Chapter Nine: Condemned Discovery
The enigma was exhausting. Despite his want of answers, Tom soon found his return hadn't been a blessing at all. It only bothered him worse... without the refuge.
His life was one big bloody question mark.
Blessing or not, this wretched place was the only past he had. Either too discreet to ask, or too afraid of saying anything out of turn, Tom kept silent.
Mrs. Wentworth had come to hate Tom even more, if it were at all possible. She caught him playing with the younger children and scolded him for interfering with their social experience with other children their own age.
Her reasons were always a wide stretch, but with no less authority. Tom soon found his way to fight back.
"Can I have another roll, Missus Went-werf?" called a small girl for the third time, her childlike oblivion to ignorance only keeping her constant and persistent, as if nobody had heard her before.
The head only answered with silence.
Tom rolled his eyes. "Can Morgan have another roll?"
Mrs. Wentworth's head snapped up impulsively – almost instinctively – her lips pressed tightly in a firm line. "Children must learn to be grateful for what they are given, Mr. Riddle."
Tom clenched his fists around his fork and knife, which turned out to be painful after a few minutes. She seemed to have an infinite supply of this rubbish.
With well-hidden mirth behind a face as blank as stone, Tom found his weapon.
"I see you have three on your plate, ma'am."
Her hand quickly covered the one closest to her. "And I have the authority and provisions to enjoy that privilege."
"What kind of an example is that, ma'am – to show that those in power can indulge themselves when they have the means to, leaving their subjects to suffer?"
The table had grown silent, with an occasional scrape of a fork or spoon. Little Morgan's mouth was open in awe of Tom's acquired vocabulary – clearly, she hadn't caught any of it.
But Mrs. Wentworth had, and she wasn't nearly as impressed. On the contrary – she sighed in realizing this would grow increasingly more difficult as the child became more and more educated.
"If you're really that hungry, Mr. Riddle..." Mrs. Wentworth began in one sigh. She continued with a sense of bitter provoking irony, "...feel free to rise above your inferiors."
The table was silent – mortified.
"But it was... it was Morgan who – "
"And once you step on those below you, blame them for your faults."
Still silent – still mortified.
"I didn't!"
Little Morgan ended up running from the table hungry, crying, and confused.
It could have been considered a fight back, even when not successful. It'd been tough in those years, struggling with power. He hadn't wanted it for himself yet – he'd only wanted the satisfaction of bringing his superiors down to his level.
Later, he learned to manipulate that power. He learned how easy it could be – no struggle, no fight, no effort at all... only charm, trust, and betrayal.
Surely, he was too young to fathom or accomplish such a thing, but his effort was worth noting in his memory. He'd fought young.
With rebellion came curiosity.
Tom had grown this unavoidable habit lately of confiscating mail in hopes it would pay off. Despite his efforts, it never did. He hadn't exactly known what he'd been looking for... any sign, really. Some sign of discrepancy, anything out of the ordinary, anything that could possibly conquer his boredom.
It was now the extremity of summer, lurching slowly into a lazy autumn. The weather seemed to be deciding still between August and September.
Tom was sick and tired of it all.
Luckily, today would be the last day he had to endure – for now, at least.
The orphanage was quiet – being a Saturday, the majority of sleepers slept in. Tom found himself thumbing through the post, almost like a dreaded routine, replacing each letter in a sloppy-but-not-too-sloppy pile at the foot of the door.
First letter – nothing.
Next letter – nothing.
This was ridiculous.
Nothing.
If something were to happen, it would have happened by now.
Nothing.
What had he expected, anyway?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing, that's what.
Nothing addressed to him, nothing seemingly about him, nothing...
He reached the last letter with dreary resignation – the exclamation hanging that it was nothing – only to find his own name scrawled in perfect flourishing script, foreign to his hand, but bearing his name nonetheless.
A letter from himself? With trembling hands, he ripped the envelope open.
The letter began without preamble or any silly formalities.
I am fully aware of the circumstances. Who would know better about Tom than I?
The script grew swifter, harder, and Tom's interest was piqued.
I am also aware of the controversy concerning his condition and the troubles that are expected to arise from it. Being in no way related to the matter in general, I wash my hands of it.
I understand your concern in his welfare and the suspicion that I have disowned him, and in doing so, shirked my rights and duties as his father. However, conversely, you will find that I employ these rights quite effectively in choosing where my son is raised.
When he comes to the age where he is no longer your responsibility or mine, he may seek for me if he so wishes, but I do not encourage any expectations.
Concerning his aforementioned school and otherwise abnormal activities, I care not – and to be completely frank, I find it a hassle to have to justify my decisions with inquisitive authorities such as yourselves.
With Much Respect,
Thomas Riddle
Unaware of the waking noises around him, Tom sat, staring blankly at the paper. He read it again, hoping his ears would stop pounding. On the contrary – it grew worse, aside from the twisting pain that bubbled in the pit of his stomach.
He smoothed out the paper so many times, the ink began to blur slightly.
Footsteps sounded behind him, but inside the lost and suddenly chaotic chambers of his mind, all was quiet – enough that he could hear his heart beating steadily but fiercely, and the sound of his blood rushing into every part of his baffled self.
Like a jolt, he was deprived of his reverie when the letter was snatched from his offering hands. He finally brought his head up, crediting the distractive world with a glance.
His glance revealed the Head's gaze – sharp, piercing, and ever so accusing.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Riddle?" she hissed, giving the letter an evaluating scan.
His mouth formed words, but no sound came out.
Silence – then, "I see you've stumbled upon quite a find."
He swallowed, nodding his head. "My father," he answered, his voice cracking slightly, as if it were the first attempt at verbal communication in his life.
The noises of morning, with all their busy distractions, weren't consoling at all. Utter silence would have been worse, but at least in that case, Tom might have been able to sort these things out.
With whatever bravado this confused oblivion brought him, Tom brought his eyes to meet Mrs. Wentworth's. With a slight recoil of surprise, he noticed her eyes had softened while looking into his own – her demeanor still harshly accusing, but her face apologetic under the circumstances she'd found this boy under.
"Yes."
With all the enormity and trouble this new notion brought into Tom's mind, this was all she could possibly find in herself to say?
Her gentleness only infuriated Tom the more. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?"
"It wasn't my decision, or anyone else's. It was his own doing."
"Why wouldn't he – "
Her brusqueness returned. "It's no matter right now. I can't let this go unpaid."
"Sorry?"
"Your accursed sense of curiosity, Mr. Riddle," she cried – almost sang. She continued, giving Tom the distinct impression he'd be washing windows or cooking again.
He soon found he didn't have to interrupt her disciplinary musings, for someone else already had. "Excuse me, ma'am, but he couldn't possibly do any more work here – now."
Her wrinkled brow furrowed intensely as she raised an eyebrow in question, and Tom turned around to see Lily behind him.
She suddenly grew aware of her insubordination. "Well, see, Tom's leaving today."
The boy in question suddenly found himself incredibly grateful for having Lily around, even with her aggravating secrecy.
The rumble of the car wasn't comforting. Neither was the silence. Nothing was, in fact – especially this new revelation.
"How come no one told me?" Tom asked no one in particular – in a whining voice, he noted. He knew he'd already gotten the best answer he'd get, but he persisted with the question, anyway.
He hadn't expected an answer. "They thought it best you didn't know," came Lily's distant reply.
"You know what this is about?"
"Many do."
"The whole world, except me."
Lily laughed. "No, just the heads and, well, and me. I've been appointed as sort of a caretaker for you."
Tom was disgusted at the thought. "A caretaker?"
"Well." She smiled nervously. "Seeing as you're a wizard and all that..."
"How do you – what – hey!"
Lily laughed. "It's true, isn't it?" The required attention to the road denied Lily of Tom's reaction, though his reply said enough.
"Well, no... yes... "
"Then? Why the indignation?"
Awkward silence – then, "Do you know everything about me?"
Lily frowned. "If I do, then you must be one hell of a simple person."
Tom crossed his arms over his chest. He sat in silence for a time, sorting his thoughts, which only branched out into extended chaos. After a while, he caught a question in flight, deciding to focus on it. It was, after all, rather important in understanding things.
"Why?"
Lily replied immediately. "Why what?" She seemed to have been anticipating an inquiry.
"Why won't he take care of me?" he asked, unsure if the question struck him personally or not. He didn't know his father, and as far as things went, his father didn't know him either. Why should it offend him?
"I don't know."
It was a simple enough answer. For a while, Tom let it sit in lieu of the answer he would wait for, no matter how complicated.
"What do you know?" he then asked.
Lily glanced at him. "You want to know what I know?"
What kind of a question was that? "I asked, didn't I?"
She sighed, turning the car left in the process. "Your mother's dead. You bear your father's name."
A dry laugh escaped. "That's it?" he replied incredulously.
"Pretty much, yes."
"That much was already obvious. There must be more." There was always more.
"Sure there is. I don't know it."
Tom bit his lip, the silence only letting his thoughts stir again. "You don't know anything else?"
"They don't tell me anything, to be honest. And dropping eaves doesn't exactly bring answers. You're lucky I know this much."
"Then how does a muggle like you know about Hogwarts?"
Lily grinned. "Just lucky, I guess."
That wretched secrecy again.
"I won't be here next year," she said, turning the car right.
Tom wasn't sure if he was relieved or sorry. "Why?"
She grinned at him, appearing to be unsure of whether he meant it or not. "I've got a job, now. I'm moving out."
"Oh."
Tom kept reticent for the remainder of the trip, and even after leaving the car. He sat waiting patiently in the Leaky Cauldron for any sign of the Blacks. They'd agreed to help him with his money problem, as they had the previous year and the year before that.
Instead, he met three Blacks – Alphard, Artemus, and their mother.
She seemed gracious and kind-hearted, though stern. She greeted him in her own quietly polite, yet unnervingly critical way. Tom tried not to let her watchful eye discomfort him, answered her inquiries promptly, said nothing when she learned of his heritage, and thanked her profusely after the shopping had been done.
She said nothing in return, but only took the three of them to King's Cross, and, in Tom's presence, refrained from her routine criticism. Artemus and Alphard seemed grateful.
The train ride was long, but not necessarily uneventful – two of the new prefects dueled, someone's game of gobstones went dreadfully wrong, a monster of a boy tripped over his own feet which caused the train to rumble, and the head boy, Frank Bott, gave every compartment a test of his uncle's new candy, which proved to be unfortunate, for some.
Tom felt himself detaching from these little events, brooding over the idea that there was life – a family, even – beyond what he'd known. He'd gotten used to the idea of having no father, and as such, had grown rather attached to the sympathy that came with it from others who learned of his tragic story.
One could say that, in a way, the story had suddenly grown worse, more tragic in that he had a father after all who didn't want anything to do with his own son, but Tom found the story held less dependability now, and more pain.
There was even a moment in which he pitied himself.
Had Tom felt the ability to speak, and the will to unload his burden, he would have told the Blacks what was wrong with him when they asked him silently, bearing faces of worry and foreboding. He'd never realized how bitter his features had portrayed him as in those brief but constant moments of thought.
~~~~~~~~~~
The enigma was exhausting. Despite his want of answers, Tom soon found his return hadn't been a blessing at all. It only bothered him worse... without the refuge.
His life was one big bloody question mark.
Blessing or not, this wretched place was the only past he had. Either too discreet to ask, or too afraid of saying anything out of turn, Tom kept silent.
Mrs. Wentworth had come to hate Tom even more, if it were at all possible. She caught him playing with the younger children and scolded him for interfering with their social experience with other children their own age.
Her reasons were always a wide stretch, but with no less authority. Tom soon found his way to fight back.
"Can I have another roll, Missus Went-werf?" called a small girl for the third time, her childlike oblivion to ignorance only keeping her constant and persistent, as if nobody had heard her before.
The head only answered with silence.
Tom rolled his eyes. "Can Morgan have another roll?"
Mrs. Wentworth's head snapped up impulsively – almost instinctively – her lips pressed tightly in a firm line. "Children must learn to be grateful for what they are given, Mr. Riddle."
Tom clenched his fists around his fork and knife, which turned out to be painful after a few minutes. She seemed to have an infinite supply of this rubbish.
With well-hidden mirth behind a face as blank as stone, Tom found his weapon.
"I see you have three on your plate, ma'am."
Her hand quickly covered the one closest to her. "And I have the authority and provisions to enjoy that privilege."
"What kind of an example is that, ma'am – to show that those in power can indulge themselves when they have the means to, leaving their subjects to suffer?"
The table had grown silent, with an occasional scrape of a fork or spoon. Little Morgan's mouth was open in awe of Tom's acquired vocabulary – clearly, she hadn't caught any of it.
But Mrs. Wentworth had, and she wasn't nearly as impressed. On the contrary – she sighed in realizing this would grow increasingly more difficult as the child became more and more educated.
"If you're really that hungry, Mr. Riddle..." Mrs. Wentworth began in one sigh. She continued with a sense of bitter provoking irony, "...feel free to rise above your inferiors."
The table was silent – mortified.
"But it was... it was Morgan who – "
"And once you step on those below you, blame them for your faults."
Still silent – still mortified.
"I didn't!"
Little Morgan ended up running from the table hungry, crying, and confused.
It could have been considered a fight back, even when not successful. It'd been tough in those years, struggling with power. He hadn't wanted it for himself yet – he'd only wanted the satisfaction of bringing his superiors down to his level.
Later, he learned to manipulate that power. He learned how easy it could be – no struggle, no fight, no effort at all... only charm, trust, and betrayal.
Surely, he was too young to fathom or accomplish such a thing, but his effort was worth noting in his memory. He'd fought young.
With rebellion came curiosity.
Tom had grown this unavoidable habit lately of confiscating mail in hopes it would pay off. Despite his efforts, it never did. He hadn't exactly known what he'd been looking for... any sign, really. Some sign of discrepancy, anything out of the ordinary, anything that could possibly conquer his boredom.
It was now the extremity of summer, lurching slowly into a lazy autumn. The weather seemed to be deciding still between August and September.
Tom was sick and tired of it all.
Luckily, today would be the last day he had to endure – for now, at least.
The orphanage was quiet – being a Saturday, the majority of sleepers slept in. Tom found himself thumbing through the post, almost like a dreaded routine, replacing each letter in a sloppy-but-not-too-sloppy pile at the foot of the door.
First letter – nothing.
Next letter – nothing.
This was ridiculous.
Nothing.
If something were to happen, it would have happened by now.
Nothing.
What had he expected, anyway?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing, that's what.
Nothing addressed to him, nothing seemingly about him, nothing...
He reached the last letter with dreary resignation – the exclamation hanging that it was nothing – only to find his own name scrawled in perfect flourishing script, foreign to his hand, but bearing his name nonetheless.
A letter from himself? With trembling hands, he ripped the envelope open.
The letter began without preamble or any silly formalities.
I am fully aware of the circumstances. Who would know better about Tom than I?
The script grew swifter, harder, and Tom's interest was piqued.
I am also aware of the controversy concerning his condition and the troubles that are expected to arise from it. Being in no way related to the matter in general, I wash my hands of it.
I understand your concern in his welfare and the suspicion that I have disowned him, and in doing so, shirked my rights and duties as his father. However, conversely, you will find that I employ these rights quite effectively in choosing where my son is raised.
When he comes to the age where he is no longer your responsibility or mine, he may seek for me if he so wishes, but I do not encourage any expectations.
Concerning his aforementioned school and otherwise abnormal activities, I care not – and to be completely frank, I find it a hassle to have to justify my decisions with inquisitive authorities such as yourselves.
With Much Respect,
Thomas Riddle
Unaware of the waking noises around him, Tom sat, staring blankly at the paper. He read it again, hoping his ears would stop pounding. On the contrary – it grew worse, aside from the twisting pain that bubbled in the pit of his stomach.
He smoothed out the paper so many times, the ink began to blur slightly.
Footsteps sounded behind him, but inside the lost and suddenly chaotic chambers of his mind, all was quiet – enough that he could hear his heart beating steadily but fiercely, and the sound of his blood rushing into every part of his baffled self.
Like a jolt, he was deprived of his reverie when the letter was snatched from his offering hands. He finally brought his head up, crediting the distractive world with a glance.
His glance revealed the Head's gaze – sharp, piercing, and ever so accusing.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Riddle?" she hissed, giving the letter an evaluating scan.
His mouth formed words, but no sound came out.
Silence – then, "I see you've stumbled upon quite a find."
He swallowed, nodding his head. "My father," he answered, his voice cracking slightly, as if it were the first attempt at verbal communication in his life.
The noises of morning, with all their busy distractions, weren't consoling at all. Utter silence would have been worse, but at least in that case, Tom might have been able to sort these things out.
With whatever bravado this confused oblivion brought him, Tom brought his eyes to meet Mrs. Wentworth's. With a slight recoil of surprise, he noticed her eyes had softened while looking into his own – her demeanor still harshly accusing, but her face apologetic under the circumstances she'd found this boy under.
"Yes."
With all the enormity and trouble this new notion brought into Tom's mind, this was all she could possibly find in herself to say?
Her gentleness only infuriated Tom the more. "Why didn't anyone ever tell me?"
"It wasn't my decision, or anyone else's. It was his own doing."
"Why wouldn't he – "
Her brusqueness returned. "It's no matter right now. I can't let this go unpaid."
"Sorry?"
"Your accursed sense of curiosity, Mr. Riddle," she cried – almost sang. She continued, giving Tom the distinct impression he'd be washing windows or cooking again.
He soon found he didn't have to interrupt her disciplinary musings, for someone else already had. "Excuse me, ma'am, but he couldn't possibly do any more work here – now."
Her wrinkled brow furrowed intensely as she raised an eyebrow in question, and Tom turned around to see Lily behind him.
She suddenly grew aware of her insubordination. "Well, see, Tom's leaving today."
The boy in question suddenly found himself incredibly grateful for having Lily around, even with her aggravating secrecy.
The rumble of the car wasn't comforting. Neither was the silence. Nothing was, in fact – especially this new revelation.
"How come no one told me?" Tom asked no one in particular – in a whining voice, he noted. He knew he'd already gotten the best answer he'd get, but he persisted with the question, anyway.
He hadn't expected an answer. "They thought it best you didn't know," came Lily's distant reply.
"You know what this is about?"
"Many do."
"The whole world, except me."
Lily laughed. "No, just the heads and, well, and me. I've been appointed as sort of a caretaker for you."
Tom was disgusted at the thought. "A caretaker?"
"Well." She smiled nervously. "Seeing as you're a wizard and all that..."
"How do you – what – hey!"
Lily laughed. "It's true, isn't it?" The required attention to the road denied Lily of Tom's reaction, though his reply said enough.
"Well, no... yes... "
"Then? Why the indignation?"
Awkward silence – then, "Do you know everything about me?"
Lily frowned. "If I do, then you must be one hell of a simple person."
Tom crossed his arms over his chest. He sat in silence for a time, sorting his thoughts, which only branched out into extended chaos. After a while, he caught a question in flight, deciding to focus on it. It was, after all, rather important in understanding things.
"Why?"
Lily replied immediately. "Why what?" She seemed to have been anticipating an inquiry.
"Why won't he take care of me?" he asked, unsure if the question struck him personally or not. He didn't know his father, and as far as things went, his father didn't know him either. Why should it offend him?
"I don't know."
It was a simple enough answer. For a while, Tom let it sit in lieu of the answer he would wait for, no matter how complicated.
"What do you know?" he then asked.
Lily glanced at him. "You want to know what I know?"
What kind of a question was that? "I asked, didn't I?"
She sighed, turning the car left in the process. "Your mother's dead. You bear your father's name."
A dry laugh escaped. "That's it?" he replied incredulously.
"Pretty much, yes."
"That much was already obvious. There must be more." There was always more.
"Sure there is. I don't know it."
Tom bit his lip, the silence only letting his thoughts stir again. "You don't know anything else?"
"They don't tell me anything, to be honest. And dropping eaves doesn't exactly bring answers. You're lucky I know this much."
"Then how does a muggle like you know about Hogwarts?"
Lily grinned. "Just lucky, I guess."
That wretched secrecy again.
"I won't be here next year," she said, turning the car right.
Tom wasn't sure if he was relieved or sorry. "Why?"
She grinned at him, appearing to be unsure of whether he meant it or not. "I've got a job, now. I'm moving out."
"Oh."
Tom kept reticent for the remainder of the trip, and even after leaving the car. He sat waiting patiently in the Leaky Cauldron for any sign of the Blacks. They'd agreed to help him with his money problem, as they had the previous year and the year before that.
Instead, he met three Blacks – Alphard, Artemus, and their mother.
She seemed gracious and kind-hearted, though stern. She greeted him in her own quietly polite, yet unnervingly critical way. Tom tried not to let her watchful eye discomfort him, answered her inquiries promptly, said nothing when she learned of his heritage, and thanked her profusely after the shopping had been done.
She said nothing in return, but only took the three of them to King's Cross, and, in Tom's presence, refrained from her routine criticism. Artemus and Alphard seemed grateful.
The train ride was long, but not necessarily uneventful – two of the new prefects dueled, someone's game of gobstones went dreadfully wrong, a monster of a boy tripped over his own feet which caused the train to rumble, and the head boy, Frank Bott, gave every compartment a test of his uncle's new candy, which proved to be unfortunate, for some.
Tom felt himself detaching from these little events, brooding over the idea that there was life – a family, even – beyond what he'd known. He'd gotten used to the idea of having no father, and as such, had grown rather attached to the sympathy that came with it from others who learned of his tragic story.
One could say that, in a way, the story had suddenly grown worse, more tragic in that he had a father after all who didn't want anything to do with his own son, but Tom found the story held less dependability now, and more pain.
There was even a moment in which he pitied himself.
Had Tom felt the ability to speak, and the will to unload his burden, he would have told the Blacks what was wrong with him when they asked him silently, bearing faces of worry and foreboding. He'd never realized how bitter his features had portrayed him as in those brief but constant moments of thought.
~~~~~~~~~~