Chapter 1: Met A Traveller From An Ancient Land

8th August 1936

Six is probably the best age to be. At six years old a child becomes interesting. At six years old a child can be well-behaved when they need to be. There's fewer embarrassing moments of soiling sheets; there's more youthful exuberance that can carefully charm adults. Being female is easier too. The blond-haired six-year-old girls, hair in pigtails brushing their shoulders, eyes wide and blue – they're the most desirable. Nobody wanted a ten-year-old boy with dark hair, a boy who was quiet and withdrawn. Nobody wanted a boy the other children shied away from. Nobody wanted a boy around whom unexplainable events sometimes happened. Nobody wanted Tom.

Tom Marvolo Riddle didn't mind this. Betty was an annoying six-year old - the Moore couple were welcome to her. Tom watched from a window as Betty skipped out of the front door, case swinging from her hand. She climbed into the backseat of the car and leant forward to chat to the middle-aged couple settling into the front seats. Mr Moore was balding, with the belly of a man who ate a little too much of his wife's cooking. Mrs Moore wore a floral dress with a pearl necklace and gold earrings. Tom suspected this was her best jewellery, worn entirely to impress the orphanage matrons. He curled his lip at the ridiculous trio as he watched the car splutter into life and drive off down the road.

"Not to worry, Tom, your turn will soon come." Mrs Cole, the plump head-matron stood at the end of the corridor, unflattering brown dress covered by a starched white apron. "There will always be another chance at finding a family for you!"

Tom didn't answer. There was always another couple due to visit, always a sense of mounting excitement, and then disappointment for all the children left behind. He had no interest in seeing it happen again.

"Come now Tom, hurry along now, it must be time for the dinner bell."

Mrs Cole turned and headed back towards the office she had come out of. Tom turned on his heel, intending to stop by his wardrobe first. His thumb ran over little Betty's mouth organ, hidden in his pocket. She can always ask her shiny new parents for a shiny new instrument, he thought savagely.

31st December 1936

Tom's eleventh birthday passed in the same way as the ten before it. He had hoped that he could take advantage of the New Year's Eve confusion and slip away to read by himself for an hour or two, but he was foiled by the watchful eye of Mrs Cole. His only present had been a kind smile from the matron who woke him up that morning. Everyone else was more interested in the evening's events.

Tom stalked to the window of the common room and stared out, watching the grey clouds ominously form over the darkening sky. He gazed absently over the playground, down to the wrought iron gates where the orphanage wall met the street. He could listen from here to the conversations happening around him, although the excited shrieks of the younger orphans bored him. He thought he saw a flash of purple on the street, but when he returned his focus to the window, it had gone.

Tom kept his face carefully blank as he watched Mrs Cole in his peripheral vision, her cane tapping on the floor as she approached Larry Parker. Larry was a particularly nasty fourteen-year-old, with a ratty face and a quick mind. Tom almost sneered at Larry's mistake: the boys surrounding him were too quiet, snickering behind their hands. Tom was entirely unsurprised to see Mrs Cole snatch a scrap of paper out of Larry's hand before the boy had time to think.

Mrs Cole's shrieks echoed down the hallway as Larry raced away from her. As the children crowded to the door to watch the two disappear, Tom walked over to the fallen paper. It had been ripped out of a biology textbook, and the man pictured had clearly been edited to appear improbably proportioned. Tom almost laughed at the name scrawled beneath it, though he knew the boy in question could claim no shred of truth from the image.

Not wanting to be caught near the scene of the crime, Tom slipped out of the door on the other side of the room, heading towards the chapel which he knew would be empty on this Thursday afternoon. He'd barely taken a few steps down the corridor when he was face-to-face with a tall stranger in a purple suit, an absurd beard tucked into his belt and a pair of half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

Tom backed away – this unusual gentleman did not carry himself with the nervous excitement of a prospective parent, but rather appeared sinister, purposeful, and care-laden. Tom muttered a quick excuse and fled the scene. He wasn't afraid of the stranger, but something about him seemed viscerally wrong, from the twinkle in his eye to the ridiculous shoes he wore, and Tom had no interest in assisting the old man.

About half an hour later Tom was summoned to Mrs Cole's office. He walked slowly, dragging his heels, and considered the myriad rules he had broken that week. He had been careful. He wasn't foolish like Larry Parker. He was sure nothing could be traced back to him – and if he had been missed when he snuck out on Monday night, surely they would have called him out on it on Tuesday morning? Steeling himself, he knocked swiftly on Mrs Cole's door, waited for the invitation to enter, and then walked in.

Tom's stride barely faltered as he registered the purple-clad gentleman sitting opposite Mrs Cole's desk. Well, my day just gets better and better, Tom thought to himself. Whilst he didn't often allow himself to jump to conclusions, Tom felt that the man's clothes spoke for themselves. I wonder if this twit is here to adopt me or take me to an asylum. He wasn't dressed like a doctor or psychiatrist, but the chances of anybody wanting to adopt him seemed slim.

"Ah Tom, come in and sit down," Mrs Cole invited. "This gentleman, Mr Albus Dumbledore, is going to explain to you why he's here." She tucked what looked like a bottle of gin into a drawer on her desk, which Tom noted with amusement. With a dip of her head towards Mr Dumbledore, she rose and made her way to the door. Pausing only for a second with a hand on Tom's shoulder, she commented "Best behaviour, Tom dear. Remember that you're representing this orphanage."

Tom almost snorted – as if he needed reminding to charm those in power. He turned his gaze to Mr Dumbledore and held in a sigh. Clearly this was a doctor that had come to evaluate him. Mrs Cole would not have left so soon if he was being considered for adoption.

"Mr Riddle, pleased to meet you," twinkled the old man. "My name is Professor Dumbledore, and I am Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts, a special school in Scotland. I would like to offer you a place."

Tom froze. This wasn't how he wanted to spend the rest of his days, locked up in some remote Scottish asylum. He considered the mistakes that had led to that point. The incident at the cave had been unfortunate, but it wasn't like either of the children had been permanently hurt by it. Billy Stubb's rabbit was probably his biggest mistake – sure, the rabbit reenforced the point he had been teaching Billy, but he should have waited longer after their argument so that suspicion would not fall on him. He had been careful since then to hide his true feelings towards others.

"Don't lie! You're the doctor aren't you? Mrs Cole sent for you to come and take me away!" Tom burst out, tact forgotten in the heat of the moment. "Well, I won't go! I'm staying in London and I shan't be locked up by some twit in a purple suit who probably belongs in an asylum himself!"

Tom panted hard as he lapsed into silence, chiding himself for the outburst.

"No Mr Riddle, I am not a doctor," Professor Dumbledore said slowly and pacifyingly, seeming to shake off the insults. "I am a Transfiguration teacher, and Hogwarts is a school for magic. I'm here because you are a wizard, just like me."

Well. Whatever Tom had been expecting, it wasn't that. This strange man was claiming to be a wizard. Tom was torn between an urge to laugh, and a deep curiosity to discover the depth of the fellow's delusions.

Perhaps reading a hint of disbelief on Tom's face, Professor Dumbledore continued. "Have you ever experienced anything unusual, something that you can't explain, when you were feeling particularly strong emotions? It might have happened when you felt hurt, or angry. This is called accidental magic, and at Hogwarts we will teach you to control your skills, and channel them into powerful spells."

Tom was practically alive in his seat. It all made sense now – the influence he could exert over animals and the other children, that time as a young child when he had been running away from a bully and found himself on the orphanage roof…. Suddenly the tear-stained faces of Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop swam through his mind. Even that time in the cave made sense now!

"I can make animals do what I want without touching them. I can control people without speaking. I can enter and leave rooms without being noticed. Is that normal?" Tom asked excitedly.

Professor Dumbledore seemed to be thinking on his answer. "It's certainly a power that you will learn to control – you will learn subjects such as Charms, Potions, Divination, and even Flying, which you will learn to do on magical brooms." This was rather a pat answer and Tom knew it, everyone was interested in flying. He noted that it didn't answer his question, and remembered advice he had heard that people would talk to fill silence, as long as the listener was patient.

Sighing slightly, Professor Dumbledore continued. "It is likely that at least one of your parents or grandparents was magical. Although muggle-borns do occasionally occur, often they have a magical ancestor they didn't know of. I believe this is called genetics in the muggle world."

"I always knew I was better than this! I always knew I was different!" Tom whispered. "My father must have been a powerful wizard."

He knew his father, his namesake, was magical. His mother had died at this very orphanage giving birth to him - if she had had any magic she would not have done that! She would have brewed a potion, or cast a magic spell, or performed a ritual, and she wouldn't have abandoned him. No, he knew that his mother had as much magic as Mrs Cole. He wondered if he could find any records of his father at Hogwarts. Slowly, the excitement of all this news started to sink in, and an outpouring of questions tumbled into the room.

"When do I begin? How will I get there? Will I need a magic wand? Will I be able to read minds and pull rabbits out of hats?"

Professor Dumbledore hesitated.

"Term starts on September the first, and the Hogwarts Express will take you there. You will find it on Platform Nine and Three Quarters of Kings Cross Station, where it will depart at 11 o'clock. That reminds me, here is your Hogwarts letter." At this point Professor Dumbledore drew a thick parchment envelope out of a pocket of his plum three-piece suit. "This includes all the equipment you will need before you go to Hogwarts – and yes, part of that will include a magic wand. May I recommend a shop called Ollivander's, he's an old friend and one of the best wand-makers around."

Professor Dumbledore continued to give instructions about accessing the train, the magical shopping area called Diagon Alley, and the fund set up for indigent students. He talked about the limits of magic – conjuring rabbits was very advanced, apparently, and legilimency (the art of reading minds) was not taught at Hogwarts.

As he was speaking, Tom sat and quietly absorbed everything this man said. He still didn't completely trust this Dumbledore, and had yet to see any proof that this was real, beyond a fancy wax seal and a letter written in green ink. His earlier excitement seemed to fade away into the pragmatic scepticism he had learned from a young age.

Perhaps sensing this, Professor Dumbledore suggested, "Perhaps you can take me up to your room, Tom? Whilst performing magic in muggle - pardon me, non-magical – establishments is ill-advised, I am allowed to show you a little as proof of my abilities."

Once Tom had led the way to his room, he felt very nervous. What was he going to see? Suddenly Professor Dumbledore twirled his wand and muttered something in what sounded like pig-Latin. Miss McIness, the Latin and Greek teacher who came in on Tuesdays, would have been disappointed. Tom was interrupted from this contemplation when his wardrobe suddenly bursting into flames. He staggered back from the surge of heat, as one of the draws started shaking as if something was violently trying to get out.

"I'd open that draw if I were you, Mr Riddle," Professor Dumbledore stated calmly.

Tom was in awe. The raw power that this old man was showing, to burn and move something the other side of the room! Tom rushed to the wardrobe and threw it open. A box at the bottom of the draw was rattling, throwing itself against a wall. Tom's heart sank, and he gingerly picked it up, turning around to face a stern-looking Dumbledore.

"Stealing will not be tolerated at Hogwarts," stated Dumbledore firmly. "Bad behaviour and bullying is not allowed, and rule-breaking will be met with consequences."

Tom nodded in acquiescence. Of course, with a new start he would have to hide his rule-breaking. If he could appear to be a perfect, helpless orphan, he could gain an easy following, whilst keeping his misdemeanours private. He wouldn't risk ever being thrown out of this one chance he had to prove that he was exceptional. Suddenly, a thought struck him.

"I can speak to snakes too. Is that normal, for people like me?"

A/N: I'm really not trying to Dumbledore-bash here. I wanted to portray Riddle's distrust of authority, and his hurt from being abandoned as a child. Personally, I do have issues with Dumbledore being manipulative, but that wasn't what I was trying to pick up on here. This is my first multi-chapter fic, so any reviews would be really helpful, I'm always looking for ways to improve and would love some constructive criticism. With obvious indebtedness to Rowling and Percy Bysshe Shelley.