Part of this chapter is taken from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

The school did go on lockdown. There didn't seem much point to it, but the teachers divided the work and checked all the students (and each other) for the imperius curse. Marietta and Char remained huddled on Hermione's bed and watched Star Trek while they tried to process what on earth had just happened to them. Hermione herself went through her things to make sure it was all still there. She had protections on her things, but she still didn't trust some of those Aurors.

She had her gems, the remaining basilisk venom, and her weapons. She was good. The book was going to be taken to the archives in the Department of Mysteries where it would be carefully dismantled. Cecilia was in charge of the project to ensure that it would happen rather than be shoved into a crate and archived.

Hermione had her on her mirror to make sure that they weren't going to push it aside.

"Is that a sword?" asked Char.

Hermione looked at her khopesh. "Yeah, it is. See?"

She handed it over and Char unsheathed it.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, running her hand along the blade. "I didn't know you could sword fight."

"Oh, I can't," Hermione admitted. "I really oughta learn, shouldn't I?"

"If you're going to be carrying a sword around, then yeah," said Padma.

"I know the bo staff, so maybe the skills carry over."

"I could teach you," said Char, cheeks turning pink.

"No manches! You sword fight?"

Char's blush deepened and she handed the sword back. "My parents really like Renaissance Faires. Some of the performing Knights for the faire live in my town and they taught me how to sword fight because I really wanted to be a knight when I was little. It's good cardio for Quidditch, so I kept up with it."

"She's one of the Knights who performs now," said Marietta, cracking a smile when Char elbowed her.

"That is so cool!" said Hermione. "I mean, if you feel you can teach me, I would totally be up to taking lessons. We can meet three days a week. Are you completely averted to waking up at dawn?"

"I'm a morning person," said Char. "Even if I wasn't… I have to repay you for saving my life somehow. Where should we meet?"

"Room of Things. I can get it set up for training. I doubt I'll be allowed to even go to the Quidditch Pitch anymore."

"I'm sorry…"

"It's not your fault." Hermione stood up and faced her. "Hear me? It's not your fault."

Char sniffled, which set Marietta off again. Hermione sat down between them and wrapped her arms around them. Cedric told her she always gave the best hugs, despite the fact she wasn't so fond of receiving them for herself. Still, Hogwarts seemed to think that hugs would help in this situation.

The three Ravenclaws didn't leave until after the school was removed from lockdown. They had been served dinner in the dorms, which Hermione was happy for. She didn't think she would have the mental spoons to deal with the Great Hall. Hell, she had Daphne bring her a plate so she wouldn't have to see Pansy.

"What's everyone saying?" Hermione asked.

"Not much yet," said Padma. "Just that they know it has something to do with you. We could send the truth through the walkie-talkies."

"Mm… feels too much like telephone," said Hermione. "And it will no doubt be in the papers tomorrow, and my truth won't matter because if it differs from what I say, then I will look like the liar."

"Shouldn't they… I dunno… interview us?" asked Marietta. "Get our statements?"

"Do you really want some Rita Skeeter copycat coming in and twisting your words to make you and Char look bad?" Hermione replied. "I gave my statement of what happened to Professor McGonagall and to Cecilia and Tonks. They won't exaggerate or play up anything. I also submitted a video showing that it wasn't just me who got everyone out. It was the collective work of the teachers of Hogwarts, bar Snape and Dumbledore."

"Where is Dumbledore?" asked Daphne.

"Away." She tipped her head. "I think he just came back. He's got a shitstorm coming his way."

"No doubt about that," said Char. "Oh, what are my parents going to say?"

"I dunno, but mine are probably gonna chew me out for not keeping my head down."

"Well… I'm glad you didn't," said Char. "Otherwise me and Marietta would have been trapped in that book with no hope of escape."

"Don't forget to thank our teachers too."

"I won't."

By the next morning, the papers told everyone everything. Hermione had overslept and walked into lunch to applause from most of the student body. She hardly paid attention, she had spent most of the night worrying about the ethics of bringing people from the past into the future where, for most of them, everyone they knew was dead or old, and the entire world had changed.

She no longer felt like a hero, despite the papers claiming that she was and that those trapped in the book were supposedly grateful for their rescue. She decided she would say nothing and just wait until it turned into resentment. The only ones who had any hope were the five year old and the victim from 1974.

She couldn't waste time worrying about that, she had other fish to fry. She didn't want to come off as a flake, but the information was much too important.

"Professor Slughorn," she said after Potions class on Monday. "I'm actually not feeling too well, I think I might turn in early instead of attending the meeting."

"Of course, my dear, of course," he said. "I'm surprised you even made it to class at all today. I know the entire faculty is feeling the effects of that spell and you used quite a bit of magic yourself. Although, perhaps I should postpone to tomorrow."

"Sorry, sir, I have Multicultural Club tomorrow evening."

"Ah, yes, of course, well then there's always the one next week."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate your understanding."

She, Padma, and Daphne walked out of the classroom.

"Okay," she said. "After dinner, I'm in bed dealing with cramps."

"Do we want to know what you're doing?" Padma asked.

"I mean, I could tell you, but then you'd have to lie even more."

"Mm, fair point. Don't tell me."

After dinner, Hermione had made her way to a watch tower, the stairway to which was hidden behind a portrait. She cleaned the space up and had outfitted it with scented candles, a mobile that cast hypnotizing colors, and a place to lay on. She laid down on several cushions and stared up at the lights for an hour, letting herself fall into a meditation. Her journal was open at her side, a pencil in her hand ready to scribble anything of note down.

She thought about the few students who had found this tower before her. Their names were almost there. She was sure if she focused she could fall into their lives, but that was not her goal. She slipped. Down, down… the room disappeared and an itchy patch of fringe covered her eyes obscuring a gentleman before her. She was in a man's body. Little, old, and very much in pain. Still, they spoke.

"Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the 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!"

Yes he, Burke, had liked making such "fair" bargains in his school life. Nearly got him in trouble a few times, but he always knew how to bargain his way back out of it, always getting more than he gave.

The memory and body fell away, leaving Hermione feeling as if she were merely consciousness. She had no body, but she sensed everything that was going on inside the school from the students to the staff to the animals. She clung onto the Headmaster's office. The voices were faint as if she were hearing them from another room. She pressed her ear to the door.

"Your mother had a choice, too. Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother's courage. And now, if you will stand…"

The voice faded and this time she fell deeper until she felt her body give form. She could not wiggle her fingers or toes, but she was walking purposefully down the street. Male again. Her long beard and hair were plaited in an effort of professionalism. Albus Dumbledore. He often volunteered to tell Muggle-born students of their magical powers, enjoying the shock and bafflement of the Muggle parents. He also wasn't above manipulating a conversation to ensure the parents, no matter what their stance was, to allow their child to attend Hogwarts.

This case should be no different from the others.

Hermione caught her mind as they paused in front of the building he had been sent to for this particular child. She knew this place. This was the group home she had been dumped in after being obliviated. She didn't want to go inside. She want to remember what she went through there.

Dumbledore's feet betrayed her wants; he mounted the steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.

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

"Oh," she said, looking bewildered and taking in the man's eccentric appearance of someone who liked Prince a little too much. Of course, she didn't know who Prince was, just that this man before her was extremely odd. "Erm… just a mo' … MRS. COLE!" she bellowed over her shoulder. Someone shouted in response and she turned back to Dumbledore. "Come in, she's on 'er way."

Dumbledore stepped into the hallway. The floor was black and white tile. It would be replaced by linoleum in the future. Probably to make it easier to clean up children's tears. It was as shabby as it would be in about fifty years, but it was clean. Before the door had fully shut behind him, 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." Her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in astonishment.

She seemed much kinder than Mrs. Smith who had only seemed to take the position at the group home in order to exert her power over those who could not fight back. As so many people do.

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

Mrs. Cole simply gaped. Dumbledore knew what he was wearing was odd, but had liked to make an impression wherever he went.

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

Mrs. Cole blinked and said feebly, "Oh, yes. Well—well then—you'd better come into my office. Yes."

She led Dumbledore into a small room that was part sitting room part office. It would later have a wall built through it so that the sitting room was the room children would meet potential parents in. For now, it seemed, nobody would be coming to adopt these children. Parents would probably be more likely to adopt a mouse in this day and age as they would eat much less than a child. No this was simply a place to keep them until they were old enough to work. Hermione was sure that the school next door was the same she had been told she'd attend. She'd had the uniform for it and it was taught by nuns. The volunteers in this era were clearly novitiates.

Mrs. Cole was not vain like Mrs. Smith. Her furniture was old and mismatched rather than the new and matching set Hermione often found herself sitting in front of. Dumbledore sat in the rickety chair while Mrs. Cole sat behind the 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, using his legilimency to pick the right words to convince this woman.

"Are you family?" asked Mrs. Cole. She dreamed, probably more than Tom, that some far off family member would come and take him away. If the laws were the same as they were five years ago, he'd already have a job and be out of her hair for most of the day.

"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."

"And how come you're interested in Tom?" A child trafficking ring, though that term wasn't in her vocabulary, popped into her head and her suspicion grew.

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

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

Those sorts of things were for the more prominent schools. None of the nuns liked Tom enough to submit a request for him.

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

"Who registered him? His parents?"

If she were the boy's mother, all he'd have to do is turn the book on her desk into a bird and then tell her all about how magic was real while she was too dumbstruck to do anything but listen. As it was, she was not allowed to be privy to this secret society and must be plied in other ways. Dumbledore slipped his wand out of the pocket of his velvet suit, distracting Mrs. Cole by picking up a blank piece of paper. The spell he thought would show an official document. It was easier because she would see what she wanted to.

"Here," he said. "I think this will make everything clear."

Mrs. Cole stared at the paper, thinking she was reading an official document stating Tom's automatic acceptance to the school and answering her question that everything would be covered financially.

Hermione filed the spell away in her mind while she, as Dumbledore, conjured a bottle of gin and two glasses.

"That seems perfectly in order," said Mrs. Cole placidly, handing the paper back and taking notice of the alcohol.

Dumbledore motioned his wand once more to sway her. Not quite imperius, no this was like the spell Cedric had used to keep Beatrice from getting arrested at the Easter Egg Hunt.

"Er—may I offer you a glass of gin?" the woman asked in a refined voice much like Dumbledore's.

"Thank you very much," said Dumbledore, beaming. He loved that spell.

Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to gin drinking. Pouring them each three spread fingers worth, she knocked her glass back in one gulp. Hermione wished she could give the woman a Xanax instead. It wouldn't impair her nearly as much while also helping with her stress. She smacked her lips and smiled at Dumbledore, signaling him to press his advantage.

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

"That's right," she said, 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." They had two such women upstairs reading and tending to toddlers. They'd be gone as soon as their babies were born. "We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour."

She nodded, remembering how much blood there had been. Hemorrhaging. Not much they could do about that. She took another generous gulp to push the memory away.

"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, relieved to finally talk to someone about it and enjoying the buzz the gin was giving her. "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. Never even looked at her baby. Not sure she had the strength to.

"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."

She helped herself to another glass of gin, her cheeks turning pink. She sipped this one and said almost thoughtfully, "He's a funny boy."

"Yes," said Dumbledore. Magical children often were. "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."

Hermione sincerely hoped Mrs. Cole wouldn't call him slow. Even though this child would grow to be evil, demeaning him for differences surely wouldn't help matters.

"Odd in what way?" asked Dumbledore gently.

"Well, he—"

Mrs. Cole stopped, sobering instantly and looked straight at Dumbledore over her glass. She'd never say anything to ruin an opportunity for a child in her care. No matter what she said now made her many times better than Mrs. Smith.

"He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?"

"Definitely."

"And nothing I say can change that?"

"Nothing."

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

"Whatever," Dumbledore agreed.

She squinted at him, trying to decide whether she could trust him or not. Another wiggle of a wand and she decided she could blurt out, "He scares the other children."

Not unusual.

"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 must have been incidents… Nasty things…"

Dumbledore didn't press. She was going to tell him anyway. She took another hearty gulp.

"Billy Stubbs' 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?"

Oh… Hermione thought of the stuffed kitten she'd been given at the hospital, which had been torn to shreds by an older girl after Hermione refused to steal something from another girl for her.

"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, 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, her gaze steady. "I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him."

Hermione wanted to say: "Wow, they get to go to the seaside once a year? Those poor, unfortunate souls. Yes, I can see how Tommy Tims feels so impoverished in a clean bed by himself and not have to worry about getting his hair burned or have a volunteer who liked to watch the little girls get dressed." Instead, she spoke in Dumbledore's voice.

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

Hermione was sure that Tom was one of those older boys who liked to harass the younger girls. Smack their skirts up or just stand behind them until they felt a warm and meaty hand on their skin. Nobody wanted to hear about it. It only happened once to Hermione and she bit the boy who did it. She'd been locked in a closet for hours until she had soiled herself and then was punished for doing that. She hadn't thought about that in years and hated thinking of it now. She needed to get out of this place. She'd ask Harry about it.

Instead of waking up, she still saw Mrs. Cole with great clarity.

"I suppose you'd like to see him?"

"Very much," said 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. Guess the uniform never really changed. Grey skirts/shorts and white shirts. It being winter, they all wore thick grey sweaters, most of them much too big for the children. It was always better to have something too big that you could grow into than something you'd grow out of in a year. Though the children were on the thinner side, most of them looked like they got at least two meals a day. This was pre-WWII London, they didn't even have rations and a lot of people were starving. Though this was a grim place, many of them had amused themselves with games, though a great deal seemed to have chicken pox.

Riddle's work no doubt. Hermione remembered when she was in primary school and a boy had called her an awful name regarding her skin that didn't bear repeating. So she screamed that she hoped he and everyone who laughed got chicken pox. By the end of the day he had gotten a fever and by the end of the week, half the class was out.

"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.

Wow, they got their own rooms too instead of long halls stacked with bunk beds and cubbies? Guess when the place got bombed they decided not to waste building materials on orphans.

"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."

Real assuring lady. Way to spike a child's anxiety.

Dumbledore had given her a smile and entered the room, allowing Mrs. Cole to close it on them. It was a small room with grey walls with meager furniture: an old wardrobe, a wooden chair, and an iron bed frame. A boy was sitting on top of the itchy grey blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book. He had postcards taped onto the wall above his bed. Just a couple. One looked like an antique Christmas card with a beetle and a toad dancing and another was a sepia photo of cliffs. Hermione couldn't quite focus on them. The cliffs of Dover, perhaps?

Tom was a carbon copy of his father. Had he been born later, the sixties or seventies, he probably would have been adopted as a toddler. Maybe by a nice couple from the suburbs. He would have a career as a child model for some clothing brand like Polo. His features were pale, his eyes and hair dark. His expression made neither Hermione nor Dumbledore feel at ease. It was more cold and calculating than an eleven-year-old should carry.

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

The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. He was pale and cold. Not even Professor Nakamura was so chilling. Dumbledore sat in the hard wooden chair beside Riddle.

"I am Professor Dumbledore."

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

Don't be silly Tommy Tims, Hermione thought. They don't waste doctors on us. That's what candy stripers are for.

"No, no," said Dumbledore, smiling.

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

That was a spell. Children are so wonderful at spells and yet that skill seems to disappear as soon as they are put in the education system. Perhaps because it is mostly emotion driven and can be dangerous as well as unpredictable. Tom, however, seemed to have used this one before judging by the expectant look on his face. He was waiting for Dumbledore's eyes to glaze over and for him to admit that he was, indeed, a doctor. He grew warier still when this man he did not know did not react how he was supposed to and continued merely smiling pleasantly.

"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."

Tom's reaction to this was not surprising in the least. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.

"You can't fool me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course—well, I'm not going, see? That old bat'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!"

'They oughta put you in a mental hospital girl! I'll make sure they do when you're old enough!'

Hermione wanted to leave. She didn't want to remember anymore.

"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, "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. Frankly, it also seemed like he could see Hermione in there too, though perhaps that was due to her already being on edge.

"Magic?" he said 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."

Well, wasn't he a first rate Carrie White? His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down in 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."

This child could prove dangerous if not guided properly.

Dumbledore had thought that.

No shit.

"Well, you were quite right," said Dumbledore, no longer smiling, yet watching Tom intently. "You are a wizard."

Riddle lifted his head. His face was almost contorted with wild happiness, making him look more like an animal that had discovered something too fresh to eat after months of scavenging.

"Are you a wizard, too?"

"Yes, I am."

"Prove it." Tom got his spell voice. "Tell the truth!"

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. Hermione would have shown him something pretty. Sparks of color. A trotting pony. Magic was a joy. Instead, Dumbledore reeled him in.

"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.'"

Pfft. Hermione would have rolled her eyes had they not been Dumbledore's.

Tom's expression hardened for a fleeting moment before he said in an extraordinarily polite voice, "I'm sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you show me?"

Oh, don't you dare! Hermione snapped internally and in vain.

Dumbledore drew his wand, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick.

The wardrobe burst into flames.

Howling in shock, Tom jumped to his feet. All his worldly possessions were in there. Before he could jump on the man, the flames vanished leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.

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

Oh, yes, he would love to use that on the other children, wouldn't he? Why wasn't Tom Dumbledore's prodigé? They were certainly well suited to one another in ways of thinking. But Dumbledore believed he could get farther by making everyone worthwhile like him while Tom would use fear.

"All in good time," said Dumbledore, hearing this question every single time he had done one of these visits. "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe."

So, what he couldn't have just made the box rattle faintly to begin with than threaten Tom with burning his stuff? Creepy or not, he's still a child and children are capable of being changed if they have a good influence, which Dumbledore was failing at. Tom looked more frightened than he ever had when he thought everything was burning. Of course Dumbledore would scan his memories. The things he'd done to the other kids were glossed over, but he had taken prizes from each child he'd traumatized.

Hermione was torn between feeling sorry for him and despising the little shit.

"Open the door."

Tom hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf sat a cardboard box that must've been hidden by the scarf now dangling off the racks of threadbare clothes. The box itself was shaking and rattling violently.

"Take it out," said Dumbledore.

Unnerved, Tom took down the quaking box, which threatened to fly out of his hands.

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

Tom mirrored Dumbledore's calculating look, weighing his options and deciding to respond with the truth he so often demanded. "Yes, I suppose so, sir," he said finally in an expressionless voice.

"Open it," said Dumbledore.

Tom took off the lid and dumped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Hermione was sure if he hadn't been so keen on learning magic he would have dumped them on the floor in an effort to break them. They weren't anything extraordinary. A yo-yo belonging to Dennis, a silver thimble belonging to Lucy, a tarnished mouth organ belonging to Edward, and a wind-up music box belonging to Felecie. Once free, all the items stopped quivering and lay still upon the thin blankets.

"You will return them to their owners with your apologies," said Dumbledore with the tone that said this was non-negotiable. "I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts."

Hermione was hit with all the incidents Dumbledore had committed thievery within Hogwarts. Hypocrite. Tom did not look abashed, only embarrassed that he got caught.

"Yes, sir," he said blandly.

"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."

"Yes, sir," said Tom.

His face was stony, but as he had not yet learned legilimency or occlumency, he thought quite plainly that he would just have to be cautious not to be caught as he returned his trophies to the cardboard box. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said, "I haven't got any money."

"That is easily remedied," said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-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 secondhand, but—"

"Where do you buy spellbooks?" Tom interrupted, taking the heavy money bag without even an acknowledgment of gratitude and was examining a Galleon, wondering how much he could pawn it for.

"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 Tom. "I'm used to doing things for myself, I go around London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?" he added, remembering the reprimand. He was determined to fool Dumbledore and to never let adults doubt him again.

Rather than insist on accompanying him and saying such things like, "Yes, you may be used to being on your own, but now you have a whole community to take care of you and guide you so you don't have to be alone." Dumbledore merely handed Tom the envelope containing his list of equipment, and after telling Tom 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—"

Tom twitched with irritation at being reminded of how common his name was. When another Tom arrived, he stuck the boy with a cruel nickname to make sure no one would ever associate the two.

"You dislike the name 'Tom'?"

"There are a lot of Toms," Tom muttered. 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."

At this point Dumbledore knew nothing of the Gaunt family as he had never taught any of them or even been their classmates. Homeschoolers.

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Dumbledore gently.

"My mother can't have been magic, or she wouldn't have died," said Tom, mostly to himself. "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."

Tom nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and offered a handshake. 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?"

He waited for Dumbledore to be impressed, but all the man could think about was the legend that Salazar Slytherin was a parselmouth and wondered how this boy could have been born with such a talent. As if Slytherin were the only parselmouth in the whole world. It was most common in India, but it could come from anywhere. Not that Dumbledore knew that. If Tom could CrowSpeak or CatSpeak—Languages that were once common, but had been lost during the witch trials—nobody would think anything of it.

"It is unusual," said Dumbledore, after a moment's hesitation, "but not unheard of."

The two stared at each other until the handshake was broken. Dumbledore went to the door.

"Goodbye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts."

Hermione inhaled sharply, returning to the tower she was meditating in. For a horrifying moment she couldn't move as if she were having a paralytic nightmare. Finally, feeling came back into her fingers and toes. She sat up and buried her face in her hands, breaking down into sobs.