confused as to the purpose of this particular type of punishment."
Dumbledore eyed him carefully. "A conversation is not a punishment, Tom, unless you make it so."
He didn't know how to respond to that. What kind of mind game was this?
"Anyway," Dumbledore continued, cutting into his dinner and gesturing for Tom to do the same, "let's start with this: how was your day?"
"Fine, sir."
"Just fine?"
"Fine, with the exception of a small bout of mortifying embarrassment in the morning. You?"
The blatant sarcasm was ignored. "My day was exceptionally productive, thank you for asking."
"I bet it was," Tom muttered under his breath, gripping his butter knife tightly in his hand and wondering how much force it would take to turn it into a proper weapon.
Dumbledore poured himself some tea. "And how are you finding your studies so far this year?"
"Fine, sir."
"And how about your social activities?"
Was he being interrogated? "What about them?" he asked.
"Well, I've always found that, for students - and perhaps for adults as well - a healthy social life makes for an exceptionally well-rounded individual."
Tom took a sip of whatever was in his cup so that he didn't have to respond. Either Dumbledore was outright asking him what he got up to in his private time, or suggesting that he already knew. It put him on edge.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" Dumbledore asked suddenly.
Tom choked on his drink. "I'm sorry?"
"Boyfriend, perhaps?" he inquired.
Tom forced his cheeks not to turn red through sheer willpower. "Sir, I don't- I don't see how that's relevant-"
"Forgive me, Tom. I like to check up on my students' mental health from time to time. As such, I believe it is perfectly natural for people your age to enjoy all kinds of relationships, for without such experiences at this most important time in your life, you are missing out on a fundamental aspect of young adulthood."
He wanted to melt into his chair. "I didn't say I was... without... Is there anything else we can talk about, Professor?" He had an overwhelming, desperate, agonizing need to change the bloody subject.
The look Dumbledore gave was indiscernible. Satisfaction at Tom's discomfort, maybe? "There's no need to be embarrassed, Tom," he said. "When I was your age, I enjoyed quite a few intimate liaisons with-"
"How about Transfiguration? Can we talk about that?"
"Are you sure? You seem to particularly despise Transfiguration this year. Even more so than last year, which I did not think was possible."
"Fine, then how about absolutely anything else?"
Dumbledore looked like he was considering something. "If you don't mind," he said after a while, the corners of his mouth twitching, "I would like to discuss our most recent argument, as I believe it may stand as an appropriate representation of the struggle you and I have to find common ground."
"Sir?" Tom had argued with the man so many times he couldn't recall what their most recent spat had been about.
"Despite our lesson last week being about the properties of transfigured objects over time, you and I had discussed - to the detriment of the rest of the poor class - theories on the nature of magic."
Oh god.
"And I had mentioned," he continued, "what I believe to be one of the most fundamental variables to consider when attempting to understand such theoretical approaches, with which you, naturally, disagreed."
Please, not this.
"Are you-" Tom stuttered, "sir, are you suggesting we discuss... love?"
"Yes," he said simply.
It was bad enough being forced to have a "pleasant" conversation with the man. Now he wanted to wax poetic about love? Tom could feel his jaw set in annoyance.
Dumbledore sat back, chewing his food, a misty look in his eyes. "Love is a many-layered thing, Tom."
"Is that a scientific description, sir?"
"Science, unfortunately, only plays a small part in the process of understanding love. We are, all of us, absurdly ignorant to its true nature."
"Well," Tom muttered, "we know it's many-layered, apparently."
This brought Dumbledore out of his reverie. He narrowed his eyes almost threateningly, and a small smirk appeared on his pretentious face. Disciplinarian and arsehole. "Tell me what you think love is, Tom."
"I'd rather not, sir."
"I know you'd rather not. But you're going to." He sat back again, waiting for an answer, sipping his bloody pumpkin juice like a man who'd just won a game of chess by shooting his opponent in the head.
Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had no idea what to say. He'd never bothered to waste time thinking about it before, as the entire concept - in addition to being abhorrent - held no purpose in his research.
"Love is..." he began.
"Yes?"
"...in scientific terms..."
"Yes?"
"...bollocks."
Dumbledore did not get angry. Instead, he looked amused. "I am glad you take our conversation so seriously, Mister Riddle. Perhaps you are so engaged that you feel we should continue at a later date? Maybe some light philosophical discussion with tea tomorrow?"
Fucking hell.
"No, sir. Sorry, sir," Tom said flatly.
"Very well. But I stand by my assessment. You will remain at least partially ignorant to the true nature of magic if you do not understand this one essential concept." He pointed a pie-covered fork at Tom. "It may be that, for the individual, understanding love begins with getting in touch with one's feelings. Are you in touch with your feelings, Tom?"
Yes, he thought, I am intimately in touch with my blind, murderous rage. That was a feeling, wasn't it?
"I don't know, Professor." He decided to press the issue. "But regardless of what I feel, nothing I've read has provided sufficient proof that love is a stronger force than magic itself, nor that it plays any significant role in enhancing the power of magic."
Dumbledore held up a hand. "You are wrong on several counts, Tom, the first of which is the assumption that I have categorized love as a completely separate entity from magic. To explain the second, I would like to tell you a story-"
"But-"
"-and you will not interrupt me while I tell it."
"Yes, Professor." He resigned himself to having no control over the conversation. As long as it didn't deviate into awkward territory again, maybe he could get through it.
Dumbledore looked out the window, his eyes going misty once more. "When I was not much older than yourself, I met someone."
Tom wanted to die.
"He was brilliant, like me. Lonely, like me. And full of ambition, a trait we also unfortunately shared."
Where was this going?
"We had what we thought was an unbreakable bond. And our magic was more powerful because of it."
"But that makes no-"
"And when we had reached the end of that bond, succumbing, as it were, to an irreconcilable disagreement, the state of our magic suffered. We never spoke again, but I know neither of us would experience the level of power we'd had before." He stopped there.
After a moment of unbelievably awkward silence he added, "I have not yet been able to adequately replicate some of the magic we did together, even to this day."
Tom tried desperately to get the mental image of a young Albus Dumbledore in love out of his mind.
"That's not love. That's infatuation," he said.
"Maybe," Dumbledore conceded, "yet there is no denying that a stronger magic existed when we were together."
"And the only thing that story seems to prove," Tom added, "is that love makes people, if anything, weaker."
"But there is something to be said for the experience. As they say, it is better to have loved and lost..." he trailed off, half paying attention, half gazing out the window - lost, undoubtedly, in nostalgia.
They sat in silence for a while. Dumbledore sighed wistfully.
"Can we please talk about Transfiguration now?" Tom asked, unable to hide the pleading in his voice.