I recommend rereading the second chapter, as I made some changes there so things would make more sense.
"What's it like?" Luciana Hawthorne had asked him during that time in dinner. "Being in that Muggle orphanage? It must be dreadful, not being around children like us."
It is when you've been there all your life, Tom had wanted to say as he moved the insides of his Shepard's Pie around his plate with his fork. "I survived," he said with a smile.
The children here in Slytherin House were unlike the other orphans at Wool's. Not only were they special like he was. However, they seemed to be taken by him rather than react in fear. Something that Tom did not quite expect, but something that could work.
Tom had every intention to scare Avery when he planned to speak to that garter snake he had found outside. It had frightened Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson into silence after they had seen him talking to that snake in a cave during that outing at the sea. So, Tom had every reason to expect that it would meet with the same results.
He did not expect for that impressed intake of breath the moment he had spoken to the snake in the middle of the lavishly furnished Slytherin common room. For Avery to look at him with awe instead of the expected fear. For one of the older Slytherins to sputter, "H-he's descended from Salazar Slytherin. Has to be."
Hermione had suggested the same thing when she had caught up with him the next day. That it would make sense for him to be descended from Salazar Slytherin with this ability. Deep down, Tom had found that possibility very tantalizing. The idea of being descended from one of the Hogwarts founders.
However, that he couldn't be sure about. There was a probably a handful of other people who he was descended from that had that ability. It was only known to be Salazar Slytherin's because he was well known.
Tom gazes at the Gryffindor table from across the hall. Watching as Hermione spoke with that mousy-haired girl and that sandy-haired girl he had seen around her these days. Hermione was at least smart enough to ask him what it was like in the orphanage, as she knew what that would entail. She even shared his love of books. If only the hat had placed her in Slytherin with him and not with the Gryffindors.
"The Gryffindors always engage danger headfirst," he had heard one of the Slytherins say a few days before. "If they were Muggles and Hitler declared war tomorrow, they'd jump at the chance to fight the Germans."
"Why worry about Hitler when people here are worried about Grindelwald?" asked another.
"Most of the students here outside of Slytherin have at least Muggle relatives," was the response. "So Hitler is just a concern as Grindelwald."
With what little Tom had seen, he wouldn't doubt it.
As if on sync, Hermione had left the Great Hall the same time as he did.
"There was this book I saw the other day that really piqued my attention," Hermione had enthused as they walked towards the library. "If it's still there, I can sign it out for a bit of light reading."
"I might read up a book about special abilities," he vocalized. "See if anyone else had the ability to snakes aside from Salazar Slytherin."
The library was open, and the sparse students that were present were the older ones. Studying feverishly as if they had some important assignment coming up. Hermione had strayed towards one part of the library while Tom had wandered down towards where he thought that a book containing a recent interest might be.
Not too far from his line of sight was the Restricted Section. He had heard Giles Rosier complain to Lestrange, Malfoy, Avery, Dolohov, and Mulciber about how they are prohibited from going there ("Why need to fret about the Restricted Section when I have similar books at the library at my estate?" Lestrange had said in response). What forbidden and tantalizing titles could be there? It must be more so forbidden than the books only reserved for the older orphans at Wool's.
Tom looks around to see if the librarian was around. Should he try his luck? Sneak into the Restricted Section with the librarian unawares.
No, he decides, remembering the wariness in Professor Dumbledore's eyes when he first met him that day. Tom didn't want to give the Transfiguration teacher any more ammunition against him when he just arrived here. Maybe later.
Instead, Tom goes over to his original destination. He brushed his fingers against interesting-sounding titles. Encyclopedia on Rare Abilities and Curiosities had caught his interest. He pulls out the green volume and opens the yellowed pages. Intently on going to the 'P's until he found it.
It wasn't a long entry. Perhaps a few paragraphs. Allegedly, the ability to speak to snakes went all the way back to Herpo the Foul from Ancient Greece. So, one of his parents had inherited that ability someday down the line.
Tom had still wanted to believe that he inherited his abilities from his father, but it seemed less and less likely. More and more likely that it was his late mother who was magical.
"Found anything you needed, dear?" asked Madam Wordsworth as she bustled by. Holding a bundle of books in her arms.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, managing what he thought was a polite smile. "I think I found everything."
Madam Wordsworth's smile widens and says, "Well, if you need anything…" before bustling away.
Madam Wordsworth seemed to think he was a nice boy. Mrs. Cole didn't think he was a nice boy, and he was confident that Professor Dumbledore hadn't thought of him as one after their first meeting.
I'll let them think that, he thinks.
While fear worked for the hapless orphans at Wool's, perhaps charm was the route here for the students and most of the other teachers.
"What did you find out?" Hermione had asked Tom later the next day.
"It goes all the way back to Ancient Greece," he answers simply. "Slytherin and one of my parents had come down that line somewhere. I might have to recheck newspapers if it's not my father…."
Tom seemed to accept that his magical inheritance could come from his father, though he didn't seem happy about it.
"Anyone can die, Tom," she pointed out.
"It's that she succumbed to death easily," he had said.
A few days later, on her twelfth birthday, Hermione was able to hear back from Tom on the matter of his search. Having found an article in the Great Hangleton Gazette.
"Look at this, Squire Elopes with Local Tramp," he said, reading off the headline of the aged newspaper. The article was dated 25th August 1925.
In a move that has dramatically rocked the community to its very core, Tom Riddle, son of Lord William Riddle, and his wife Mary, has reportedly run off with the daughter of a local tramp, Marvolo Gaunt. It's been reported that said family lived a short distance from the family. Lord Riddle, his wife, and Tom's fiancée Cecelia Bradshaw are too bewildered for any comment on the situation.
"My sister is friends with Tom and Cecelia's daughter, Louisa." Then she remembers herself. "Marvolo Gaunt," Hermione read off. "He has to be your grandfather. I mean, he has to be, if his daughter married a Tom Riddle."
"This is what I found too," Tom said grimly as he shared another copy of the same newspaper. This time flipping to an article dated 16th April 1926.
Married Squire Returns to Little Hangleton Without Wife.
Last year, Tom Riddle surprised the residents of Little Hangleton by eloping with the daughter of the tramp Marvolo Gaunt. Leaving behind his aghast and bewildered parents and fiancée. Imagine the surprise of this community when last month, Tom Riddle returned back home without his wife. When asked for an explanation, he simply put it, "The Gaunt tramp took me in with her lies and deceit. I need no reason to explain further." The Riddles and Ms. Bradshaw refuse to speak more of the incident, with Ms. Cecelia maintaining that Tom needed his space.
Tom's parents separated before he was even born. His father said that his son's mother lied and deceived him. Hermione had a feeling that there was probably more to what happened than they were being told. Gazing at Tom, disappointment wouldn't have been an accurate word to describe his expression.
The rest of his face didn't look it, but Hermione couldn't mistake the anger in his dark brown eyes.
"I'm sorry, Tom," she said quietly, not knowing what to say.
"It's not you that should be sorry," he said. "If anyone is sorry, it should be him."
Hermione thought it was best to not touch the subject, as it seemed to be a great source of pain for Tom. She'd be upset, too, if her father left her mother and didn't know that she existed.
She had thought about informing her parents. Certainly they might speak with the Riddles about this matter. However, at the end, Hermione had thought against it. After all, it seemed that there was more to this to what they knew. If Sir Riddle had wanted nothing to do with his late wife, perhaps he wasn't interested to see that a son had come out of that relationship.
However, Hermione didn't favor the thought of her friend returning to Wool's Orphanage when the summer holidays come. If he had to go anywhere else, Hermione would rather it be family.
There was the chance that Tom would be angry with her; there was no mistaking that with his ire towards his father, he might not want anything to do with him either. Even so, she'd hope that he'd come to understand her decision. With that thought in mind, she penned a letter to her parents. The paragraph being:
They have Muggle newspapers here. I was helping Tom find anything on his family, and it seems to be no mistake that he could be the son of Sir Thomas Riddle. Marvolo is his middle name, and it said that the name of the woman's father was Marvolo….
That very same day, around the time when Hermione and Tom had found out about his parentage, Sir Thomas Riddle and his wife Cecelia nee Bradshaw had taken the three-hour train ride from Hangelton to London.
It was obligatory, really. Thomas had been putting it off for a few weeks but had decided to do so anyway, for his parents – especially his mother – weren't making it any easier. "Certainly, you should find someone to inherit the title and estate when he reaches of age," mother would say. "One of these days, little Tommy might not live long enough to achieve the inheritance."
It was true that Tommy wasn't well. He had been a sickly child since birth. Tom could remember the first days of their son's life where he and Cecelia were worn down with worry to the point of sleepless nights. The doctors only gave him a week to live. Six years have passed, and though exuberant at times, Tommy wasn't often in the best of health. The colder months were the hardest for him.
Even if his parents would deny it, Tom had felt that his mother and father wanted them to replace Tommy. A thought that Tom had tried to push away. Even if he and Cecelia had managed to adopt, that child would never replace their second child.
"Perhaps we should try Wool's first," Cecelia suggested. "Edwina is their beneficiary. I even phoned her to arrange an appointment."
Wool's was located at Vauxhall Road. Not far from the main London city streets. As he and his wife exit the cab, Tom couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding seeding at the pit of his stomach as he glanced at the wrought-iron archway. Which he had tried to shake away. It could simply be its dingy structure giving off that foreboding aura.
It better not be filthy, he thinks to himself. Orphans weren't the cleanest of children.
Three knocks on the door later, a scruffy-looking girl wearing a dirty apron opens the door.
"Good afternoon," Cecelia greeted her. "May we speak with the matron? I believe my friend arranged an appointment with her for us."
"One moment," she answered before shouting over her shoulder. "Mrs. Cole!"
A distant voice shouted in response.
"Come in. She's on 'er way."
Tom tenses up as they pass the threshold. Even if shabby, it managed to be spotless. Despite that, he hoped they wouldn't have to stay here too long. As spotless as it was, it had managed to be dingy.
The matron couldn't be any older than them, though her harassed and anxious face made her a decade or so older. One would be, Tom assumed, to be heading an institution housing the waifs of the city.
"Good afternoon," greeted Cecelia, lifting her hand in greeting. "You must be Amelia Cole, the matron of this institution."
"And you two must be…." Mrs. Cole drifts off as she shakes his wife's hand. Drifting off as if trying to remember something. Certainly, Edwina Hampton nee Stoddard thought to tell them their names.
"Sir Thomas Riddle," he introduced, "and this is my wife, Cecelia. Certainly, Mrs. Hampton made mention of that."
"Ah, yes, she did." Mrs. Cole's eyebrows furrow incredulity, much to Tom's irritation. Though he tried not to show it. "Well-well then-you'd better come into my room. Yes."
The matron had led them to a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway, and the furniture was old and mismatched. Again, Tom had tried to hide his distaste at the furnishings as she invited them to sit at the two, rickety chairs in front of a cluttered desk.
If Cecelia had felt the same way, she seemed to be hiding it better than him. Of course, this wasn't that eyesore of a shack where those inbred tramps lived.
"Edwina tells me that you are interested in adopting a child." Mrs. Cole's back was turned towards them as she opened a filing cabinet.
"Well, yes," Cecelia answered. "We hope to acquaint with one before making a decision, at least."
"I understand," she says as she takes out a worn-out folder. "There is one child here that might interest you. I'd introduce you today, but unfortunately, he's at a select boarding school at the moment."
While Cecelia's eyes lit up in interest, it was as if his intestines became expired milk. Painfully curdling as he recalls the tearful, "Tom, please have mercy. For our child's sake," from over twelve years ago.
Tom didn't want to believe it, for the harpy had already deceived him with whatever she'd put in his drink. A drug that had smelled of a horse's stable, the hyacinths, lilies, roses, and violets that were in bloom around the manor in the summer, all the things that had smelled of home. What's to say that the tramp wasn't also lying about a child to keep him trapped in their lie of a relationship.
No, he still didn't want to believe it.
"School?" Cecelia had asked, raising her eyebrows. "I would have thought that these children receive some form of education."
"They do," Mrs. Cole answered, placing the file on her desk for them to see. The blood drains from his face as he reads the words Riddle, Tom M. on the tab. "Some eccentric gentlemen, a Professor Dumbledore, visited the school one day this summer. Said that he was enlisted in some special boarding school. It would be a lie to say that he didn't look back as he departed on the fourth of September."
A special school. So, they had schools for people…like them. To teach them to brew mind-altering potions or disfigure them with hives. It did not help that strange things were happening around Louisa as well. Bruises and scrapes healing up, golden-bronze curls growing back to the length it was before after receiving a haircut she did not want. Things his parents were oblivious to, but they never experienced the same things he had.
Cecelia seemed to have hesitated before picking up the folder, and as soon as she opened it, the blood drained from her face. "Oh, Tom," she murmured before passing him the folder. Paperclipped to the first page was a picture of an eleven-year-old boy who had resembled him when he was that age.
During the end of the week, Potions had ended when Professor Slughorn had held him back in class. Even if curious, Tom had still decided to remain at his desk. Promising Hermione that he'd catch up later.
"Now, Tom, Headmaster Dippet said that he'd like a word with you this afternoon," said Professor Slughorn. "Rest assured, you're not in any trouble."
Not in any trouble. Even if he wasn't in trouble, something had to have happened for the headmaster to want to see him. It wasn't like he had any family that cared for him, so that wasn't something to think about.
The worst other scenario was that Dumbledore told the headmaster what he had suspected was his true nature. Therefore it would contradict Professor Slughorn when he said he wasn't in trouble.
That Friday afternoon, Tom willed himself to travel to the headmaster's office on the second floor. Clenching his hands to his fists as he told the gargoyle, "Aqua Vitae," and it jumps to the side. Revealing a spiral staircase.
This world is becoming more fascinating by the day, he muses to himself as he climbs up the staircase. "Ah, you may come in, Mr. Riddle," beckoned the headmaster.
He knows when one is coming in, he then thought. I want to learn what that is so I can use it to keep certain people out of my room.
Tom took in the circular and cavernous room that was the headmaster's office. He was reminded of those illustrations of studies occupied by alchemists and scholars from the days of old. The moving portraits of what he assumed to be the previous headmasters and headmistresses whispering about in curiosity as the wizened wizard encouraged, "Have a seat, my boy."
"You wanted to see me, sir?" Tom had asked as he took a seat before Professor Dippet's desk. Managing to sound polite as possible.
"Yes, for an important matter," Professor Dippet had answered. "You currently reside at Wool's Orphanage, do you not?"
"Yes, I do, Professor," he had answered. Tom had fought not to raise his eyebrow in suspicion. Something must have come up for him to ask that question. "It's not as bad as it could be."
Maybe I can set the place on fire someday, he thinks to himself. Leave nothing but dust and ash, and I'll be free.
"I'd understand if you don't want to leave the orphanage," said Professor Dippet. "After all, it has been your home since you were born. Now, what if I tell you that you didn't have to return to the orphanage. That we were able to find your family?"