CHAPTER 26

Snape raised an eyebrow at the two teenagers as they scrambled to their feet. "Eavesdropping on the headmaster, boys? How very trustworthy of you." Both had the decency to look ashamed.

There was a slight twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes as they landed on Snape. "I seem to remember another young man eavesdropping—"

"Was there something you needed?" He snapped at the teenagers.

"We were curious," Draco admitted with a bold shrug.

"Besides," Harry murmured, his gaze flicking solemnly between the two men as he pulled his Slytherin counterpart to his feet, "don't we have a say in our own lives?"

"I'm afraid you'd have to address that question to the headmaster," Snape answered bitterly. "What say you, Headmaster? Do you believe they have…?" But his voice trailed away as he finally noticed the wide-eyed look on the old man's face. "Albus?"

The man looked utterly dumbfounded. And it only took Snape a moment to understand why. Not only were Harry and Draco obviously working together, but the former had also unconsciously just treated the latter with respect by helping him off the floor. Like a friend.

"As I live and breathe," Dumbledore murmured, his blue eyes suspiciously shiny and full of emotion as he continued to gaze at the boys. "I never would have believed…"

"What?" Draco snipped, obviously exasperated.

When the headmaster stayed silent and simply continued gazing at them, Snape sighed. "He never would have believed the two of you could be friends."

"How, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, turning to Snape in wonder. "For years I—They—just like you and James… How did you do it?"

"He locked us in a room together without our wands," Draco answered.

"Hmmm," the headmaster murmured before his gaze jumped speculatively to Harry. "I pray the lack of wands did not lead to fisticuffs. You two have had such encounters before. Many, if truth be told."

"No, sir," Harry clarified, glancing sideways at Draco. "We didn't fight. We talked and… realized we had a lot in common, I guess."

"You… talked." It didn't escape Snape's notice when Dumbledore stiffened at the words, his gaze suddenly wary. "While I am proud of you both and relieved you have decided to work alongside instead of against each other, I fear there are still some issues that would best be—"

"They know, Headmaster."

There was a stunned silence at Snape's pronouncement.

"What do you mean, Severus?"

He could feel the old coot's eyes boring into his temple, but Snape only had eyes for the boys before him. Still so young. So unprepared… He thought of Lily Potter and how she had been just as unprepared that Halloween night so long ago. I refuse to let history repeat itself!

"What I mean, Albus," he ground out as he slowly turned to face the headmaster, "is that they know the truth: Draco understands that Harry is my son, just as Harry is aware that Draco is a double agent."

The old man continued staring at him for another long moment. Hard. Although he appeared calm enough on the outside, Snape could tell by the steely glint in the old man's eye that he was furious. "Boys," the headmaster announced without taking his gaze from Snape. "My apologies for cutting short our reunion. However, Severus and I need a moment alone."

Out of the corner of his eye, Snape saw Draco turn and hurry towards the doorway. But when Harry stayed rooted to the spot and didn't follow, the Slytherin hesitated. It spoke volumes of his son's loyalty that he was reluctant to do the headmaster's bidding. "Sir?"

The old man turned, his eyes softening. "It's alright, Harry. I just need to speak to him."

Still, Harry hesitated. His gaze flicked to Snape, who gave an imperceptible nod. It was only then that his son turned to follow Draco.

"Dobby!" Snape called, and the creature appeared beside his black-clad knee with a soft pop. "Take the boys upstairs to the billiards room—"

"We don't need a babysitter," Draco moaned, rolling his eyes.

"—and don't let them out until I allow it. You and Kreacher both. Am I understood?"

"Understood, Master Snape, sir!" Dobby squeaked, already hurrying towards the boys. "Dobby and Kreacher will keep watch over Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, sir!" He grasped a hand of each boy, looking like a wrinkled, pruney toddler between the two bewildered teens as he led them away. Draco was clearly horrified as Dobby led them down the hall towards the grand staircase. "Come, young sirs. There are all kinds of games to keep yous busy in the billiards room! Wizard's Chess, self-shuffling cards, Exploding-Snap…"

When the house elf's shrill little voice could no longer be heard, Dumbledore spun angrily on his heel to glare at Snape. "What were you thinking, Severus?! You swore that you would give me a chance to prepare Harry!"

"What do you know of preparations?!" He snarled at the old man. "You sit up in your tower locked away from the real world, pulling your puppet strings to make us perform in your deluded little theatre! But it's we who must deal with the consequences! I'm preparing my son for the real world, God dammit!"

"This prepares him for nothing but failure! How can he focus on Tom Riddle if—?"

"Draco discovered the truth," Snape hissed, heading toward the plush armchairs before the cold fire. Without inviting the headmaster to do the same, he sat heavily in the nearest one. "Even while bleeding to death, that boy has ears sharper than my potion knives."

"Bleeding to death?!" Dumbledore barked. "Is that what happened in the dungeon corridors last night? How in Merlin's name—?!"

"Sit down, Albus," he sighed. "I'll explain."

For the next hour, Severus did his best to appease the man's prying insistence while also protecting the boys as much as possible. For instance, he didn't tell the headmaster that Draco had been suffering enough to consider homicide against his mother to save her from being tortured to death by the Dark Lord. Nor did he tell the man of Draco's intended suicide only moments afterward. And although he admitted Harry had foolishly used the cutting spell without understanding its function, he did not explain where his son had learned such information. Snape himself planned on addressing these issues later – but not with the headmaster. As much as he respected the old man, Snape knew he was likely use whatever information he gleaned against Harry and Draco, if it meant he'd have a better chance at winning his damn war.

The headmaster was obviously still frustrated at all the information that had been revealed. He leaned back against the cushions of the overstuffed armchair with a heavy sigh.

"It's still possible to do a memory wipe," he muttered.

"No, Albus. Not after the boys have finally learned to trust each other – however tentative that trust may be. Had James Potter and I been…" His voice faded into the silence. "Things may have turned out very different. I won't take that possibility away from Harry and Draco. We need hope as much as information to win this God damn bloody war."

When he finally turned his gaze back to the headmaster, the man's piercing blue eyes were full of pride. Perhaps that was why he didn't press the point. With a sigh, the headmaster understood there was nothing more to be done – and that Snape would not allow any other option even if there were. And so, there was no direction left to go but forward.

"Have you been called before him yet?" Dumbledore suddenly inquired. Snape didn't have to ask what he meant.

"No," he ground out.

"So, you don't believe Horace—?"

"Has been Imperioused by the Dark Lord? I do not – or else I would have been summoned directly after Hogsmeade. If the Dark Lord hasn't called me by now, it's only because he doesn't know."

"So, it's worse than we feared," Dumbledore murmured, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he gazed into the cold fireplace. "Horace may yet prove to have been Imperiosed, but we have no idea by whom." He was silent for a long time, contemplating their next move. "Severus, I know full well how dangerous the process can be and I loathe that I must ask. But I'm afraid the Darkness Demise is our only other option."

Snape's eyes flashed on the old man. Darkness Demise was the potion used within Gringotts – the substance that flowed over the Thief's Downfall and washed away all magical enchantment. It was the only potion known to wizardkind that could remove an Unforgivable Curse, other than the original caster themselves. It had often been used in the pervious war when the original caster could not be found.

But the potion's immense power came at a heavy price. Death while brewing was as much of a possibility as success – more so, if Snape were honest with himself.For that reason alone, the potion was rarely brewed. Gringotts was the only location in the world where so much could be found in one place, and the Goblins protected their asset fiercely. There was no possible way they would be successful if they attempted to sneak in and steal any – Voldemort or Dumbledore be damned. The goblins cared nothing for wizard politics, meaning they could not be persuaded or browbeaten one way or the other. And the thought of breaking into Gringotts was, frankly, ludicrous.

Meaning his only option was to brew the precariously deadly potion himself.

For a moment, Snape wanted nothing more than to whip out his wand and curse the headmaster. How dare he ask this of me?! He seethed. Now of all moments, when I have a family that needs protecting, and a son who is being hunted by—

But the anger drained from him as quickly as it had come. Indeed, Harry was being hunted. And there was a strong possibility that an unknown witch or wizard was aiding the Dark Lord in that hunt. It was too much of a risk to simply do nothing. They needed that potion.

"It takes months to properly brew," Snape finally agreed. "I need your word that Harry will be guarded in that time."

"Severus, you know—"

"I'm aware that Slughorn has valuable information. I'm also aware that you believe Harry is the only one who can discover the truth. But if the man has indeed been Imperioused, I am not willing to allow him anywhere near Harry alone. I need your word, Albus. Or you and that potion can rot in hell." The headmaster looked stunned, but Snape didn't care as he fiercely demanded, "Do I have your word or not?"

The old man sighed, "Of course, Severus. You have my word." Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, he inspected Snape for long moments. Whereas that same piercing blue gaze had made him squirm uncomfortably as a teenager, Snape stared boldly back at him now, holding his gaze and daring the old man to contradict him. "I had plans to guide Harry through another memory after another the holidays," Dumbledore finally murmured.

"Whose?"

"Mine," he answered softly. "The first time I met Tom Riddle, when he was still just a boy."

"And I'm sure you knew I'd insist on seeing it first."

"I'd expect no less from a concerned father," the headmaster acknowledged with a nod. He made a quick swish with his wand but did not rise from his chair.

"Although I have not had the time to make a thorough inventory of the manor, I do not believe there is a Pensieve within—" But before Snape could finish the sentence, an ornate stone basin came floating silently around the suit of armor standing guard at the doorway, and into the room towards where they sat.

"Believe me, my boy," Albus murmured knowingly. "With a woman your elderly relative's age, there is always a Pensieve around." Rising from the plush armchair, he explained, "You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Tom's beginnings at the point where his father, Tom Riddle, Sr., had abandoned his witch wife and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort."

"How exactly do you know she was in London?"

"Because of evidence provided by none other than Caractacus Burke."

"The owner of Borgin and Burke's? If she was forced to do business with that greedy old bastard, I'm sure he robbed the poor girl blind."

"I am sad to say that is exactly what he did," Dumbledore agreed. "It turns out that near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold – desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession."

"Slytherin's locket."

Dumbledore nodded.

"The girl grew up sheltered and was completely alone after Riddle abandoned her," Snape growled, angry on Merope's behalf. "More than likely she didn't see any other choice."

"Indeed," the headmaster sadly agreed. "It is my belief that when Tom left her, Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers. In any case, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life."

The two men sat quietly, both contemplating the heartbreaking tale of the troubled young woman who birthed the Dark Lord. But the more Snape thought about it, the angrier he became. Uncomfortable with the feelings evoked for none other than the Dark Lord's mother, he was a little harsher than he intended when he snapped, "Let's get this over with!"

Without a word, Dumbledore placed the tip of his wand at his temple and pulled away a thick, silvery braid of memory. Releasing it into the bowl before them, he stood and murmured, "After you, Severus."

Snape bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness. Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground; he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street.

"There I am."

The headmaster pointed ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart. The younger Albus Dumbledore's hair and beard were auburn, but just as long and ridiculous as they were now.

"I see your fashion sense hasn't changed," Snape drawled with a heavy roll of his eyes. He watched as the younger Dumbledore reached their side of the street and crossed in front of them along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to his flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet. "And here I thought your attire were simply because of doddering old age."

Dumbledore merely chuckled as they fell in step behind his younger self, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. They stopped on the steps as the plum-colored Dumbledore knocked once on the large door. After a moment or two, it was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.

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

"Oh," said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. "Um… just a mo'… MRS. COLE!" she bellowed over her shoulder. Snape heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to the Dumbledore on the stoop. "Come in, she's on 'er way."

They stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Before the front door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore.

"…and take the 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 upon the plum-colored Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold.

"Good afternoon," the younger Dumbledore announced, holding out his hand. Mrs. Cole simply gaped. "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 deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, "Oh yes. Well — well then — you'd better come into my room. Yes."

She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. 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.

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

"What school's this, then?"

"It is called Hogwarts," said Dumbledore.

"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?"

There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Snape watched him slip his wand out of the pocket of his velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole's desktop.

"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. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before.

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

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

It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to gin 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, and he didn't hesitate to press his advantage.

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

"That's right," said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more gin. "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." Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took 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, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. "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 — and 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." Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, "He's a funny boy."

"Yes," murmured Dumbledore. "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?" asked Dumbledore gently.

"Well, he—" But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass. "He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?"

"Definitely," said Dumbledore.

"And nothing I say can change that?"

"Nothing," said Dumbledore.

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

"Whatever," repeated Dumbledore gravely.

She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, "He scares the other children."

"You mean he is a bully?" asked Dumbledore.

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

Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still.

"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.

"But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then—" Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin this time "—on the summer outing — we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to 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 around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady. "I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him."

"You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?" asked 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 Snape was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. "I suppose you'd like to see him?"

"Very much," said younger Dumbledore, rising too.

She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Snape saw, were all wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.

"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."

Snape 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, a wooden chair, and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.

There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. Merope had received her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence.

"How do you do, Tom?" said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand.

The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor.

"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 was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.

"No, no," said Dumbledore, smiling.

"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 almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still.

"Who are you?"

"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 — your new 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 Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"

"I am not from the asylum," said Dumbledore patiently. "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 heard Riddle's last words, "is a school for people with special abilities—"

"I'm not mad!"

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

There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore's, as though trying to catch one of them lying.

"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; he looked fevered. "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 were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though 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. His face was transfigured: There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.

"Are you a wizard too?"

"Yes, I am."

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

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "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 the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, "I'm sorry, sir. I meant — please, Professor, could you show me…?"

Snape was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however, 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, and Snape could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage – all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.

Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. "Where can I get one of them?"

"All in good time," said Dumbledore. "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe." And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it.

For the first time, Riddle looked frightened.

"Open the door," said Dumbledore.

Riddle hesitated, then 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 it.

"Take it out," said Dumbledore.

Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved.

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

Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. "Yes, I suppose so, sir," he said finally, in an expressionless voice.

"Open it," said Dumbledore.

Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Out fell 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 abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, "Yes, sir."

"At Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, "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."

"Yes, sir," said Riddle again.

It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said frankly, "I haven't got any money."

"That is easily remedied," said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket, which Snape recognized from his time as an underprivileged first year. "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 secondhand, but—"

"Where do you buy spellbooks?" interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat 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.

"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 Alley — sir?" he added, catching Dumbledore's eye.

Once again, Snape thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle. But once again he was surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, he 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'?"

"There are a lot of Toms," muttered Riddle. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, "Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me."

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Dumbledore, his voice gentle.

"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?"

"All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope," said Dumbledore. "You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too."

Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle said, "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?"

Snape could tell that he had withheld mention of this strangest power until that moment, determined to impress.

"It is unusual," Dumbledore admitted after a moment's hesitation, "but not unheard of." His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle's face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door. "Good-bye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts."

"I think that will do," said the white-haired Dumbledore at Snape's side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the present-day study.