Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Eight - The Secret Riddle

Katie was moved to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news that she had been cursed had spread all over the school. Naturally, the details were confused, and though many people understood that Harry, Blaise, and Millie had been somehow involved, most reports circulated that it was Harry who had been the intended target.

"Which is nonsense, of course," said Harry to Theo during their Care of Magical Creatures class on Monday afternoon. "Blaise was right. If Katie had been instructed to curse me, then she could have just handed it to me in the street."

"Maybe she didn't see you?" suggested Theo.

Harry shook his head. He had already made up his mind that Goyle's alibi was shaky. True, everyone he had asked confirmed that Goyle had been sentenced to detention with McGonagall that weekend, but that didn't mean he hadn't instructed someone else to do his dirty work. Harry put his Galleons on Crabbe, but Millie opined that Pansy Parkinson was the more likely conspirator. Whatever the case, they were no closer to finding proof, or knowing who the intended target really was.

That evening, Harry presented himself outside the headmaster's office at precisely eight o'clock. He wasn't sure if Dumbledore would return from wherever he had been in time for their lesson, but as he had heard nothing to the contrary and was anxious to discuss the fate of his classmate, he arrived on time, and was soon welcomed into the room.

Dumbledore appeared unusually tired. Harry noted that his hand appeared as black and burned as ever. He wondered how far the mark had spread underneath the sleeve of the headmaster's dark red robes.

"You have had a busy time while I have been away," Dumbledore remarked in a weary tone as he set the Pensieve on his desk. "I believe you witnessed Katie's accident?"

"If you can call it that," said Harry dryly. "How is she, sir?"

"Still very unwell, though I must say, she is very lucky. There was a tiny hole in one of her gloves. She appears to have brushed the necklace with only the smallest amount of skin. This, undoubtedly, is what saved her life. Had she held it in her hand, or placed it around her neck, she would have died."

"But will she be okay?" Harry pressed. "Is she… Is she cursed, or…"

His eyes slipped once more to Dumbledore's blackened hand. He must have noticed the trend of Harry's thoughts, for he gently replied, "No, Harry… The necklace was not another horcrux. Though the curse upon it was severe, I expect that Katie will make a full recovery."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, then watched as Dumbledore withdrew a small vial of silver memories from inside his robes. He uncorked it with a prod of his wand, then poured the contents into the Pensieve, where they swirled in a pearly-gray haze. Its iridescent hue reminded Harry unpleasantly of the opals set in the cursed necklace.

Before Dumbledore could turn his attention toward their lesson, Harry abruptly asked, "Sir, did you talk to Professor McGonagall? I mean, did she tell you what Leanne said? About how Katie got the necklace in the first place?"

"Professor McGonagall has appraised me of all the details, Harry. Why do you ask?"

He hesitated. He wanted to share his suspicions with Dumbledore, but he was painfully aware that he had no proof. Before he could accuse Crabbe and Goyle of conspiring something awful, he needed to know precisely what they had planned... Or at least, something better than spotting Goyle in a store where the cursed necklace might have been purchased.

Instead, he merely asked, "I was just wondering… Do we know who the necklace was meant for?"

Dumbledore eyed Harry carefully, then repeated, "Who it was meant for?"

"Well, Katie told Leanne she was supposed to deliver it to someone at Hogwarts, didn't she? What happened to her might have been an accident, but someone intended for that necklace to hurt someone else."

"Very true," Dumbledore assented. "What would you say, Harry, if I suggested that I myself may have been the intended victim?"

"You?" gasped Harry.

"Indeed. I have been the proverbial thorn in Lord Voldemort's side for too long, it would seem. I would not be astonished to find that some of his more intrepid followers had decided to court his favor by removing me from the equation. Though I must admit, for an attempt on my life, this one was quite poorly conceived. Too many factors that could go wrong, as we observed with Miss Bell…"

"But, sir…"

"As you can plainly see, my own demise is imminent, and inevitable," Dumbledore interrupted, holding up his cursed hand for emphasis, "It is therefore of little concern to me. No, what concerns me at the moment is our lesson."

He gripped the edges of the Pensieve, stirring the contents as he swirled the basin between his long-fingered hands.

"You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home. Merope was left alone, pregnant, and friendless in London."

Up out of the swirling Pensieve rose the figure of an old man, revolving slowly over the stone basin. He was as silver as a ghost, but much more solid, reminding Harry unpleasantly of the specters of past seers he had seen rise from the smashed orbs in the Department of Mysteries. He eyed the little man with suspicion, worried lest another dire prophecy were about to be revealed.

"Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances," wheezed the old man. He seemed to be speaking to thin air, or to someone just out of view, "It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas… Oh, many years ago now… She said she needed gold badly. Well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along… Going to have a baby, see? She said the locket had been Slytherin's. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time. 'Oh, this was Merlin's, this was! His favorite teapot!' But when I looked at it, it had his mark, all right. And a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!"

Dumbledore gave the Pensieve a vigorous shake, and the man descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he came.

"That," Dumbledore said, looking into Harry's disgusted face, "Was Caractacus Burke. By an odd coincidence, he helped found the very shop from whence came the necklace we were just discussing."

"So it did come from Borgin and Burkes!" Harry exclaimed. As far as his own suspicions went, he needed no further confirmation. The necklace that had cursed Katie Bell was the same one that Draco had seen that summer. Upon seeing the rather surprised look on Dumbledore's face, Harry quickly calmed himself, and added in a more subdued tone, "Sorry, sir. It's just… I've heard of that shop before. It's associated with, er… I mean, I think Sirius used to send Mundungus there to sell things he didn't want around the house."

"Ah, yes…" Dumbledore said, "I had nearly forgotten… Nymphadora tells me that Mundungus has been treating your inheritance with light-fingered contempt? Well, you may rest assured, Harry, that he will not be making away with any more of Sirius's old possessions."

Harry felt the familiar stab of pain somewhere below his ribs. He had nearly forgotten that he had inherited everything from Sirius. The reminder was too much for him to contemplate now, and he jerked his head toward the Pensieve.

"So Merope sold her family heirloom for gold?" he continued, hoping to direct the conversation back toward their lesson, "But couldn't she use magic to get what she needed?"

"Ah," said Dumbledore, graciously returning to the subject rather than dwell further on Harry's grief. "Perhaps… But it is my belief that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic entirely. Perhaps she did not wish to be a witch anymore, or perhaps her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand, even to save her own life."

Dumbledore gestured for Harry to stand. Harry joined him by the desk, staring down at the contents of the Pensieve.

"Where are we going?" asked Harry.

"This time, we are venturing into my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry…"

Harry bent over the Pensieve, and in a moment was falling through darkness. Seconds later, his feet hit solid ground. He opened his eyes and beheld a bustling street in what appeared to be London, but a far older, more antiquated London than Harry was used to.

"There I am," said Dumbledore, pointing with his hale hand toward a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart. The younger Dumblerdore still had his trademark long hair and beard, but these were auburn, rather than white. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyant cut of his plum velvet suit.

Harry remained silent as he and the older Dumbledore followed his younger self a short distance before passing through an iron gate into a bare courtyard. Before them stood a grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted a few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment, the door was opened by a scruffy-looking girl wearing an apron.

"Good afternoon, I have an appointment with a Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?"

"Oh," said the girl, taking in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance with a bewildered expression, "Um… Just a mo'... Mrs. Cole!"

Harry heard a distant voice shout something in response to the girl's summons. She turned back to Dumbledore and ushered him inside. They stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white. The inside of the building was as shabby as its exterior, but spotlessly clean. Before the front door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp face that reminded Harry a little of his Aunt Petunia, though she appeared more anxious than unkind. As she approached, she was talking to another assistant, dressed in an apron.

"... and take iodine upstairs to Martha. Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley's oozing all over his sheets - chicken pox on top of everything else!" she said to nobody in particular. Then her eyes fell on Dumbledore, and she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Good afternoon," Dumbledore said, holding out his hand.

Mrs. Cole simply stared.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today."

Mrs. Cole blinked, apparently breaking whatever trance she had been under, or else deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination.

"Oh yes…" she said feebly, "Well… Well, then… You'd better come into my room, yes?"

She led Dumbledore into a small chamber that seemed part office, part sitting room. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously.

"I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future," said Dumbledore.

"Are you family?" asked Mrs. Cole rather abruptly.

"No, I am a teacher," Dumbledore replied, "I have come to offer Tom a place at my school."

"What school's this, then?"

"It's called Hogwarts."

"And how come you're interested in Tom?"

"We believe he has qualities we are looking for."

"You mean he's won a scholarship? How can he have done? He's never been entered for one."

"Well, his name has been down for our school since birth…"

"Who registered him? His parents?"

Harry thought Mrs. Cole was rather more sharp than first impressions had indicated. Her nervous agitation had disappeared, only to be replaced by a look of keen suspicion. Dumbledore must have noticed this, as well, for Harry saw him slip his wand out of his pocket. At the same time, he selected a piece of perfectly blank paper from the top of Mrs. Cole's desk.

"Here," said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, "I think this will make everything clear."

Mrs. Cole's eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.

"That seems perfectly in order," she said placidly, handing it back to Dumbledore. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before. Even Harry had not noticed when Dumbledore conjured them.

"Er… May I offer you a glass of gin?" she said in an extra-refined voice.

"Thank you very much," said the young Dumbledore, beaming.

"Slick trick," Harry muttered to the older Dumbledore at his side. The headmaster merely chuckled, and advised Harry to keep watching.

It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one gulp. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time. He didn't hesitate to press his advantage.

"I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle's history?" he began, "I think he was born here at the orphanage?"

"That's right," said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to a second glass of gin. Harry was already starting to suspect that the gin, too, was enchanted. "I remember it clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold. Snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour, and she was dead in another hour."

She paused, nodding her head as if she were confirming her own account of that night, then helped herself to another generous gulp of gin.

"Did she say anything before she died?" asked Dumbledore. "Anything about the boy's father, for instance?"

"Now, as it happens, she did," said Mrs. Cole. She seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand an an eager audience for her gossip. "I remember she said to me, 'I hope he looks like his papa.' And I won't lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty. Then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father. Yes, I know. Funny name, isn't it? We wondered whether she came from a circus… And she said the boy's surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word.

"Well, we named him just as she'd said. It seemed so important to the poor girl. But no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all. So he stayed in the orphanage and he's been here ever since."

Harry had lost track of how much gin Mrs. Cole had drunk by this time. Two pink spots had appeared on her cheeks as she helped herself to another glass. Then she said, with absentminded frankness, "He's a funny boy."

"Yes," said Dumbledore with equal frankness, "I thought he might be."

"He was a funny baby, too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was… odd."

"Odd in what way?" Dumbledore asked gently.

"Well, he…" She paused. At once, her blurry, vague expression gave way to a piercing stare that she shot at Dumbledore over the top of her gin glass. "He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?"

"Definitely," replied Dumbledore.

"And nothing I say can change that?"

"Nothing."

"You'll be taking him away, whatever?"

"Whatever."

Mrs. Cole squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently, she decided that she could, for she continued with the air of someone confessing a dark secret, "He scares the other children."

Dumbledore did not react to this confession. His tone remained the same as he asked, "You mean he is a bully?"

"I think he must be, but it's very hard to catch him at it," said Mrs. Cole with a slight frown, "There have been incidents… Nasty things…"

Dumbledore continued to remain impassive, though Harry had gotten so used to reading the slightest changes in Snape's expressions that he thought he could detect signs of interest in the younger Dumbledore. Fortunately, Mrs. Cole needed very little encouragement to continue, now that she had gotten started. After another sip of gin, she stated, "Billy Stubbs's rabbit… Well, Tom said he didn't do it, and I don't see how he could have done, but even so… It didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"

"I shouldn't think so, no," said Dumbledore quietly. Harry wondered if the same chill that had run up his spine had affected the younger headmaster. The thought of a child Voldemort, already killing animals, seemed like a dark harbinger of the far more sinister atrocities he would one day commit.

"But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it," Mrs. Cole had continued, "All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then, on the summer outing… We take them out, you know. Once a year to the countryside or the seaside… Well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things…"

She looked at Dumbledore, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze remained steady. "I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him."

"You understand, I am sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?" said Dumbledore, "He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer."

"Oh, well… That's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker!" said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was gone. Now quite certain that the drink had been enchanted after all, he followed Mrs. Cole and the younger Dumbledore out of the office and up a stone staircase.

Mrs. Cole called out instructions and admonitions to her assistants and children as she passed. The orphans were all wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably cared for, and just as clean as the establishment, but there was no question that this was a grim place in which to grow up.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Cole, turning off the second landing and stopping outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice before entering without waiting for a response.

"Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton… Sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you… Well, I'll let him do it."

Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small, bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him. In his hands he held a book.

There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. Merope had got her dying wish. He was his handsome father in miniature: tall for his age, dark-haired, with smooth, pale skin. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance.

There was a moment's silence, then Dumbledore stepped forward, his hand outstretched. "How do you do, Tom?"

The boy hesitated before shaking hands. Dumbledore drew up a hard wooden chair beside Tom Riddle, and announced, "I am Professor Dumbledore."

"Professor?" repeated Riddle. He looked wary. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?"

He pointed an accusing finger at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.

"No, no," said Dumbledore, smiling in way that was meant to be reassuring.

"I don't believe you," said Riddle. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!"

He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was shocking. It was a command, and one that he had clearly issued many times before. What was more, he had the air of someone who was used to having his orders followed. When Dumbledore remained silent, a smile still fixed to his face, Riddle's eyes widened with disbelief. He continued to stare at Dumbledore, looking warier still.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore, and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school, if you would like to come."

Riddle's reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.

"You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? Professor… Yes, of course… Well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum! I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dnnis Bishop, and you can ask them! They'll tell you!"

"I am not from the asylum," said Dumbledore, patiently, yet firmly. "I am a teacher, and if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you…"

"I'd like to see them try," sneered Riddle.

"Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, as though he had not been interrupted, "is a school for people with special abilities…"

"I'm not mad!"

"I know you are not mad. Hogwarts is not school for mad people. It is a school for magic."

There was another moment of silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, though his eyes remained fixed on Dumbledore's face, as though trying to catch him in a lie.

"Magic?" he repeated in a whisper.

"That's right," said Dumbledore.

"It's… It's magic, what I can do?"

"What is it that you can do?"

"All sorts," breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks, giving him a feverish appearance. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

His legs had started to shake. He stumbled forward, catching himself on his iron bedframe, and sank onto his bed once again. He stared at his hands, clutching them together to keep them from trembling, his head bowed as if in prayer.

"I knew I was different!" he whispered to his own quivering fingers. "I knew I was special… Always, I knew there was something…"

"Well, you were quite right," said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently, "You are a wizard."

Riddle lifted his head. A transformation had come over him. There was a wild ecstasy in his expression, and yet it did not enhance his natural beauty. On the contrary, his finely carved features seemed sharper, and his expression almost bestial. Again, Harry felt a shiver run up his spine.

"Are you a wizard too?" Riddle asked, his tone almost demanding.

"Yes, I am."

"Prove it," said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used before.

Dumbledore raised his brows. "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts…"

"Of course I am!"

"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'"

Riddle's expression hardened for a moment. Harry could tell he was not used to respecting any authority other than himself. But to his surprise, when Riddle spoke again, his tone was unrecognizably polite.

"I'm sorry, sir. I meant… Please, Professor, could you show me…?"

Harry was certain that Dumbledore would refuse, but to his great surprise, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick.

The wardrobe burst into flames.

Riddle jumped to his feet, howling in shock and rage. Harry could hardly blame him. All of his worldly possessions must have been in that cabinet. But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.

Riddle looked from the wardrobe back to Dumbledore. Then, with a greedy expression, he pointed at the wand.

"Where can I get one of them?"

"All in good time," said Dumbledore placidly, "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe."

Sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside the cabinet. For the first time, Riddle looked truly frightened. Dumbledore directed him to open the door, but he hesitated. Then, with a sudden burst of resolve, he crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside.

"Take it out," said Dumbledore.

Riddle took the quaking box into his hands. He looked unnerved.

"Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" asked Dumbledore.

Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, calculating look. "Yes, I suppose so, sir," he said after a moment of careful consideration, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Open it," said Dumbledore.

Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Harry, who had expected something far more sinister, saw only a mess of small, everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin blankets.

"You will return them to their owners with your apologies," said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket, "I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts."

Riddle did not look remotely ashamed. He continued to stare coldly at Dumbledore. At last he said in his expressionless voice, "Yes, sir."

"At Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued, "we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have, inadvertently, I am sure, been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic… Yes, there is a Ministry… Will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws."

Harry was struck by the manner in which Dumbledore lectured the young Riddle. There was something cold and firm in his voice which did not coincide with the headmaster Harry had come to know. While he continued to speak, Riddle's expression remained immovable. He watched Dumbledore with the air of someone appraising a new rival, as if searching for an angle or a weakness. When Dumbledore concluded his speech, he merely stated, "Yes, sir" again.

Riddle's face remained expressionless as he placed the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box, barely glancing at them. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and stated without shame, "I haven't got any money."

"That is easily remedied," said Dumbledore, drawing a leather pouch from his pocket. "There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on second hand, but…"

"Where do you buy spellbooks?" interrupted Riddle. He had taken the heavy purse from Dumbledore without so much as a thank you, and was now examining a gold Galleon.

"In Diagon Alley," said Dumbledore. "I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything…"

"You're coming with me?" asked Riddle, looking up sharply.

"Certainly, if you…"

"I don't need you," said Riddle, "I'm used to doing things for myself. I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Allley… sir?" he added, catching Dumbledore's eye.

Harry thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle. Despite what he said, an eleven-year-old boy travelling to an unfamiliar street in London hardly seemed safe. To his surprise, Dumbledore merely handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, said, "You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you… Non-magical people, that is… will not. Ask for Tom the barman. Easy enough to remember, as he shares your name…"

Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly.

"You dislike the name Tom?" Dumbledore asked, noticing the gesture.

"There are a lot of Toms," muttered Riddle. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, he asked, "Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle, too. They've told me."

"I'm afraid I don't know," Dumbledore replied, and his voice lost some of the coldness that was there before.

"My mother can't have been magic, or she wouldn't have died," said Riddle, more to himself than Dumbledore. "It must've been him. So… When I've got all my stuff, when do I come to this Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore gave Riddle instructions on how to get to the platform, then got to his feet. He was prepared to leave, but first offered his hand to Riddle once more. Taking it, a sudden thought seemed to occur to the young boy, for he announced, "I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips. They find me. They whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?"

Harry got the impression that he was desperate for some sign that he was special. It wasn't enough that he had discovered he was magical, he needed to know that even among wizards, he was unique.

Dumbledore hesitated a moment before replying, "It is unusual, but not unheard of."

His tone was casual, but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle's face. They stood for a moment, surveying one another. Then the handshake was broken, and Dumbledore was at the door.

"I think that will do," said the older Dumbledore standing at Harry's side. Seconds later, they were soaring through darkness, away from the orphanage and the child Voldemort.

"Did you know?" Harry asked the moment his feet hit the carpeted floor of the headmaster's office.

Dumbledore seemed to understand him, for he replied, "Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark Wizard since Grindelwald? No, I had no idea that Tom Riddle was to grow up to be what he is. However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him… Something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already I felt I ought to do for others' sake as much as his.

"His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard. And, most interestingly and ominously of all, he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards. He was already using magic against other people... To frighten, to punish, to control..."

"And he was a Parselmouth," interjected Harry.

Dumbledore paused. Again he directed those keen blue eyes on Harry with a look that seemed to cut right through him, reading his every thought.

"Yes…" he said thoughtfully, "A rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts… You are perhaps wondering, Harry, if when I first discovered that you too possessed this gift, if I thought of Tom, and drew comparisons between you?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders, hoping that this mark of indifference would fool the headmaster into thinking he cared less about the answer than he did.

It did not. Dumbledore, who had taken a seat behind his desk when they returned from his memory, now leaned his elbows against the dark wood, interlocking his healthy and scarred fingers as he peered over them at Harry,

"I will admit I was surprised when Severus… That is to say, Professor Snape… first told me you could speak parseltongue. As I have explained to you before, Harry, the curse that Voldemort intended to kill you… The one that should have destroyed him… It marked you as his equal. I believe it is why you share twin cores in your wands, and why you were able to peer into his mind last year. I am no longer surprised that you share the ability to speak with snakes with him, as well. However, this sharing of power is where the similarities between you end. I must state plainly now that I have never considered you a Dark Wizard."

The tight coil that had been widening itself in Harry's chest for months loosened. He felt like he had been underwater and could finally breathe again. After ensuring that he could speak without betraying his emotion, he cautiously continued, "You seemed different… in that memory. You didn't talk to him like you talk to me."

Dumbledore's expression softened. He no longer looked as if he were peering into Harry's mind, but was reflecting on thoughts of his own. "In some ways, Tom Riddle's history is a tragic one. I do not mean to say that he is not responsible for his own actions... But the question remains. I have often wondered what may have happened if I had been more of a friend to Tom. Was he really so beyond reform, even then? Either way, he had marked me as his enemy from that very first interaction, I believe…

"But while I could reflect on the past all night, there are other matters to discuss before you leave. I want to draw your attention to certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the subject we shall be discussing in future meetings. Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle's reaction when I mentioned that another shared his first name?"

Harry nodded, "Makes sense why he'd invent something like 'Lord Voldemort.' Sounds far more intimidating than Tom."

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied, "He holds in contempt anything that ties him to other people. Anything that makes him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be special, powerful, notorious... I trust you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and apparently, friendless? The adult Voldemort is the same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, that they alone are close to him, even understand him. They are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one.

"And lastly, the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behavior. Souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic..."

"Like the horcruxes?" Harry asked.

"Very shrewd, Harry. You catch on quickly.

"He saved his grandfather's ring… And Slytherin's locket…" Harry mused, glancing around the office, as if he were going to catch sight of another of Riddle's old relics laying on one of the spindly tables. "Was there another horcrux in that memory? Like the thimble... Or maybe the mouth organ?"

"And interesting suggestion, Harry," said Dumbledore, rising from his seat and guiding Harry gently toward the office door, "But the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ. No, Lord Voldemort would never select such a pedestrian item for a horcrux... But we shall discuss more at our next meeting. For now, off to bed."