The Thing About Riddles
AN:
Oni: Not much to say except enjoy!
Tom: And that Oni does not own the Harry Potter franchise.
Oni: AAAAAND ONWARDS!
Ah, you have returned, I see! Are you here to see what our little protagonist is up to? Well, you shall! But first I'd like to discuss something with you. It may or may not pertain to the story, but I find myself wondering about such things. Yes, I have been pondering the nature of riddles.
So here's the thing about riddles. And I do mean the puzzle type conundrum and not the small child with magical powers. Riddles are curious things. Some people love them, some despise them. They have that annoying nature of being confusing (and at times, nonsensical), and they can be infuriating if they can't be solved after long periods of time. And yet, it is that very nature of being unsolvable that also is what makes riddles so attractive, because once they are solved there is this great feeling of accomplishment. After all mystery, the idea of the unknown just waiting to be found, plays a large part in every story. Without things like riddles and mystery, life would be rather ordinary.
Equally so, many people would say the same thing about Riddles. And yes, this time I mean the rather interesting young lad we saw in the last chapter. Now, being that this is fanfiction and therefore know very well what the future held for this fascinating child initially. Grow up an angry child, gather followers, become a Dark Lord only to be beaten by a one year old baby. Dreadful, isn't it?
But that's also the wonders of fanfiction. You can take a Riddle and answer a 'what if' question and see what happens if you tweak a few things. No matter how nonsensical or insane, the 'what if' stories tend to generally be rather enjoyable to write and read. Perhaps Tom Riddle regains all of his horcruxes and tries to make up for his past misdeeds. Wouldn't that be interesting? Or perchance he found love with Bellatrix Lestrange and somehow managed to sire a daughter that attempts to go back in time to meet her father. How wild of an idea is that? Maybe he even joins the army one time around, becoming a hero instead of a villain. But who would want to read a story like that?
I digress, however. I'm sure nothing of the above has anything to do with this little tale of Tom Marvolo Riddle, despite already being a little different from his initial outlook and childhood. So let us now return to see what's happening with our little orphan now, yes?
As the boy grew, so did his abilities. At the strapping age of ten, bordering on that sweet double-one, he was pretty decent at acrobatics (and had honed his other, stranger skills) and had started planning his escape from the prison that was Wool's so that he could start his new life at the circus. Tom had added 'Psychic' to his growing title of what he might be called and it was getting a little lengthy (currently he was up to Tom the Flying Snake Charming Animal Wrangling Telekinetic Psychic Ventriloquist Illusionist). He would have to come up with a better title or calling him up would be a nightmare.
However, as the days passed, Tom began to have some second thoughts. Wool's was all he ever knew. He was born here, raised here. Despite some of the things Mrs. Cole would call him in fits of frustration or behind his back, she did take care of him well. She wasn't a mother, but she was as close to one as he had ever gotten. Billy Stubbs and some of the other orphans could go hang, but the newer ones weren't so bad until they were turned against him.
He'd actually gotten to have a 'friend' for a week before the child denounced him as a freak. Said child's yo-yo now sat in a small cardboard box along with some other spoils of war (He would give them back...eventually. Once they stopped antagonizing him so much. Honestly the nerve of some people!).
But the fact still stayed that while physically and intellectually ready to run away, Tom Riddle wasn't quite sure how well the big, wide world would treat a skinny, unnatural eight year old orphan such as himself. In the end he stayed at Wool's, honing his odd abilities and exacting revenge on any fellow orphan that hurt him.
Speaking of his strange and unexplainable abilities, Tom had long ago given up trying to rationalize it. The world was already weird and unexplainable and insane. A large, unexplainable riddle. His life as an orphan in a country on the brink of war was difficult enough, trying to explain why he could talk to snakes, control small animals, move things with a dedicated thought, and read other people's minds got exhausting. Maybe he really was Devil Spawn for all he knew. Or maybe something completely different. Whatever he was, the question of why he could do some of the things he did only cropped up when he was confined alone to his room, which was getting more often these days.
That changed when the visitor came.
It had just been after his eleventh birthday, which meant that there was still snow blanketing the ground when Mrs. Cole brought the most peculiar visitor (which wasn't saying much, he didn't get many) up to his room.
In another universe, perhaps Tom had become jaded and outright cruel. His penchant for stealing and harassing others stemmed from anger instead of a misguided epiphany. That Tom Riddle had forgotten his mother's face and voice and had grown up alone and unloved and despised everything about her. But this Tom, while questionably sane, was not the same as that Tom.
"How do you do, Tom?" asked the man with the auburn hair and beard.
Wearing a ridiculously plum colored suit.
Tom stared up at the man with wide dark eyes, trying very hard not to gape. Those eyes then fell to the outstretched hand that stemmed from the man with the plum suit, which he hesitantly took. Was this man from the circus? He certainly looked like it. Did he know his mother? His grandfather? Was he here to take him away? Tom shifted from his place on the bed, allowing the man a seat on the softer mattress rathe than the hard stool. He was taught to be polite to guests, and this strangely dressed man was a guest to his small room.
"I am Professor Dumbledore."
The boy cocked his head to the side as he tried to think of what a 'Professor' was. His first answer was 'doctor' but doctors wore white coats and not plum suits, so that was out. In the end Tom voiced his second conclusion.
"Are you from the circus, Professor?" was his quiet question, causing Dumbledore to smile and chuckle.
"No, no." was the amused reply, but Tom pressed on.
"Mrs. Cole said my mother was in the circus, so was my grandfather. Are you really not from the circus?"
This time the amusement was tinged with something akin to sadness.
"I'm afraid not. I'm a professor at at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school - your new school, if you would like to come."
Tom deflated at his words.
"That's a school for kooks isn't it?" the boy asked in a defeated manner, "Mrs. Cole's gone and sent me off to a loony bin school. I don't want to go to an asylum! I'm not mad, I swear!" the last part was said almost desperately.
"I know that you are not mad." replied Dumbledore, "Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."
Well, that was most unexpected. Tom blinked owlishly up at Dumbledore.
"...Magic?" he asked, as if trying the word out.
"That's right Tom, magic." Dumbledore answered with a beaming smile.
"So that's why I can do the things I do..." the boy whispered more to himself than anyone else.
"What is it that you can do, Tom?"
There was a practiced manner in which Dumbledore asked those words, but Tom also heard genuine curiosity as well. A wide grin spread on his face. Turning to the wardrobe, he fixated on a thought and concentrated. The doors burst open and many of the items began to float around the room in a synchronized manner before placing themselves back into the wardrobe as if none of it ever happened. Tom swiveled his head head to regard Dumbledore as he raised his hands and said a 'Ta-da!' filled with childish glee. The Professor in the plum suit looked decidedly awed and impressed, though Tom didn't know how much of it was real and how much was just the man humoring the boy.
"I can make animals do what I want without training them!" Tom added, trying to gauge the Professor's reaction, "And read minds, I think. Oh! And talk to snakes. They're pretty decent when they're not complaining about everything. Is that magic too?"
This time Dumbledore's gaze became more piercing, and Tom wondered if he stepped over some invisible line. Maybe the man really was a loony bin doctor and had been testing him. The thought sent chills down Tom's back, but then Dumbledore smiled again.
"That's right. Those are all magical abilities. It marks you as a wizard." the man in the plum suit.
"Wizard..." Tom repeated with wide eyes.
It definitely beat being a circus performer with a ridiculously long title. If he was a wizard, he was going to be the best damn wizard anyone had ever seen. People always loved the best.
"Does that make you a wizard as well, Professor?" was the boy's next wide-eyed question.
"Yes, I am." was Dumbledore's amused reply.
"Could...could you show me? Please?" Tom asked, with eyes filled with hope that there was someone out there like him.
A freak like him.
Professor Dumbledore drew out a carved stick from the inside of his plum suit and pointed it at Tom's wardrobe and flicked the tip upwards. The wardrobe promptly burst into flames. A saner person probably would have gotten angry. After all, the entirety of his possessions were in that wardrobe. But Tom was already mildly unhinged, so the only thing he could do was cackle hysterically at the burning piece of furniture. All that from a flick of a stick! Then, as soon as the flames had appeared, they vanished, leaving behind an untouched wardrobe in its absence.
"Wicked!" Tom breathed as he went to inspect the battered old wardrobe, "Were the flames real or an illusion? I've never seen one so realistic!" his attention then turned to the stick in Dumbledore's hand, "Where do you get one of those?"
"All in good time," answered Dumbledore calmly, "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe."
And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. Tom's curiosity overrode any reservations as he opened the wardrobe door. It was his box of trophies, shaking like made as if a swarm of bees were trying to escape. Did Professor Dumbledore turn the contents into bees?
"Take it out." was Dumbledore's quiet order.
Tom complied, hands shaking as he relieved the box from its shelf and placed it on his bed. The notion of bees being inside the box prevented him from opening it.
"Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" asked the man in the plum colored suit.
He motioned for Tom to open the box. The muffled sound of small items hitting the bed soon followed as the boy followed the man's unspoken order.
"Err..." was Tom's eloquent reply as he tilted his head to regard the items which had now stopped shaking, "That depends on the point of view, sir. What if I wanted it more than the person I took it from?"
At this, Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.
"So you admit to stealing these things from the other children?"
"Only because they're mean to me." Tom answered sheepishly, "Hurting them didn't seem to stop them so I hoped this would work."
At this, Dumbledore blinked a few times as the wizard (wizard!) regarded Tom's words.
"Have you tried... being kind to them instead?"
"That only works until the others turn them against me." was the sour reply, "Then nothing I do can make them stop calling me bad names. So I just... follow their name calling. If they say freak, I'm a freak. If they want to call me devil spawn, then I'll be devil spawn. At least then I deserve it."
This time Dumbledore looked at him with an expression akin to pity, but with more understanding. Tom simply shrugged at him. A moment of silence stretched between them.
"I'm sure you will have a better time fitting in at Hogwarts, Tom." the man in the plum suit finally spoke, his voice soft.
"I'll take your word for it, Professor." was Tom's quiet reply.
Dumbledore then procured an envelope from within a plum-colored pocket, and handed it to Tom. It was a neat thing, but the paper didn't look quite right. It was browner, thicker. A crest stood out proudly at the center, the whole thing sealed with red wax. Wide dark eyes regarded the envelope as Tom turned it over in his hands a few times.
"This envelope contains your acceptance letter and the list of the items that must be acquired before the start of the school term." Dumbledore explained, a small smile on his face as he watched the expression of sheer wonder and curiosity that Tom had on him, his eyes scanning the contents of both letters.
This expression, however, quickly dropped at the mention of getting schoolthings.
"I haven't got any money, how am I supposed to buy any of this stuff?" Tom cried, in his dismay forgoing the polite and collected image that he had been trying to convey (with varied results).
Dumbledore's smile only got wider as he reached into the same plum pocket (its size couldn't carry anything more than a pocket watch, how had a letter fit in there?) and drew out a brown sack that jingled as it moved. Tom's brows furrowed. The sound of metal against metal told Tom that there was a sizable amount of coins in there, but surely not enough to cover his entire school list. Unless wizards had a separate money system, which would make sense, he supposed. The professor handed the sack to Tom, who nodded his head in thanks before carefully loosening the purse-strings.
"There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes." Dumbledore began, his eyes twinkling as he watched wide eyes take in the sight of Tom inspecting a large gold Galleon, "I will be taking you to Diagon Alley. It's the best place to get all your things for the school year."
At this, Tom's head tilted up to stare at the plum suited wizard, all focus on the coin forgotten.
"We'll be going now?" the orphan asked, excitement making his words quick as he bounced a little on the bed, "How do we get there? Is there a secret entrance like a rabbit hole or a mirror? How is it that nobody's ever found out about it? Something like magic is bound to make the news. Maybe-"
Dumbledore raised his palm toward the boy in a calming manner, immediately halting Tom's flurry of questions. His bright blue eyes twinkled in amusement. This was intelligent as well as excitable. A Ravenclaw if he ever saw one.
"Yes." came Dumbledore's reply, "We shall leave whenever you are ready."
"I'm ready now, sir!" came the childish answer from the wide eyed orphan.
"Then let us be on our way." came Dumbledore's cheerful answer.
After a bit of shuffling and getting things into order, a small hand found its way into a much larger one, and together the two wizards (wizards!) made their way out of the grey building that was Wool's. As they walked to their destination (and Tom commuting every turn to memory so that he could visit the place on his own if he wanted to), people would stare at the odd pair that the two made. Dumbledore's plum suit seemed to be just as distasteful in their eyes as Tom's own rags. The auburn haired wizard ignored this, instead strolling along as if he truly belonged there. In a way it was rather inspiring, and wide dark eyes drank in the confidence of the professor, how he was completely unfazed by the sneers and stares and whispers directed toward them.
Soon the duo found themselves at a place that Tom found quite familiar. Charing Cross. They passed the occult bookstore that, as always, seemed dark an empty. The sign that proclaimed the place as Borgin and Burke's was practically faded from the metal plate it hung on. However, as they reached Tom's self-proclaimed best place in the world, Dumbledore slowed down.
"Are you hungry, Tom?" the plum suited wizard asked kindly, "There's a rather nice bakery run by squib on this street. They make the most delicious pastries."
Nodding his answer (as he hadn't had breakfast yet when Dumbledore had visited), the young boy asked a question in return.
"Sir, what is a squib?"
"A squib, Tom, is someone from a magical family that was born without magic." Dumbledore explained genially, "We wizards are rather old folk that enjoy putting names to things we find important. A muggle, for example, is what we call the general non-magical population. A muggleborn, then, is the opposite of a squib. A magical child born to non-magical parents. If one parent is magical and the other is not, then they are half-bloods."
The small child looked rather thoughtful as they entered the very bakery that Tom frequented, the orphan's eyes widening as they did so.
"Hullo Albus!" came the cheerful voice of Mrs. Rosewood, "What brings you here- Tom?"
Needless to say the exchange had become slightly awkward at that point. Professor Dumbledore once again did most of the explaining, though he seemed to be rather tickled by the fact that Tom spent so much time so close to the magical world but never realizing it was there. Equally so, Mrs. Rosewood was quite surprised by the fact that the little boy that so often helped out in the back was actually magical.
After a few more minutes passed, both Dumbledore and Tom were munching on some lemon meringue pie as the older wizard continued where they had left off.
"So I'm a...muggleborn then?" asked Tom curiously, filing away the fact that lemon was slightly too sour for his tastes.
"It would be the most likely answer, yes." Dumbledore answered, obviously enjoying the treat, "Unless you know something about your birth parents that state otherwise, of course."
"My mum was a circus performer." the orphan began, shrugging, "She had eyes that went in opposite directions but she died a few hours after I was born, so that's all I remember about her. I never knew my dad, but apparently I was named after him. So somewhere in the world there's another Tom Riddle running around if he isn't six feet under already. I mean, he may or may not know I exist, so maybe the reason he never came to take me home is because he doesn't know, or he's dead. Why else would I be left in an orphanage?"
Dumbledore was silent. He had taught children long enough to know when they were covering a deep emotional wound by playing it off flippantly. He would have to keep an eye on this one. Tom Riddle seemed to be a true example of his name. An enigma, a puzzle that he had an odd desire to solve despite not having all the pieces yet. The boy was far to intelligent to have such potential go to waste because of such a sorrowful past. Perhaps when he gets friends and mentors some of these wounds will begin to heal. Hogwarts was a family to all who dwelled in her walls, and he was sure Tom would find solace there. But for now it was up to Albus to take the first step, to reach his hand out and say 'I am here, you are not alone'.
"I don't think Riddle sounds very... magical either." Tom had continued, though it was really to break his guide to the Wizarding world out of silence.
It seemed to do the trick, though, because Dumbledore smiled and dipped his head.
"I don't recall teaching a boy named Tom Riddle either, I'm afraid." was the man's admission.
"What about Merope? That was my mother's name, though I don't know her maiden name I think it's odd enough to be memorable." Tom asked hastily, but backtracked when he realized his outburst and added, "Sir."
This time Dumbledore tilted his head in consideration, but then shook his head.
"I'm afraid I don't recognize that name either." Dumbledore answered, "I'm sorry, Tom. But there's no shame in being muggleborn. No matter what anyone might tell you."
Well, that settled it. His father wasn't a wizard, and his mother probably wasn't either. That wasn't something that he could control. Dumbledore's words bothered him slightly, however. No matter what anyone told him? That sounded like he was gearing Tom up for being ostracized, like the magical folk put a kind of emphasis on being born into magical families. More specifically, they seemed to have something against those without magic. Names like 'squib' and 'Muggle' didn't sound very inspiring. In fact, they felt downright derogatory.
"Does that mean wizards won't like people like me?" Tom asked quietly, deciding to address the words unsaid, "Because I don't have any magical parents?"
They had left the warmth of the bakery, stomachs full of pie. The dark haired child had once again took a hold of the older man's hand lest he be lost in the full crowd. Still, it appeared that no one paid much attention, taking for face value that anyone wearing a plum suit seriously must be completely of their rocker anyway. Talk about wizards and magic was probably expected, and promptly disregarded.
"Some, I suppose." Dumbledore admitted, "But there are many who don't care much about where one comes from. Only for what one can become. And you, Tom, I see that in you there is a potential for you to become a brilliant wizard indeed."
The plum suited man put his hand on Tom's shoulder and squeezed it lightly. Looking up, warmed by the man's words, the orphan smiled. He wasn't just going to forget the offhand warning, however. Wording like that, said almost without thinking, meant that the notion was something ingrained in this hidden society. Those thoughts were pushed to the side when Dumbledore stopped at the corner of Charing Cross.
"Sir," Tom began, his voice laced in confusion, "That's a pub."
"Indeed, Tom." Dumbledore answered jovially, "The Leaky Cauldron can only be seen by wizards and witches. Anyone else would see an abandoned lot instead. This is how we can hide the entrance to Diagon Alley from prying eyes."
"But Sir," Tom interjected (he did not whine, he did not whine), "Mrs. Cole said pubs are only for grown-ups and that the adults inside would throw out any child that wandered inside!"
A chuckle came from the older wizard.
"And you would normally be correct." the plum suited Professor placated with his eyes twinkling, "But the Leaky Cauldron is not just an ordinary pub. It is also a gateway to our world, and the one of the only places in England to do one's magical shopping if you're going to Hogwarts. Also, I am here to chaperone, so it isn't as if you are making this journey alone."
At this Tom shrugged. The man had a point. Still, the pub didn't seem very inviting eve to those who could see it. But perhaps that was its fascinating nature. A rabbit hole and a mirror weren't what one would assume to be gateways to magical worlds, and yet Alice in Wonderland spoke of those very things. A pub wasn't that far out of his range of possibilities.
The bell above the door jingled as the duo entered the pub, and the orphan noted that the inside was just about as dingy as the outside. However, this was not what Tom was most focused on. No, the oddest thing about the pub was that all the patrons were dressed in robes similar to the ones Father Hale and his clergy wore, except they were far more colorful and varied in style. Even stranger were the pointed hats some of them had atop their heads, some of which were floppy and others that looked like those dunce caps that Ms. Fenwick made stupid children wear during class time out. The derision must have shone on his face, because Dumbledore chuckled.
"A bit odd for you, I'm sure." said the man in the plum suit (which had become far less strange when compared to what normal wizards and witches seemed to wear, bloody hell), "But Come Tom, off we trot. We have things to do before the day is done."
"Hullo Albus!" greeted the barman happily, making Tom wonder just how many magical-knowing people knew this man (or how small the magical community was if everyone knew everyone by name), "The usual?"
"Perhaps another time, Tom." Dumbledore began, another chuckle coming from the man as the young boy's head snapped to attention in confusion, "And I do mean the Tom that runs the bar here. Tom, meet Tom. He will be starting Hogwarts this September."
Right. He had almost forgotten how common his name was. The young orphan used to despise its mundanity before he realized it helped him blend in with the crowd. With an ordinary name, one could disappear amongst the ordinary people. Even amongst a world that had names like Albus, there also were names like Tom. Perhaps he would still fit in this world after all, and maybe this time he wouldn't have to blend in to survive.
Dumbledore led Tom (the protagonist and not the barman, because that would just be plain weird) into the back of the pub, where they were met with a dead end brick wall. There was a pile of trash that desperately cried out to be picked up, the metal container already full to the brim. The young boy wrinkled his nose at the sight and smell. While he assumed that this was another ploy to keep the magical world from being discovered, if the pub was already nonexistent in the eyes of those who had no magic, why hide the entrance with something so disgusting? Unless, of course, this was just an excuse to be lazy when it came to garbage disposal. In that case, wizards were starting to seem worse in Tom's mind than some of his fellow orphans, and that was saying something.
With a knowing twinkle in his eye, Dumbledore took out his wand and tapped the worn bricks of the wall in a particular pattern. Was this a magical version of a combination lock? How fascinating! This soon became the least of the fascinating things about the wall when the bricks began to move, individually and yet like a wave, apart to create an archway. Dark brown eyes widened in wonder as he took in the sight before him.
People in robes and pointed hats strolled cobblestone streets, which were lined by buildings that appeared to be straight from the Middle Ages. Some structures were warped and bent in an odd way that defied the very laws of physics. Owls flew to and fro in the sky, and if he squinted Tom swore he could see packages clutched in their talons. On the streets there were people haggling the oddest of items. Dragon livers, manticore hide, hippogriff talons.
Next to the gawking child, Albus Dumbledore smiled. Ah, muggleborns were such a joy to introduce into their world. So many wizards took their magic for granted, and it was quite grounding to see their world through a young muggleborn's eyes, to see the wonder and awe that shone on their little faces. It also had the bonus of making his job as teacher, the guide for these children in this new world, much more fulfilling.
"You might want to open your letter and get your supply list out now." the auburn haired professor offered, prompting the young boy out of his awed trance as he handed the child the envelope.
Written on the front in beautiful black ink were the words Mr. T Riddle, The Cupboard at the End of the Hall, Wool's Orphanage, Clerkenwell, London. Bloody hell, that was highly specific for a letter. Tom flipped the envelope over to see the wax seal of the school's emblem, breaking it to get to the contents inside, which happened to be two folded pieces of not-paper. The first pace was his acceptance letter, which read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ARMANDO DIPPET
Dear Mr. Riddle,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins 1 September.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
Deputy Headmaster
Quite straightforward, though now Tom knew that the most likely reason why everyone knew Dumbledore was because he was Deputy Head of the school. Filing that tidbit away for later, Tom shuffled the not-paper to see what was his list of school supplies. It read as follows:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
sets of plain work robes (black)
plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.
Needless to say Tom had a great many questions about the contents in the list, but he was sure that many of them would be answered as he completed his shopping. Instead he tilted his head up to Dumbledore's expecting smile and voiced the first of the many, many questions that he would ask on the trip.
"Sir, do we have to get the pointed hat? They just look plain silly."
Dumbledore regraded the young boy in amusement, though he also had seen the calculating expression on the child's face as he read through each letter carefully. Certainly a thirst to know things, yes, but there was also cunning in those dark eyes, a kind of piercing perception. Somehow the child had immediately picked up on the Wizarding world's outlook on muggles just by an offhand comment that he hasn't even realized he had said. There was more to what the boy was thinking that he didn't voice, despite his plethora of questions. They had been vague and rather offhand. Innocent even. And yet each answer that Dumbledore had given seemed to say more than what had been said.
Little Tom Riddle certainly lived up to his surname, oh yes he did. There was much more than what the naked eye could perceive about the child. What was it that ticked behind those dark eyes? Dumbledore felt inclined to find out.
Because that was the thing about riddles. They were meant to be solved.
AN:
Oni: That's all for now, folks!
Tom: If you are enjoying this odd tale, please Follow, Favorite, And Review. If there's something funny or crazy that'd you'd like to see happen, please let us know in a review.
Oni: And I'll see you next time, My Pretties!