Disclaimer: I don't own any of J. K.'s characters, which you can probably figure out for yourself. Meh.
London, England, 1937
He hid the letter beneath his shirt, wanting to hold the crinkling parchment close to his skin where he could feel it, where it would be something more than a dream and an idea. Although it itched terribly after a moment, Tom did not mind in the least. It was all he could do not to grin like an idiot and dance around in circles. Of course, that was out of the question, as the Muggles in the orphanage would surely notice, and he'd probably fall from the roof besides. Instead, he slid down the shingles so quickly that he accidentally skinned his back and the backs of his legs. Cursing softly to himself, Tom wobbled nervously on the edge of the window, finally tumbling back into the room.
"What were you doing?" drawled a voice from the door.
"None of your business, Hawley," Tom said coldly.
"You know you're not supposed to leave the building without permission," the other orphan replied. Eustace Hawley was a little shorter than Tom, but much stockier. He had blond hair that was plastered to his head and his cheeks were red from repeated scrubbings. "Maybe I should tell Stoner where you were?" Tom considered him a lower life form, though the boy was not unintelligent. Maybe his vile disposition came from his unfortunate choice of name, but Tom knew from experience that Eustace Hawley was as miserable a boy as could be found in the Cheapside. Besides that, he told tales to Mr. Stoner, one of the directors.
"I'll thrash you if you do," Tom said, injecting just a touch of bravado into his words.
"You? Don't make me laugh, Riddle," Hawley laughed. "You know – I think I'll go tell Stoner right now." He turned to leave, and was almost out the door before Tom, suddenly reckless, jumped at him, knocking him to the ground and punching the other boy in the face.
There was a momentary scuffle as each strived for dominance, and Tom received a black eye for his trouble. Despite that minor setback, it gave him an immense feeling of satisfaction to see that Hawley's nose was bleeding profusely. It looked as though he was going to get the better of Hawley, for the first time in his life, until a scratchy voice shrieked at him. "Thomas Marvolo Riddle! Eustace Hawley! What are you doing? Stop that this instant, you disgusting boys!"
"It's Tom," he muttered sullenly as he was hauled to his feet.
Hawley's face was pale but blotched with blood from his nose and bruises already rising on his chubby face. "Mrs. Sawyer, he started it, it was all Riddle, I was just minding my own—"
"Liar!" Tom exclaimed, incensed.
"I don't care who started it!" Mrs. Sawyer, the matron, yelled; dealing each boy a hefty box to the ears. She was a large woman, who looked as though she had spent most of her adult life either hitting someone or drinking – her nose had the bright berry red so common to those fond of "Needle and Pin" – or, as a Cockney would tell you, gin. Her entire frame sagged, as though worn out by constantly bearing children, one of whom worked in the orphanage. "I would hope that after eight years you would have learned some civilization. I suppose that's all we can expect of you orphans! Filth!"
Tom glared wordlessly at her, with an expression so vehement in its intense dislike that Mrs. Sawyer actually stumbled in her harangue. For his pains, Tom received another slap to the face, a backhand from a ringed finger that split his lip. He licked the blood experimentally from his mouth, forcing himself not to gag at the metallic coppery taste that flooded his tongue. Thank god for the Hogwarts letter. Oh thank god.
"What are you looking so vague for, Riddle?" Mrs. Sawyer demanded, "But I suppose we can't expect you to use the few brains God felt fit to give you."
Thank god for the Hogwarts letter.
*
"You – you—" Israel stuttered.
"Apparated?" the wizard supplied pleasantly, still smiling benignly in the other man's general direction. At least there was one person in the room still acting relatively sane, even if he was the one who had suddenly appeared in the middle of the room and was supporting a fainting woman on one arm. "Do you mind helping me, please?" he said, a bit reprovingly, once he found that Israel Greenburn would, if left to his own devices, continue to gape at him in indefinite amazement.
"Yes—certainly—" Israel said, coming to life once more. He crossed quickly to the auburn-headed man and helped him deposit Leah into one of the comfortably overstuffed armchairs. She sat there for what seemed an eternity, dazed, blinking, and generally shell shocked. "Who are you?" he asked finally, though 'what are you' trembled on the tip of his tongue. Israel Greenburn was, if nothing else, very polite. And that was all that he said.
"I," said the stranger, "Am Albus Dumbledore. I teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts."
By now Leah had revived somewhat and they both stared wordlessly at him. The last sentence had made no sense whatsoever to their practical minds, but Leah stood and, very pale, said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dumbledore. Would you like a cup of tea?" It did not seem an unreasonable request, though her voice trembled on the verge of hysterics.
Albus Dumbledore smiled gently. "No, thank you. I wouldn't want to be a bother."
Be a bother? The man had practically sprouted from the living room floor, but he did not want to be a bother. Right. Israel could deal with that. "Should I call in Becca?" he asked uncertainly. It sounded tinny and artificial.
"That would be ideal, yes."
"Right. One moment...." Leah walked slowly to the door that led into the kitchen and turned the knob to open it. Apparently Becca had been listening to the entire time, for when the door swung backwards, she toppled forwards. Albus Dumbledore broke into delighted laughter.
"Ah, a student with initiative! Any one of our Houses would be please."
Becca watched the man carefully, fully conscious that he was the first person with magic that she had ever seen. He did not, at first glance, seem to be anyone unduly special, but on second – there was a hard light to his pale blue eyes that captivated both the soul and the imagination. If all wizards were like the Dumbledore-man, than Becca was quite pleased to be a part of that word. "Mr. Dumbledore? How do you do," she said, extending her hand calmly, while her parents surveyed her as though she'd grown an extra arm.
Did they honestly expect her to stare and stumble, as they were doing so adeptly? She hoped not, and did not plan to. It was depressing to watch them. Dumbledore, on the other hand, seemed pleased that she slipped so effortlessly into coolness. He shook her hand lightly, and gestured towards the chairs. "Perfectly fine, Miss Greenburn, and I hope this day finds you well."
She grinned suddenly and he, guessing the reason for her sudden good humor, smiled as well. "Fortuitous, indeed. Perhaps we might have a seat?" Obediently, her parents slumped into the chairs and continued to stare at Dumbledore. They seemed to half-expect him to rush forward, foaming at the mouth, and savagely maul them all to death. "That's better. Now.... Most undoubtedly, you have many questions about magic in general, and what your daughter is."
Leah nodded, and glanced at her daughter, worried. Becca's dark eyes focused desperately on Dumbledore, and she leaned forward slightly in her seat, listening with every shred of attention that she had. The look of pure determination on Becca's face was recognizable, and Leah sighed, for she recognized it as the child at her most mule-headed and stubborn. This, she feared, was not a good sign.
"Magic has always been present in the human race, from the very first. Some wizards like to say that magic is what separates us from the animals, though personally, I am not of that opinion. In any event, some people are born with the ability, and some are not. Your daughter is one of the former. Magic enables one to do many things that would seem miraculous to you, but are child's play to a wizard. This magic ability is mostly latent until around the age of eleven, though it does show in extreme moments of emotion – it would be a safe guess to hazard that strange things happen when Becca is upset?"
Although Leah dearly would have loved to shake her head in denial, Becca herself spoke up. "Yes. Once, when I got my dress dirty, Ima threatened to spank me— You, did, Ima, don't shake your head at me. And when Gideon wouldn't stop crying and I couldn't sleep, the lamps in the hallway exploded."
"You see?" Dumbledore said, still with that same gentle smile, "All the signs. To continue with my lecture.... There are many schools of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the world, but among them, Hogwarts stands out as a truly excellent house of education; we have extremely high standards. Questions, so far?"
They shook their heads mutely, and he continued. The clock ticked quietly in the background, as the Greenburn family was given its introduction into the world of magic.
*
Tom Marvolo Riddle had a problem.
Despite the fact that he was hungry and bleeding, he also had to find some way to get out of the orphanage and into Diagon Alley in order to buy his school supplies. Mr. Stoner was watching him hawkishly, as was Mrs. Sawyer. He could not even slip out the window and onto the roof, and Hawley was plotting revenge, Tom could tell. That, however, did not affect the fact that he needed desperately to get out of the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children and somehow find entrance into the magical world. He did not know how to get to Diagon Alley, or how to slip through the tenuous barrier between the Two Londons.
A Tale of Two Cities. He rather liked that pun-type thing.
Tom supposed that the teachers at Hogwarts couldn't bother to find out more information on their students, and so he'd be stuck in the Home instead of going to school – the unfairness of it all was enough to make Tom want to scream with rage, or maybe just beat that little shit Hawley into the ground. Suddenly, a tickling sensation on his leg caused him to sit up on his cot, startled. There was a small brown spider crawling over his foot, one of the compact furry ones. With a yelp of disgust, he brushed it away onto the ground and crushed it with his shoe.
It wriggled in pain gushing spider guts all over the floor in spurts, and he sighed, and decided to put it out of its misery. Tom stepped on it again, until the thing stopped moving. He had always hated spiders. They had too many legs.
There were no other boys in the room, they had all been allowed to go outside and enjoy the sun. Tom was being punished, however, for punching Hawley. He flipped over onto his stomach and stared at the floor, fully prepared to spend the afternoon looking aimlessly off into space. But then – the door opened, and a voice said, curiously, "Tom?" Surprised at the sudden appearance of a voice, and a friendly-sounding one at that, Tom looked up to see Mrs. Sawyer's son standing in the doorway.
"Mr. Sawyer?" he said, scrambling to his feet.
"No, you can sit down," Mr. Sawyer said. He was a short man, with the same stocky body as his mother, and scruffy looking sand-colored hair and dark brown eyes. However, his round face was tempered not by alcohol but by a vaguely kind expression of sympathy. He looked as though he was constantly feeling sorry for the world, a state that had not caused him to appeal to Tom at all. Tom had no patience for philanthropy, unless of course it was being applied to him. "I – look, have you gotten your letter from Hogwarts yet?"
Whatever he had expected Mr. Sawyer to say, that was /not/ it. "You're a – /you're/ a wizard?"
"That would seem to be the case," Mr. Sawyer said dryly.
"Is /Mrs. Sawyer/ a witch?"
"No."
"Thank god."
"That is my mother you're talking about, Riddle."
"Sorry, sir."
"Now, unless you have any objections, I believe you need to get to Diagon Alley?"
"Yes," said Tom, then muttered something under his breath.
"What was that?"
"I said, 'Some fairy godmother you make.'"
"Ah, the famous Riddle sarcasm is revealed. Well, try not to flay me too much on this trip, hmm? It's your only way out."
"Mr. Sawyer?"
"Yes?"
"Can you turn Hawley into a pumpkin?"
"Unfortunately, no. Come on, Riddle, let's get you some school books."
"Maybe he'd make a better rat."
"You know, I think I preferred you when you were being the Byronic moping type. Chatty-Tom is just too strange."
Tom, against his will, grinned suddenly. "Point taken. I'll come quietly."
Mr. Sawyer smiled placidly, as though he had expected this all along. "Good, that makes it easier for both of us. I had no desire to drag you kicking and screaming. Follow me."
*
He had so rarely been outside the orphanage that he gawked at the bustling city around him, rubbernecking the scenery around him. This caused Mr. Sawyer a great deal of amusement. "Put your eyes back into your skull, young Riddle." Although being called 'young Riddle' rankled him, Tom realized suddenly that he was going to have to be nice to authority figures at least some of the time. It was an insight that was not particularly appealing.
Since Mr. Sawyer's mother was a Muggle, he knew the correct way to act, and they did not attract any untoward attention. Tom was still trying to get over the fact that a man he had known for almost his entire life was a wizard, but the disbelief faded as Mr. Sawyer led him to a very grubby looking pub, called 'The Leaky Cauldron.' Tom, almost as tall as Mr. Sawyer, found that the doorway was rather low, but had no trouble passing below it.
Inside was a riot of activity, even this early in the morning. Tom examined his surroundings curiously as Mr. Sawyer struck up a conversation with a pretty, black-haired witch that he seemed to know very well. The bar was low ceilinged, though it led into a larger, brighter room through a door. Stairs headed upwards, and Tom supposed that the Leaky Cauldron was an inn as well as a tavern. There was a brightly polished mirror that stretched behind the bar, and glasses hung from pegs in the ceiling. Tables of different sizes and shapes were squashed into the little space that was available, with chairs ranging from three-legged stools to very elaborate leather covered armchairs. Behind the bar, an old man cleaned glasses, while a boy, approximately seven years old, ran errands.
"Hoy! Tom! Over here," grunted the bar tender, and Tom, blinked, glancing up. That was when he realized that the man was speaking to the busboy, who must also have been named Tom.
"Tom? Thanks for waiting," Mr. Sawyer said, sounding relieved that his charge had not run off or done something horrible.
"No problem at all," Tom said, "I wouldn't want you to miss time with your girlfriend."
"Althea? She's – she's not my girlfriend."
"Whatever you say, Mr. Sawyer. Can we get my supplies now, please?"
"Of course," he said, sounding a bit miffed. "But first, we have to go to Gringotts and get some money out of your vault."
"Money?" Tom said blankly, "I don't have any money."
"Not in the Muggle world, you don't. Your mother left you a tidy little fortune, however. She.... was from a very old wizarding family."
"Oh," said Tom, because he did not know what else to say. Although speaking of his mother still hurt, it no longer caused him to curl up in a ball and want to cry. He liked to have control over his own feelings. He didn't have control over anything else that happened to him, sadly enough.
"Right," said Mr. Sawyer, brusquely. He never knew quite what to make of Tom Riddle. The boy was just as his name described, a puzzle.
"Where are we going first?" Tom asked, trying not to sound too eager. "After Gringotts, I mean."
"Let's go to the bank first, and then we'll see. Don't worry, Tom, we'll see everything."
For the second time in a week, Tom Riddle felt like dancing.
*
The goblins exuded cunning, and Tom found himself feeling uncomfortable around them. It bothered him, that reaction, and expressed his annoyance by acting rather more curt and gruff than he'd meant to. To his shock, his vault was shoved almost full with gold, silver, and bronze – Mr. Sawyer had not been exaggerating when he said that Eva Riddle had left her son a "tidy fortune."
They visited some of the other shops, once Mr. Sawyer had counted out carefully the number of coins. Tom wanted to spend more time in the bookstore, but the orphanage employee shook his head. "You can visit again later, Tom, I can't spend all day here."
Tom, mutinous, glared at the sidewalk until they reached Madam Malkin's Robe shop. The witch in question was a frizzy-haired blonde, slightly plump, with a welcoming smile. She had several assistants bustling around the shop to help her. "Hello, dear," she said, as Mr. Sawyer deposited Tom inside, "You'll have to wait a few moments, I'm very sorry. It's so busy this time of year!" Despite his natural inclination towards disliking people, Tom found that he was warming to her, and smiled in return.
There were three other children waiting on the bench, while Madam Malkin and her assistants were measuring two more. There were two boys and a girl. One boy had brown-black hair and wide glasses that made his brown eyes seem even larger, and the other one was blond, pale, and languid looking. The girl was freckled, with black hair and a very interested expression touching deep chocolate eyes. "Hello!" she said immediately as he sat, "I'm Becca, what's your name?"
He hesitated, and sat down next to her, the only spot left on the bench. "Tom. Tom Riddle."
"What kind of a name is Riddle?" the blond boy asked scornfully.
"Whatever kind of name it is, it's a lot better than Malfoy. And on that same note, what parent would name their kid 'Janus.'"
"/My/ parents, Potter." The two boys clearly hated each other, though Tom thought that the pale boy probably hated everyone who didn't fit his idea of high society.
"They'll keep going on like that," whispered the girl Becca.
"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, it's your turn," said one of the assistants, sighing as she saw the looks the two boys shot at each other.
Tom shook his head sadly, glancing out the window.
"You're /so/ polite," the girl said sarcastically.
"What?" Tom asked, genuinely startled.
"I'm not going to put all the work into the conversation, you know."
Tom blinked at her, and suddenly wondered if all witches were crazy. He decided it would be wiser to say nothing, for now. He waited uncomfortably until they were called up to be measured for robes. Why would she worry about being polite? It didn't get anyone anywhere, being polite. "You're not very polite, either," he told the girl Becca as she held her arms out to the side, watching the tape measure as it slid along her limbs.
"What are you talking about?" Becca demanded, affronted.
"You're not. You're just as sarcastic as.... Oh. As Janus Malfoy?"
She stuck her tongue out at him. "How dare you compare me to him? He called me a Mudblood, whatever that's supposed to mean...."
"It's an unimaginative insult for Muggle-born wizards. You're Muggle?"
"I'm a /witch/," she corrected sternly, "But my parents aren't."
"Which makes you a Mudblood, in the eyes of people like Malfoy."
"That's not fair!" she said.
"'Life isn't fair,'" Tom quoted.
"I'll make him sorry he called me that," she muttered darkly, causing Tom to look at her in surprise. He wouldn't have expected a /girl/ to express such vindictive feelings, especially since they were basically what he was thinking about that git Hawley. She hopped from the chair once the assistant was finished with her. "I'll see you later, Tom."
"Yeah," he said, sounding dubious, "Maybe."
"Did you make any new friends?" Mr. Sawyer asked cheerfully, once Tom left the shop, waving over his shoulder to Madam Malkin.
There was no adequate response for this but a glare.
*
"Muggle-born?" the man said.
"Yes, Mr. Ollivander." Why did everyone ask that?
"Right or left handed?"
"Right handed."
"Try this." He thrust a wand at her. "Mahogany and unicorn hair, perhaps an odd combination, but maybe it'll do. Six inches."
Becca frowned at it. It was really a beautiful peace of art, but when she picked it up, it was just as quickly snatched from her hands. "Next," said Ollivander, sounding pleased, "Willow and dragon-heartstring, thirteen inches – no, that's too long for you, give it back." This continued on for what seemed like hours, to her. A pile of wands was growing steadily on the table, when the bell at the door tinkled softly, and the boy from the robes shop, Tom Riddle, entered. He sighed when he saw her, and she rolled her eyes.
"You'll have to wait, Mr. Riddle, I'm interviewing a client at the moment." A client? This cemented her original idea that Ollivander was a nutcase.
The boy Tom was gaping at Ollivander. "How – how did you know my name?"
"You look like your mother. Now hush, if you please."
He handed her another wand. "Birch and unicorn hair, ten and a quarter inches." She picked it up and smiled – this felt /right/. Warmth tingling through her hand, she flicked the wand, and gasped as tiny dragonflies burst from the end of it in a scintillating pattern. "Very good, very good," Ollivander said, with one of his faraway smiles. She paid for the wand, and left, glancing at the pale, black-haired boy sitting in the chair to wait his turn.
*
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Mr. Ollivander said, snapping out the words.
"Yes sir."
"You can try some of the wands that the Greenburn child couldn't use, or I can get you new boxes from the back."
Mr. Sawyer poked his head into the store, and smiled in relief. "Tom! You were supposed to wait."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sawyer. I know you wanted to talk to Althea," Tom said innocently.
Mr. Ollivander gave the both of them a shrewd look as Mr. Sawyer flushed. "Enough chatter, Mr. Riddle. You will try these wands, now."
'You will.' Not 'do you want to try the wands?' Tom decided that he didn't like Mr. Ollivander, the man was obviously quite bossy and full of himself. Shrugging, he began to reach for one of the discarded wands, something that looked like oak. "No, no!" Mr. Ollivander said, snatching the wand away before he could even reach it. Tom sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon....
*
Twenty-seven wands later, Tom was beginning to get exasperated. "Patience," said Mr. Ollivander, but all Mr. Sawyer did was snore lightly from his vantagepoint in the chair. "Hmm – try this!" he said, "Yew and phoenix feather, twelve and three quarter inches long."
Tom grabbed at it before the batty old coot could pull it away once more. He flicked his wrist, and there was a feeling of /power/ that there had not been in any of the other wands. From the front of the length of wood exploded the shimmering figure of a green skull, moving forward at such momentum that it actually surrounded Mr. Ollivander in a cloud of emerald smoke before the man coughed and waved it away with his own wand. Tom lowered his arm to find the wand-merchant staring at him oddly.
"I think we can expect things.... great things from you...."
And perhaps it was just Tom's imagination, but Ollivander looked worried.
London, England, 1937
He hid the letter beneath his shirt, wanting to hold the crinkling parchment close to his skin where he could feel it, where it would be something more than a dream and an idea. Although it itched terribly after a moment, Tom did not mind in the least. It was all he could do not to grin like an idiot and dance around in circles. Of course, that was out of the question, as the Muggles in the orphanage would surely notice, and he'd probably fall from the roof besides. Instead, he slid down the shingles so quickly that he accidentally skinned his back and the backs of his legs. Cursing softly to himself, Tom wobbled nervously on the edge of the window, finally tumbling back into the room.
"What were you doing?" drawled a voice from the door.
"None of your business, Hawley," Tom said coldly.
"You know you're not supposed to leave the building without permission," the other orphan replied. Eustace Hawley was a little shorter than Tom, but much stockier. He had blond hair that was plastered to his head and his cheeks were red from repeated scrubbings. "Maybe I should tell Stoner where you were?" Tom considered him a lower life form, though the boy was not unintelligent. Maybe his vile disposition came from his unfortunate choice of name, but Tom knew from experience that Eustace Hawley was as miserable a boy as could be found in the Cheapside. Besides that, he told tales to Mr. Stoner, one of the directors.
"I'll thrash you if you do," Tom said, injecting just a touch of bravado into his words.
"You? Don't make me laugh, Riddle," Hawley laughed. "You know – I think I'll go tell Stoner right now." He turned to leave, and was almost out the door before Tom, suddenly reckless, jumped at him, knocking him to the ground and punching the other boy in the face.
There was a momentary scuffle as each strived for dominance, and Tom received a black eye for his trouble. Despite that minor setback, it gave him an immense feeling of satisfaction to see that Hawley's nose was bleeding profusely. It looked as though he was going to get the better of Hawley, for the first time in his life, until a scratchy voice shrieked at him. "Thomas Marvolo Riddle! Eustace Hawley! What are you doing? Stop that this instant, you disgusting boys!"
"It's Tom," he muttered sullenly as he was hauled to his feet.
Hawley's face was pale but blotched with blood from his nose and bruises already rising on his chubby face. "Mrs. Sawyer, he started it, it was all Riddle, I was just minding my own—"
"Liar!" Tom exclaimed, incensed.
"I don't care who started it!" Mrs. Sawyer, the matron, yelled; dealing each boy a hefty box to the ears. She was a large woman, who looked as though she had spent most of her adult life either hitting someone or drinking – her nose had the bright berry red so common to those fond of "Needle and Pin" – or, as a Cockney would tell you, gin. Her entire frame sagged, as though worn out by constantly bearing children, one of whom worked in the orphanage. "I would hope that after eight years you would have learned some civilization. I suppose that's all we can expect of you orphans! Filth!"
Tom glared wordlessly at her, with an expression so vehement in its intense dislike that Mrs. Sawyer actually stumbled in her harangue. For his pains, Tom received another slap to the face, a backhand from a ringed finger that split his lip. He licked the blood experimentally from his mouth, forcing himself not to gag at the metallic coppery taste that flooded his tongue. Thank god for the Hogwarts letter. Oh thank god.
"What are you looking so vague for, Riddle?" Mrs. Sawyer demanded, "But I suppose we can't expect you to use the few brains God felt fit to give you."
Thank god for the Hogwarts letter.
*
"You – you—" Israel stuttered.
"Apparated?" the wizard supplied pleasantly, still smiling benignly in the other man's general direction. At least there was one person in the room still acting relatively sane, even if he was the one who had suddenly appeared in the middle of the room and was supporting a fainting woman on one arm. "Do you mind helping me, please?" he said, a bit reprovingly, once he found that Israel Greenburn would, if left to his own devices, continue to gape at him in indefinite amazement.
"Yes—certainly—" Israel said, coming to life once more. He crossed quickly to the auburn-headed man and helped him deposit Leah into one of the comfortably overstuffed armchairs. She sat there for what seemed an eternity, dazed, blinking, and generally shell shocked. "Who are you?" he asked finally, though 'what are you' trembled on the tip of his tongue. Israel Greenburn was, if nothing else, very polite. And that was all that he said.
"I," said the stranger, "Am Albus Dumbledore. I teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts."
By now Leah had revived somewhat and they both stared wordlessly at him. The last sentence had made no sense whatsoever to their practical minds, but Leah stood and, very pale, said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dumbledore. Would you like a cup of tea?" It did not seem an unreasonable request, though her voice trembled on the verge of hysterics.
Albus Dumbledore smiled gently. "No, thank you. I wouldn't want to be a bother."
Be a bother? The man had practically sprouted from the living room floor, but he did not want to be a bother. Right. Israel could deal with that. "Should I call in Becca?" he asked uncertainly. It sounded tinny and artificial.
"That would be ideal, yes."
"Right. One moment...." Leah walked slowly to the door that led into the kitchen and turned the knob to open it. Apparently Becca had been listening to the entire time, for when the door swung backwards, she toppled forwards. Albus Dumbledore broke into delighted laughter.
"Ah, a student with initiative! Any one of our Houses would be please."
Becca watched the man carefully, fully conscious that he was the first person with magic that she had ever seen. He did not, at first glance, seem to be anyone unduly special, but on second – there was a hard light to his pale blue eyes that captivated both the soul and the imagination. If all wizards were like the Dumbledore-man, than Becca was quite pleased to be a part of that word. "Mr. Dumbledore? How do you do," she said, extending her hand calmly, while her parents surveyed her as though she'd grown an extra arm.
Did they honestly expect her to stare and stumble, as they were doing so adeptly? She hoped not, and did not plan to. It was depressing to watch them. Dumbledore, on the other hand, seemed pleased that she slipped so effortlessly into coolness. He shook her hand lightly, and gestured towards the chairs. "Perfectly fine, Miss Greenburn, and I hope this day finds you well."
She grinned suddenly and he, guessing the reason for her sudden good humor, smiled as well. "Fortuitous, indeed. Perhaps we might have a seat?" Obediently, her parents slumped into the chairs and continued to stare at Dumbledore. They seemed to half-expect him to rush forward, foaming at the mouth, and savagely maul them all to death. "That's better. Now.... Most undoubtedly, you have many questions about magic in general, and what your daughter is."
Leah nodded, and glanced at her daughter, worried. Becca's dark eyes focused desperately on Dumbledore, and she leaned forward slightly in her seat, listening with every shred of attention that she had. The look of pure determination on Becca's face was recognizable, and Leah sighed, for she recognized it as the child at her most mule-headed and stubborn. This, she feared, was not a good sign.
"Magic has always been present in the human race, from the very first. Some wizards like to say that magic is what separates us from the animals, though personally, I am not of that opinion. In any event, some people are born with the ability, and some are not. Your daughter is one of the former. Magic enables one to do many things that would seem miraculous to you, but are child's play to a wizard. This magic ability is mostly latent until around the age of eleven, though it does show in extreme moments of emotion – it would be a safe guess to hazard that strange things happen when Becca is upset?"
Although Leah dearly would have loved to shake her head in denial, Becca herself spoke up. "Yes. Once, when I got my dress dirty, Ima threatened to spank me— You, did, Ima, don't shake your head at me. And when Gideon wouldn't stop crying and I couldn't sleep, the lamps in the hallway exploded."
"You see?" Dumbledore said, still with that same gentle smile, "All the signs. To continue with my lecture.... There are many schools of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the world, but among them, Hogwarts stands out as a truly excellent house of education; we have extremely high standards. Questions, so far?"
They shook their heads mutely, and he continued. The clock ticked quietly in the background, as the Greenburn family was given its introduction into the world of magic.
*
Tom Marvolo Riddle had a problem.
Despite the fact that he was hungry and bleeding, he also had to find some way to get out of the orphanage and into Diagon Alley in order to buy his school supplies. Mr. Stoner was watching him hawkishly, as was Mrs. Sawyer. He could not even slip out the window and onto the roof, and Hawley was plotting revenge, Tom could tell. That, however, did not affect the fact that he needed desperately to get out of the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children and somehow find entrance into the magical world. He did not know how to get to Diagon Alley, or how to slip through the tenuous barrier between the Two Londons.
A Tale of Two Cities. He rather liked that pun-type thing.
Tom supposed that the teachers at Hogwarts couldn't bother to find out more information on their students, and so he'd be stuck in the Home instead of going to school – the unfairness of it all was enough to make Tom want to scream with rage, or maybe just beat that little shit Hawley into the ground. Suddenly, a tickling sensation on his leg caused him to sit up on his cot, startled. There was a small brown spider crawling over his foot, one of the compact furry ones. With a yelp of disgust, he brushed it away onto the ground and crushed it with his shoe.
It wriggled in pain gushing spider guts all over the floor in spurts, and he sighed, and decided to put it out of its misery. Tom stepped on it again, until the thing stopped moving. He had always hated spiders. They had too many legs.
There were no other boys in the room, they had all been allowed to go outside and enjoy the sun. Tom was being punished, however, for punching Hawley. He flipped over onto his stomach and stared at the floor, fully prepared to spend the afternoon looking aimlessly off into space. But then – the door opened, and a voice said, curiously, "Tom?" Surprised at the sudden appearance of a voice, and a friendly-sounding one at that, Tom looked up to see Mrs. Sawyer's son standing in the doorway.
"Mr. Sawyer?" he said, scrambling to his feet.
"No, you can sit down," Mr. Sawyer said. He was a short man, with the same stocky body as his mother, and scruffy looking sand-colored hair and dark brown eyes. However, his round face was tempered not by alcohol but by a vaguely kind expression of sympathy. He looked as though he was constantly feeling sorry for the world, a state that had not caused him to appeal to Tom at all. Tom had no patience for philanthropy, unless of course it was being applied to him. "I – look, have you gotten your letter from Hogwarts yet?"
Whatever he had expected Mr. Sawyer to say, that was /not/ it. "You're a – /you're/ a wizard?"
"That would seem to be the case," Mr. Sawyer said dryly.
"Is /Mrs. Sawyer/ a witch?"
"No."
"Thank god."
"That is my mother you're talking about, Riddle."
"Sorry, sir."
"Now, unless you have any objections, I believe you need to get to Diagon Alley?"
"Yes," said Tom, then muttered something under his breath.
"What was that?"
"I said, 'Some fairy godmother you make.'"
"Ah, the famous Riddle sarcasm is revealed. Well, try not to flay me too much on this trip, hmm? It's your only way out."
"Mr. Sawyer?"
"Yes?"
"Can you turn Hawley into a pumpkin?"
"Unfortunately, no. Come on, Riddle, let's get you some school books."
"Maybe he'd make a better rat."
"You know, I think I preferred you when you were being the Byronic moping type. Chatty-Tom is just too strange."
Tom, against his will, grinned suddenly. "Point taken. I'll come quietly."
Mr. Sawyer smiled placidly, as though he had expected this all along. "Good, that makes it easier for both of us. I had no desire to drag you kicking and screaming. Follow me."
*
He had so rarely been outside the orphanage that he gawked at the bustling city around him, rubbernecking the scenery around him. This caused Mr. Sawyer a great deal of amusement. "Put your eyes back into your skull, young Riddle." Although being called 'young Riddle' rankled him, Tom realized suddenly that he was going to have to be nice to authority figures at least some of the time. It was an insight that was not particularly appealing.
Since Mr. Sawyer's mother was a Muggle, he knew the correct way to act, and they did not attract any untoward attention. Tom was still trying to get over the fact that a man he had known for almost his entire life was a wizard, but the disbelief faded as Mr. Sawyer led him to a very grubby looking pub, called 'The Leaky Cauldron.' Tom, almost as tall as Mr. Sawyer, found that the doorway was rather low, but had no trouble passing below it.
Inside was a riot of activity, even this early in the morning. Tom examined his surroundings curiously as Mr. Sawyer struck up a conversation with a pretty, black-haired witch that he seemed to know very well. The bar was low ceilinged, though it led into a larger, brighter room through a door. Stairs headed upwards, and Tom supposed that the Leaky Cauldron was an inn as well as a tavern. There was a brightly polished mirror that stretched behind the bar, and glasses hung from pegs in the ceiling. Tables of different sizes and shapes were squashed into the little space that was available, with chairs ranging from three-legged stools to very elaborate leather covered armchairs. Behind the bar, an old man cleaned glasses, while a boy, approximately seven years old, ran errands.
"Hoy! Tom! Over here," grunted the bar tender, and Tom, blinked, glancing up. That was when he realized that the man was speaking to the busboy, who must also have been named Tom.
"Tom? Thanks for waiting," Mr. Sawyer said, sounding relieved that his charge had not run off or done something horrible.
"No problem at all," Tom said, "I wouldn't want you to miss time with your girlfriend."
"Althea? She's – she's not my girlfriend."
"Whatever you say, Mr. Sawyer. Can we get my supplies now, please?"
"Of course," he said, sounding a bit miffed. "But first, we have to go to Gringotts and get some money out of your vault."
"Money?" Tom said blankly, "I don't have any money."
"Not in the Muggle world, you don't. Your mother left you a tidy little fortune, however. She.... was from a very old wizarding family."
"Oh," said Tom, because he did not know what else to say. Although speaking of his mother still hurt, it no longer caused him to curl up in a ball and want to cry. He liked to have control over his own feelings. He didn't have control over anything else that happened to him, sadly enough.
"Right," said Mr. Sawyer, brusquely. He never knew quite what to make of Tom Riddle. The boy was just as his name described, a puzzle.
"Where are we going first?" Tom asked, trying not to sound too eager. "After Gringotts, I mean."
"Let's go to the bank first, and then we'll see. Don't worry, Tom, we'll see everything."
For the second time in a week, Tom Riddle felt like dancing.
*
The goblins exuded cunning, and Tom found himself feeling uncomfortable around them. It bothered him, that reaction, and expressed his annoyance by acting rather more curt and gruff than he'd meant to. To his shock, his vault was shoved almost full with gold, silver, and bronze – Mr. Sawyer had not been exaggerating when he said that Eva Riddle had left her son a "tidy fortune."
They visited some of the other shops, once Mr. Sawyer had counted out carefully the number of coins. Tom wanted to spend more time in the bookstore, but the orphanage employee shook his head. "You can visit again later, Tom, I can't spend all day here."
Tom, mutinous, glared at the sidewalk until they reached Madam Malkin's Robe shop. The witch in question was a frizzy-haired blonde, slightly plump, with a welcoming smile. She had several assistants bustling around the shop to help her. "Hello, dear," she said, as Mr. Sawyer deposited Tom inside, "You'll have to wait a few moments, I'm very sorry. It's so busy this time of year!" Despite his natural inclination towards disliking people, Tom found that he was warming to her, and smiled in return.
There were three other children waiting on the bench, while Madam Malkin and her assistants were measuring two more. There were two boys and a girl. One boy had brown-black hair and wide glasses that made his brown eyes seem even larger, and the other one was blond, pale, and languid looking. The girl was freckled, with black hair and a very interested expression touching deep chocolate eyes. "Hello!" she said immediately as he sat, "I'm Becca, what's your name?"
He hesitated, and sat down next to her, the only spot left on the bench. "Tom. Tom Riddle."
"What kind of a name is Riddle?" the blond boy asked scornfully.
"Whatever kind of name it is, it's a lot better than Malfoy. And on that same note, what parent would name their kid 'Janus.'"
"/My/ parents, Potter." The two boys clearly hated each other, though Tom thought that the pale boy probably hated everyone who didn't fit his idea of high society.
"They'll keep going on like that," whispered the girl Becca.
"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, it's your turn," said one of the assistants, sighing as she saw the looks the two boys shot at each other.
Tom shook his head sadly, glancing out the window.
"You're /so/ polite," the girl said sarcastically.
"What?" Tom asked, genuinely startled.
"I'm not going to put all the work into the conversation, you know."
Tom blinked at her, and suddenly wondered if all witches were crazy. He decided it would be wiser to say nothing, for now. He waited uncomfortably until they were called up to be measured for robes. Why would she worry about being polite? It didn't get anyone anywhere, being polite. "You're not very polite, either," he told the girl Becca as she held her arms out to the side, watching the tape measure as it slid along her limbs.
"What are you talking about?" Becca demanded, affronted.
"You're not. You're just as sarcastic as.... Oh. As Janus Malfoy?"
She stuck her tongue out at him. "How dare you compare me to him? He called me a Mudblood, whatever that's supposed to mean...."
"It's an unimaginative insult for Muggle-born wizards. You're Muggle?"
"I'm a /witch/," she corrected sternly, "But my parents aren't."
"Which makes you a Mudblood, in the eyes of people like Malfoy."
"That's not fair!" she said.
"'Life isn't fair,'" Tom quoted.
"I'll make him sorry he called me that," she muttered darkly, causing Tom to look at her in surprise. He wouldn't have expected a /girl/ to express such vindictive feelings, especially since they were basically what he was thinking about that git Hawley. She hopped from the chair once the assistant was finished with her. "I'll see you later, Tom."
"Yeah," he said, sounding dubious, "Maybe."
"Did you make any new friends?" Mr. Sawyer asked cheerfully, once Tom left the shop, waving over his shoulder to Madam Malkin.
There was no adequate response for this but a glare.
*
"Muggle-born?" the man said.
"Yes, Mr. Ollivander." Why did everyone ask that?
"Right or left handed?"
"Right handed."
"Try this." He thrust a wand at her. "Mahogany and unicorn hair, perhaps an odd combination, but maybe it'll do. Six inches."
Becca frowned at it. It was really a beautiful peace of art, but when she picked it up, it was just as quickly snatched from her hands. "Next," said Ollivander, sounding pleased, "Willow and dragon-heartstring, thirteen inches – no, that's too long for you, give it back." This continued on for what seemed like hours, to her. A pile of wands was growing steadily on the table, when the bell at the door tinkled softly, and the boy from the robes shop, Tom Riddle, entered. He sighed when he saw her, and she rolled her eyes.
"You'll have to wait, Mr. Riddle, I'm interviewing a client at the moment." A client? This cemented her original idea that Ollivander was a nutcase.
The boy Tom was gaping at Ollivander. "How – how did you know my name?"
"You look like your mother. Now hush, if you please."
He handed her another wand. "Birch and unicorn hair, ten and a quarter inches." She picked it up and smiled – this felt /right/. Warmth tingling through her hand, she flicked the wand, and gasped as tiny dragonflies burst from the end of it in a scintillating pattern. "Very good, very good," Ollivander said, with one of his faraway smiles. She paid for the wand, and left, glancing at the pale, black-haired boy sitting in the chair to wait his turn.
*
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Mr. Ollivander said, snapping out the words.
"Yes sir."
"You can try some of the wands that the Greenburn child couldn't use, or I can get you new boxes from the back."
Mr. Sawyer poked his head into the store, and smiled in relief. "Tom! You were supposed to wait."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sawyer. I know you wanted to talk to Althea," Tom said innocently.
Mr. Ollivander gave the both of them a shrewd look as Mr. Sawyer flushed. "Enough chatter, Mr. Riddle. You will try these wands, now."
'You will.' Not 'do you want to try the wands?' Tom decided that he didn't like Mr. Ollivander, the man was obviously quite bossy and full of himself. Shrugging, he began to reach for one of the discarded wands, something that looked like oak. "No, no!" Mr. Ollivander said, snatching the wand away before he could even reach it. Tom sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon....
*
Twenty-seven wands later, Tom was beginning to get exasperated. "Patience," said Mr. Ollivander, but all Mr. Sawyer did was snore lightly from his vantagepoint in the chair. "Hmm – try this!" he said, "Yew and phoenix feather, twelve and three quarter inches long."
Tom grabbed at it before the batty old coot could pull it away once more. He flicked his wrist, and there was a feeling of /power/ that there had not been in any of the other wands. From the front of the length of wood exploded the shimmering figure of a green skull, moving forward at such momentum that it actually surrounded Mr. Ollivander in a cloud of emerald smoke before the man coughed and waved it away with his own wand. Tom lowered his arm to find the wand-merchant staring at him oddly.
"I think we can expect things.... great things from you...."
And perhaps it was just Tom's imagination, but Ollivander looked worried.
