Hollowed Be Thy Name
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Summary: A young Professor Dumbledore ponders the injustices of life... (Short One-Shot)
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, things, or places you may recognize. Everything of that ilk belongs to J. K. Rowling and co.
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On an early morning in a valley between two rolling Scottish hills, two boys paused from their early morning chores to watch a most peculiar sight. A man, who could not have been a day under ninety, dressed in what appeared to be a deep blue overcoat and pointed hat, was walking down the lane with steady and sure steps. In one hand, he carried a medium sized carpetbag and in the other hand, a somewhat useless looking broomstick.
Despite his comical outfit, his air of regality was enough to prevent even the bravest of souls from daring more than a polite nod in his direction.
That is why, as he walked down that lane, the two boys could not find the courage to tell him it simply, albeit after a considerable distance, led to a dead-end in the form of a decrepit castle. But had one of the boys called out, there was still a very good chance that he would not have altogether heard.
The man seemed to be humming the tune to some forgot song and would occasionally reach into his pocket, pull something out, and pop it into his mouth. He was well out of the sight of the boys before he placed the carpetbag on the fresh grass and pulled out a long magical wand. Pointing the wand at the carpetbag, he muttered something under his breath. In an instant, the bag shrank to the size of a pinecone. The man bent down, picked up the small carpetbag, and placed it in one of his pockets. He took a glance around him before placing himself on the broomstick and speeding away with a grin on his face.
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"That about concludes the tour, not that you really needed it. Not much has changed since you were here as a student, Albus," Professor Dippit said, with a slight bow to the younger man.
Albus Dumbledore returned the gesture and said, "Thank you. I am sure you have important matters to attend to." He began to stand, but stopped when the other man began to speak again.
"Not particularly. Just a funeral."
Dumbledore sat again, his expression turning grave. "Oh?"
Dippit sighed. "Yes, another expected student. An orphan or something. Shouldn't take to long."
Dumbledore did not appreciate the other man's offhandedness.
"If you would prefer, sir, I would go for you." Dippit looked up. "Call it a favor from your newest professor."
"I would appreciate that, Albus, thank you."
Dumbledore inclined his head, and, after Dippit told him a safe point for Apparation, walked to Hogsmede and Apparated.
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The sign on the gate read Little Hanglington's Orphanage For Boys in faded letters. Dumbledore examined the old and failing building with thin drawn lips.
He walked around to the back to see a tiny cemetery. A reverend, an old woman, and a haggard looking man were gathered around a small rectangular hole with a tiny cement headstone at one of the short ends. Leaning against a fence some feet away were two sturdy young men. Dumbledore waited off in the distance as the reverend finished a prayer, did the sign of the cross, and indicated for two young men to fill in the hole.
Within a matter of fifteen minutes, the small crowd entered the orphanage again or left by way of a side road. Dumbledore then strolled up the grave.
"Thomas Marvolo Riddle," the headstone read. "1914-1919."
Five years old. Only five, Dumbledore thought with bitterness. The child had never had a chance to receive his Hogwarts acceptance letter. He had never had a chance to buy his first magical wand. He would never ride a broomstick.
Life was so unfair. That was only explanation. When a simple child, who had never harmed more than an ant, could die. When a child like that was never given a chance to blossom into a wonderful, intelligent, kind contributor to society. Would it have been so awful to let that child live? Would so much harm have come from it?
They were questions not worth asking. Dumbledore was already convinced there was only one answer.
Clearing the shadows from his expression, Dumbledore transfigured a blade of grass into a small, white flower and placed it in front of the headstone. Without a look back, Dumbledore left that place and never went back.
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A/N: I'm not overly fond of this story. I tried to come up with the scene of Tom's death, but it always came out sounding trite, so I left it out in the end. I need a second opinion on this piece, the first I've written in some time.
Review, please?