A boy like no other, perhaps—yet a boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter. Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal loss.
Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with both boys' affections. Krum, who is openly smitten with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited her to visit him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays, and insists that he has "never felt this way about any other girl."
Albus scanned the article with an absent gaze. Its pettiness would have been absurd if it had not served to conceal a poisonous dart. The anti-Muggle sentiment, the sympathy for the Durmstrang champion, the manipulative mention of Harry's lonely childhood—Rita's hints were unambiguous. Casual malice could, after all, cause as much damage as hostility.
He pushed the copy of Witch Weekly back towards Minerva, whose anxious green eyes reiterated their enquiry: How did she find out the details?
On instinct, he turned to glance at Alastor Moody and understood no assistance would be coming. Seated a few chairs away, the Auror appeared more interested in Rolanda's company than in breakfast. It was as though he had at last reached the point in his life at which he intended to enjoy himself. He would not be spending his leisure time monitoring the school grounds for Rita Skeeter.
"I don't know," he confessed.
The article truly invited the question whether Dolores Umbridge had passed instructions to the ambitious correspondent.
Once again, frustration was settling in. It was a tragedy that a monopoly such as the Daily Prophet had become the principal source of public information. If wizards in Britain—and it did not matter how small their society was—could boast a fraction of the Muggle press diversity, the recent decades might have evolved in an entirely different direction.
Contemplating the magazine, the headmaster pondered the merits of Muggle media. How ironic yet fitting it would be if those proved to be more perceptive about the impending danger. Muggle journalists had stricter guidelines to follow; when it came to missing individuals, they reported the cases at once. And Voldemort had caused so many to vanish: like a dark pit, his power and hunger trapped lives.
He stood up, intent on addressing the young teacher who was about to leave the Great Hall.
"Charity?"
She smiled and halted until Albus fell into step beside her.
"How are you doing, dear? Looking forward to the weekend?"
"Oh, yes; we're going to stay in, take it easy," she admitted, her flaxen mane of hair swinging cheerfully around her waist. "We might go and see Andrew's family one of these days. He said he would introduce me to a new game as well. It's called Mortal Fight, if I remember correctly, and it's all the rage."
"Mortal Fight?" For a game, the title sounded intimidating. "I do hope young Messrs Creevey haven't discovered it yet." His smile faltered at his next words. "I was wondering if you might have any Muggle newspapers on hand—anything from the start of the school year. If so, would it be awfully inconvenient if I borrowed those issues for the weekend?"
"Not at all!" She tugged thoughtfully at the hem of her paisley-patterned tunic. "As a matter of fact, we should have plenty—Andrew uses the papers as box padding. If you give me until tomorrow, I'll fetch them."
With copious thanks, Albus left the witch at the entrance to her office and headed for his quarters.
Had he had the freedom to do as he pleased, he would have allowed himself another hour of slumber; only, there was too much to do. He hoped Gellert, whom he had seen the previous day, was resting. Their conversation from the week before, their shared memories—an evening precious beyond words—were what filled him with determination no matter the challenges he now faced. Those memories were what kept his fingers from twitching every time he seized the Elder Wand, the true price of which was no longer a mystery to him. If Gellert had found the strength to use it for years despite being aware of its sinister properties, so could Albus.
As for his very first wand, purchased at the Ollivanders' shop after he had turned eleven, it reposed in his mahogany chest under a neat pile of robes and personal belongings. A simple wand it was with a pretty twist at the handle and a phoenix feather inside. Phoenix feathers were often associated with resilient wizards whose lives promised to be a struggle.
He had loved his wand, which, in return, had never failed him. This had changed after he had accepted the Elder Wand's allegiance. Whether wands could become dormant—whether their sentience was such that they perceived abandonment as infidelity—was difficult to establish. All he knew was that it would never serve him again the way it used to. The creature inside Antioch Peverell's creation would remain his companion until the end.
The day trickled away like water. Planning the Third Task was such a complex endeavour, Albus did not doubt the preparations would not cease for a single day. He took an hour to complete the arrangements related to Newt Scamander's upcoming week of seminars, and when he could allow himself a pause, he practiced astral projection.
At dinner, there was more to hear on Rita Skeeter's article. Severus, it transpired, had read it aloud during double Potions to amuse Slytherins at Harry's expense.
"Potter has flaunted every school rule in the book, broken into my cabinet, and stolen some of my most valuable ingredients," the young man declared in response to Minerva's indignation. "And every year, the headmaster sees fit to reward these instances of theft and insolence with the highest points. I'm long past surprise at being branded the villain for maintaining discipline."
"Discipline?" Minerva clenched a napkin in her fist. "There is no evidence whatsoever Potter has been within spitting distance of your cabinet, Severus."
"And yet, where did he gain access to gillyweed?" Pomona's offense at seeing Cedric's victory disputed had not diminished.
It was Alastor who averted another argument. Both his natural and magical eyes were glinting mischievously.
"Interested in Potter's love life, eh, Snape? Couldn't wait until the end of class to catch up on the latest gossip, could you?"
Albus smiled wistfully at his goblet. Such squabbles felt surreal. What were they going to do when everything they feared came to pass and every day brought a fresh batch of devastating news?
The most important meeting of the day took place in the evening hours. To reach Hogwarts without being traced, Ludo Bagman had been given a Portkey that would respond to his magic alone; the headmaster had ensured it. It was difficult to assess how far Umbridge's influence reached these days; its very intangibility rendered it perilous.
When the flames in the fireplace glowed green, Albus stood up with a smile. Something about Ludo always put him at ease.
"Good evening, and happy Friday. How have you been?"
"Hunky-dory, old chap! And yourself?" the commentator shot back merrily, removing a thick scarf from his neck. "Anything planned for the weekend? I hope you don't mind the old chap—I just reckon we're past formalities."
"Old chap is not inaccurate." With a gesture, Albus invited him to settle down at the desk. "There is more work waiting for me, I'm afraid, but the foundation for the Third Task will be set before long. As soon as next week, we ought to be able to hold a meeting with Madame Maxime and Karkaroff. Please, make yourself comfortable. What would you like to drink?"
Ludo grinned. "Ah, saving it for the weekend—I'm going to Kalmar, see. Best ale promised—best knees-up too."
"Kalmar?" The name rang a bell, though not in the intended manner. While conjuring a tea tray, the headmaster tried to remember. "I don't believe I'm familiar with it. It doesn't hold a connection to Lord Byron, does it?"
"Nah, it's a small city in Sweden. But now that you've brought it up, I will need to hop through Gringotts on my way there."
He had inadvertently alluded to a topic Albus intended to discuss as the conversation progressed. The truth was, he and Justice had spoken a few days before, and his daughter's observations, formed during the Second Task, had enlightened him. Given the delicate nature of the subject, it was safest to conclude business first. He therefore sat down opposite his visitor and produced a stack of parchment.
"I'm pleased to say Mr Scamander will be staying here next week as a guest lecturer. If he consents to come to watch the Third Task, it might be interesting for him to talk to the Nubian wizards who will be escorting the sphinx."
This was met with an enthusiastic clap.
"The sphinx is coming—smashing! Blimey, you actually made it happen. Good to be a beloved teacher, eh?"
Albus chuckled. "It's a pity we cannot ask Newt to be one of the judges." He leaned in, his voice one shade quieter. "In fact, do you know whether young Percy will be attending after all?"
The other man shrugged. "I dunno. I feel like she's already started ostracising me, you know—excluding me from this and that. But I don't think so. It wouldn't be her if she didn't give that muppet of hers some ridiculous assignment, all to come here herself."
The idea sent a chill down Albus's spine. He let out a heavy sigh and took a sip of tea.
"I see. Either way, I will play strictly by the rules. Let me show you…" Spreading the sheets of parchment over the desk, he indicated his preliminary map of the maze. "I would suggest placing the Triwizard Cup in the middle. The obstacles, consisting of both beasts and enchantments, would be situated at crossings all around the goal. So far, we have secured two Boggarts, a blast-ended skrewt, an Acromantula, a colony of doxies, a leprechaun, a few Nifflers, a giant Runespoor, and the afore-mentioned sphinx. I will add the Charms myself—the Limbo Mist and more. It's a straightforward plan that shouldn't leave any loopholes for the champions to cheat."
Ludo's blue eyes poured musingly over the sketch.
"Sounds good," he said at last with a nod. "But are you sure about the Acromantula? Don't they… eat wizards?"
"So do dragons." The question had taken Albus aback. "Acromantulas are easier to defeat."
This did not convince the official, though he protested no further.
"Hmm, if we gain the approval… What about visibility: are we going with the Pensieve concept, like last time?"
"The mechanics will be different—we'll no longer have water to work with —but I will find a way of displaying the teachers' memories. Four or five volunteers could be recruited to patrol the maze. They will be properly trained and will sign the non-disclosure agreement, as per the Ministry's requirement." The headmaster glanced up. "Will Norway insist on the same level of secrecy as they did a few months ago?"
The carefree smile returned. "I'm working on that—might be calling in a favour." Ludo winked. "That's the real reason I'm going to Kalmar. Otherwise, London is fun on weekends."
It was not often that Albus felt impressed and ashamed all at once. There were many excuses, political and personal, he could defend their actions with; none was so essential as protecting Harry's life. And yet, what they were attempting to do called to mind a far less palatable word: corruption. With the approval of certain connections, the Englishman would be excused from swearing secrecy on the Task, thus gaining the freedom of keeping Sirius informed. It was unjust towards Miss Delacour, Mr Krum, and even Cedric. But it was more than a fair price for Harry's protection. The Greater Good, it seemed, always entailed a degree of injustice.
"Thank you, Ludo." He gathered his notes before handing them to the guest. "Please feel free to review these and add your corrections. Once ready, we can schedule an official meeting."
The time had now come to proceed to the second topic.
"As it stands, Hogwarts will pay for the entirety of the Third Task except for the transportation of the sphinx and the Aurors' assistance. You mentioned, I recall, that most of your budget had been spent on the divers' wages. In your opinion, will there be enough left to grant a bonus to those of my teachers who will volunteer for the Task? Madam Hooch, in particular, deserves recognition: she has been working hard on the tournament since the start of the year. If the Ministry can't help, it's no trouble: I will pay."
"Ah… yeah, yeah, there should be enough. I'll do the numbers." Ludo smiled again, his expression sanguine. "You know, I'd be chuffed if Harry won."
On this point, the headmaster remained neutral. "As for me, I merely want him safe. It's why I tried to get him disqualified."
"Come on!" The concern was dismissed with an energetic hand gesture. "We want Hogwarts to win! It's just mischief—you know I only told my lads to cover for him because of Karkaroff. And for the next Task, we can always leave out the Acromantula. Who likes spiders anyway?"
Albus's tone was soft. "Why Harry and not Cedric? Cedric is older, and he willingly put his name in the goblet."
"Err, I root for Cedric too, sure, but Harry… I like him. It goes to show: the youngest and the winner. Imagine Maxime and Karkaroff's faces if our youngest beats their champions. How stonking is that?"
After a short hesitation, the old wizard lowered the teacup he had picked. He drew a breath.
"We are on the same side. I'm happy that we work together, and I'll do everything in my power to render the Third Task successful. I hope we can be sincere with each other." He kept his voice calm, devoid of the slightest trace of judgment. "About the budget, I'm ready to believe the divers' salaries were significant, as was the cost of escorting young Miss Delacour to and from Hogwarts. But even these expenses combined couldn't have claimed most of the budget."
There it was. The direct question had become inevitable.
"Are you in trouble, Ludo?"
"What?" The blond man let out an airy chuckle. "No! What a question! Look, mate… your teachers will get bonuses, all right?"
He was on his feet, having gathered his coat and scarf in a wink.
"That was it, eh? When I meet my friend in Kalmar, I'll see what I can do. I'll keep you posted. Yes, as soon as there's news, I… I'll let you know."
It was impossible to hold him back. Albus watched the green flames subside, disappointment heavy in his chest. He had hoped for a different outcome. For now, the matter was out of his hands. If, at some point, Ludo felt ready to confide in him, a frank conversation would occur. Nothing of the sort could be coerced.
The following morning was as busy as any working day. Towards mid-afternoon, Charity knocked on his door to deliver a box full of newspapers—every edition she had located at her boyfriend's flat as well as his parents' cottage.
"You will find tons of The Sun prints in there, although Andrew's father refuses to read anything that isn't The Times." She hitched her bag on her shoulder and offered him an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry; I have to dash. Have a lovely weekend!"
Red tops peeked out of the box; one visible title read: Princess of Whales gets Moby Dick out! Albus conjured a pot of ginger tea before setting to work. There were many Muggle versions of Rita Skeeter to wade through before he could hope to find what he was looking for.
Death and disappearances: where to even begin cataloguing them? So many people had been reported missing or deceased over the previous three months alone that his spirits plummeted lower with every edition he perused. Mass murders were rarer; when they did occur, the tabloids were generous on details. As far as the broadsheets went, they surprised him with their lack of useful facts for his research.
He was tired of the endeavour, not to mention discouraged, by the time he had worked his way through half the box. Next in line was another tabloid: a February edition of The Sun. While a large portion of the front page had been dedicated to the picture of a celebrity, the small article on the left told a much darker story:
Old Man's Body Found in a Haunted House
Albus skimmed through the text, gasped, and nearly dropped his mug. Both of his hands closed around the paper. The words Little Hangleton and Riddle House drew his eye as though they had been rendered in red ink.
Shortly before the Second Task, the Muggle police had discovered the decomposing body of a gardener named Frank Bryce in the manor. It appeared to have been there since August. No one had thought to report the old man missing sooner: he had been solitary, and most villagers had not paid attention, had not cared. Stroke was declared to have been the likely cause of his death.
As the newspaper fluttered back to the desk, the wizard pressed his face against his hands. They did not muffle his whimper. There had been a death in the Riddle House in August… right at the time when the Quidditch World Cup had been taking place, and well after Bertha Jorkins's absence had been noticed. After the ritual in Albania yet before the invasion of Barty Crouch's home. It explained a great deal.
Within ten seconds, he had his travelling cloak on, and his wand lay secure in his pocket. He needed nothing else. What he was doing was impulsive, and for once, he did not care.
There were houses with an aura of their own. Having absorbed the magic practiced within, they responded to wizards, protecting—or, occasionally, harming—them. The Riddle House was far from such a dwelling. If compared to a being, it could have been called a carcass—the remains of an animal that had perished from a simmering sickness. With ivy spreading across its dark grey façade like an unyielding spiderweb, the manor evoked sympathy more than it did unease. If the villagers disagreed, it was due to the copious rumours on the house rather than any magic it possessed.
"Only oddballs will want to come here now," was a complaint Albus heard a pair of Muggle strollers utter after he Apparated to the edge of Little Hangleton.
It would be unfortunate if they were correct: despite its history, the village was charming. Once spring quite settled in, the trees planted along the High Street would bloom, as would the flowerpots in the neat square. Swallows would fly low over the gardens and graveyard every time a storm approached, adding their voices to the chirping of the other birds in the valley. Animals, unlike humans, knew there was nothing to fear from the desolate mansion on the hill.
His Disillusionment Charm in place, the wizard strode forward, his boots sinking into the unkept grass. Upon a sudden idea, he cast a spell, which produced no effect. This reassured him.
It was more than six o'clock; no one in the shadowy village saw the front door of the manor open and close of its own accord. Inside, the air felt damp, malodorous, and chillier than under the open sky.
Albus let his disguise dissolve. His senses were alert. While he did not expect to encounter a living person, he was positive he would find the traces of a presence, an imprint of magic. His feet carried him over a stone staircase, where a thick layer of dust had recently been disturbed by numerous pairs of shoes. The mullioned windows presiding over the hall allowed for bright moonlight and spared him the need of casting Lumos. He preferred to focus on sensation alone, for he could feel it—the slightest hint of Dark magic.
On the landing, all spellwork became unnecessary. The Muggle police had been careless in concluding their investigation and had forgotten to remove the crime scene tape, which now hung from the door to the reading room. They had not removed their cigarette stubs either. But even more telling than those signs was the smell of a body left to rot for months—a smell so overpowering, it called to mind the Stunning Spell. The victim's remains were gone, and still, it clung to the furniture on display: the armchair, the rotting hearth rug, the bookcases, and the delicate curtains that promised to disintegrate within a few years.
His eyes watering, Albus scrutinised the room with a reluctant Wand-Lighting Charm for assistance. There were not many clues left. Dark magic had been perpetrated on the premises; he believed it had come from the Killing Curse. Judging by the lack of impression on the armchair's surface, the intruder had not stayed long. Aside from this, one more detail drew his attention, though it must have failed to impress the policemen: the flakes of snake skin on the rug. Voldemort's pet snake, one could surmise, had enjoyed basking in the warmth of the fireplace. Its involvement was something Albus had suspected: this was why he had cast the lightless spell on the lawn to establish whether any snakes lingered in the vicinity. There had once been many due to the Gaunts' presence; now, they had fled before the giant serpent and had not dared to return.
With one last glance at the crime scene, Albus withdrew. He briefly peered into the open doors on the landing on his way out. A billiard room, a gentleman's study, a library, a succession of luxurious bedrooms, a boudoir—the entire mansion had been worthy of an earl before it had fallen into disrepair. While the Riddles had dined on game meat and ordered servants around, their only offspring had been growing up in an orphanage, penniless, unwanted, and alone. Albus knew Tom Riddle well enough to divine his emotions at discovering this opulence. The boy's outrage had been natural.
Once he stood outside of the front door, he inhaled, his eyes on the twinkling village below. He was afraid to do what ought to be done next. If Voldemort had returned, however briefly, to his father's birthplace, it was imperative that his mother's house be searched as well. Another clue could be waiting there, inadvertently left by the master or the servant. The only trouble was summoning the courage to disturb some of Albus's most precious memories.
He had no choice. He Apparated to the small dwelling. It looked even smaller than he recalled: the shack was positively sagging against the trees that kept it hidden from sunlight. Where a snake had once hung on the wooden door, only a nail protruded. If he closed his eyes, the wizard could pretend he was seventeen. It had been a summer day. He had advanced to knock on the door with Gellert at his heels and a nervous Dieter trailing behind them, the lure of the Resurrection Stone causing their hearts to beat faster…
With a creak that took five seconds to die down, the door slid open under his push. He stood still on the doorstep, his vision straining to adjust to the darkness. No one had set foot here in decades, not even an animal; that much was visible. Except… something was here. Dark magic hovered as thick as a wall in the dilapidated living room that had also served as a kitchen. It added to the stagnant air permeated with mildew.
His wand hand rose on instinct; Albus could not decide whether to feel comforted by or alarmed at the knowledge that he himself was clutching an unnaturally Dark object. Had the Resurrection Stone remained in the shack, this would have been the first time in centuries that those two Hallows were being reunited. But he doubted the menacing presence in the air came from the Stone. No, its flavour felt far too familiar.
What was it, and for how long had it been settled here? Such a residue of magic usually lingered in the wake of rituals. Tom Riddle must have entered this room at least once, only to perform complex magic.
Suddenly, Giacomo's words from early November rang in the headmaster's mind: As to what happened to the body, now there's a question. Personally, I'd tend to think it wasn't in one piece any more when they disposed of it.
This could be the place where Bertha Jorkins's remains had been buried. Not the shack itself, perhaps, but the hills, valleys, and hedgerows around it. To find out for certain, Albus would need help, to say nothing of a cautious plan.
He was ready to Disapparate when he sensed rather than saw movement, as though a shadow had ducked out of sight. Instantly, he spun around to shine a light into the room; his nerves were aflame. There was nothing, only a tiny window covered with grime.
Hogwarts gave a safer and more welcoming impression than ever that evening. After investigations such as these, it was difficult not to be seduced by the scents of food and the children's laughter. A great fallacy too, for the castle harboured more dangerous magic than anything the headmaster had encountered that evening.
Yet whatever it was he had encountered had affected him. He drifted off restlessly to the crackle of the fire, and, before he knew it, someone was standing in his room. Tom Riddle, sixteen years of age and dressed in a becoming if modest Muggle suit. He looked remarkably youthful, his eyes dark and forlorn on his pale face.
"Can I stay here, professor?" It was a timid, almost pleading question. "I wonder if we could talk. I've been so alone."
Albus jolted upright, awake as promptly as though a trumpet had blared in his ear. His nightclothes were drenched in sweat. He stared wildly around him, his chest heaving. It was a little over five in the morning.
To lie down again was out of the question. Instead, he struggled into a clean dressing robe and hurried into his office, leaving the Elder Wand on his nightstand. What he needed just now was the opposite of Darkness: his familiar's company. Sure enough, Fawkes was waiting for him, bright-eyed and wide awake.
Settling down into his chair, the wizard allowed himself a moment to simply breathe and think of nothing but the softness of the phoenix's feathers. He caressed the crimson neck and wings, soothed by the bird's melody.
At this point, several portraits had woken up to observe him, and it was a little self-consciously that he cleared his throat.
"Does… does any of you remember Tom Riddle?"
They exchanged blank looks, followed by equally nonplussed murmurs.
"You need to be a little more specific, I'm afraid." As usual, a note of condescending amusement could be perceived in Phineas Nigellus's tone. "You are not talking about the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Who can remember every student in the last two centuries?"
An answer worthy of a pure-blood supremacist.
"Never mind."
Indignation spiked, only to subside in the same breath. It was replaced by guilty unease. Albus could judge Phineas's portrait all he liked; only, his own faults were just as grave, and he had always known it. The fact that few other people did made no difference.
He had disliked Tom Riddle since their first meeting. It was not because of the boy's personal traits. In truth, there had hardly been anything exceptional about that eleven-year-old orphan. He had proven himself to be a bully at a tender age, yes; already then, he had exhibited predisposition for psychopathy and had taken to stealing other children's small possessions as trophies. One could forgive it all.
Where could Tom have possibly learned to love? Born parentless, he had soon found out his life was a struggle for survival. Early into his childhood, he had realised no adult in the world wanted him or cared about his wellbeing. All he had was himself. It was only natural that he had taught himself to use his gifts—intellectual curiosity, charming looks, magic—as weapons. After all, a secure manner of holding one's ground against the older, stronger, or angrier orphans was to become the strongest predator of all. So, by the time Tom's eleventh birthday had come, there had been no turning back: he had accepted the adults' rejection and embraced independent loneliness. But such knowledge never left children unscathed: in one form or another, it led them to harbour resentment against the world.
All those factors would have endeared the tiny wizard to Albus, had it not been for his final admission—an attempt at inspiring awe: I can speak to snakes. The teacher had guessed at once he was facing the descendant of the House of Gaunt, the only family in wizarding Britain gifted with Parseltongue. An unbidden thought had crossed his mind then.
Back in 1899, he and Gellert, assisted by a disapproving Dieter, had spent weeks researching the Deathly Hallows. A study of obscure texts had permitted them to establish a link between Cadmus Peverell and the Gaunts. Under the guise of foreign guests, they had taken a trip to Little Hangleton to visit one Marmaduke Gaunt and his son, Marvolo. No sooner had they been admitted to the shack than they had glimpsed it: a black stone sitting in Gaunt's roughly carved ring.
This was the instant when Albus had clearly seen what his curiosity had overshadowed: aside from the old texts, there were no useful facts to be found on the Deathly Hallows. Who could predict what those ancient, evil objects could do to the one who possessed them? Seized by fear for Gellert's safety, he had insisted that they abandon their endeavour. And, some days and much brooding later, his lover had agreed—not out of fear of danger, but out of fear of himself. To claim the Resurrection Stone, he would have had to kill the Gaunts. He had considered it.
At the sight of eleven-year-old Tom Riddle, Albus had thought: You were born from Gellert's mercy. But was it the right decision?
What a terrible notion; what an irrational idea to entertain. He had suppressed it on the spot. Still, it would resurface again and again, as if to convince him that everything was his fault. If he had let his lover take the Stone, the course of their lives could have turned out differently. Ariana might never have died, and they might never have been forced apart.
Tom Riddle had arrived at Hogwarts. Every school year would render him more successful, more handsome, more popular. He had lived at school the only way he had learned to live at the orphanage: as the strongest predator of all. For a boy of his background, establishing himself the leader of the spoiled Slytherin pure-bloods had been an impressive feat. And as far as his spellwork went, everyone had admired it for its precision, its ingenious combinations, its aggressive vigour. Meanwhile, Gellert's political dreams had been burning to ashes.
To Albus's shame, his irrational idea had started resurfacing constantly: My beloved spared your family, and now you prosper while he suffers.
He did not know why. At bottom, the accusation was unjust: Gellert had not robbed himself of good fortune by letting the Gaunts live. It was appalling that Albus could hold a grudge against a teenager who simply wished to be special.
It was known that children sensed acutely when they were loved or hated. Without a doubt, Tom Riddle had been aware of the dislike he elicited in his Transfiguration teacher. Had it puzzled him? Had it been the reason behind his determination to push the boundaries of magic?
You may not like me, Dumbledore, but even you must admit I am extraordinary. See what I can do? Look at me, I say—I am exceptional.
"Aren't you disgusted with me, Fawkes?"
The old wizard glanced absently at the tall, narrow windows around his office. It was nearly dawn. The sky was beginning to colour the shade of smoke.
If only it were not too late… he would have spoken to Voldemort—for something of Tom Riddle's still lived in the Dark Lord's maimed soul—and explained. It would have changed nothing, but maybe it would have offered them a feeling of closure. Once and for all, the orphan would have found out why the adult who had introduced him to the wizarding world had recoiled from him at first sight. It was too late, though, and some events were not meant to happen.
Despite his shame, Albus knew better than to blame himself for Tom's eventual fate. He had taught the boy to the best of his ability and had never treated him unkindly or impatiently. Had he tried to shower Tom with affection, he would not have unlocked love in an already hardened heart. Still… he was yet another adult who had failed to extend warmth to a parentless child. This had to be acknowledged. More significantly yet, it could never happen again.