Author's Notes:

The only way I could manage to update this at this time is due to me hauling my faithful 7-year-old laptop across hundreds of kilometres to go back to the old house (and I still needed to troubleshoot some of its issues, at that. Took me an entire night). The youngest of my brood of siblings just graduated uni and secured a programming job in Japan, and now around half a dozen of us gathered after we dragged ourselves back to see him off. I know he'd be fine, but a part of me just couldn't help but worry, so yeah, that's an entire week of me being unable to write anything further.

Part of me still remembers him as that shorter kid who stayed with me when out of school after our parents died, but he's a young man now with a much better grasp of Japanese than I have. Eh, I'm probably just being maudlin. (Or old. Yikes).

Right, wish me luck on the next chapter(s)!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

'-

73 Of Presents and Pasts

Tom is considering the issue of the perfect Christmas gift. The past catches up to his present, over but not gone. It was a trainwreck. Tom looks for advice. Slughorn pitches in. Dumbledore has a guest. In which the perfect gift is not quite an impossible task.

'-

Tom had been considering the issue of Hermione's Christmas gift for a while as he mulled over it in the Slytherin common room. He tuned out the background chatter and conversation easily.

This was their first Christmas and thus it was somewhat important. He couldn't let her gaggle of friends be disappointed in his gift to her—they should envy her, as is her right. The ideal gift would be if he can offer her something that no one else can surpass. Sure, the wizarding world would count as a unique gift, but that wasn't exactly something that he'd gain in the short term. It was not a gift that can be done and prepared for this Christmas, as opposed to sometime later in the next ten years. No, he had to find something else. Something unique and only he could give her.

A rare tome would be something she can appreciate and cherish, or something with a good set of lenses like a telescope or better yet, a microscope (the Astronomy Tower's giant telescopes were much more powerful than anything a student could easily buy, for one). Yet something in him would've balked at simply using one of his follower's connections and resources to procure them for him.

His pride wouldn't let him. His ego wouldn't let him.

He'd rather find a way to enter the restricted section of the library, find some tome of advanced blood magic that he can use. With that in hand, he can hybridise some rare and wondrous chimera wholesale to become her pet to gift to her. Better to do all that and risk a small discovery than to give up his lead and initiative on something so important so easily.

(Even being discovered in bending the rules in this case can be spun into a mostly-positive point of view of him. He had been so taken in with Hermione that he was prepared to do anything to give her the most perfect gift he could think of for her first Christmas without her family, see? It was a perfectly reasonable and sympathy-inducing excuse).

And then Melchior made an offhand comment and answered his few questions.

"Oh, I guess you're quite right about that, Tom. I didn't even think about it! I'm a little embarrassed now." Melchior said.

"As happy as I am to hear that I'm right, as usual, I do like to know what exactly that I was right about." Tom replied from his winged-back chair, turning to his curly-haired Housemate. Melchior warmed his hands with the mug of hot chocolate he was holding. There was a small pot's worth of hot chocolate resting on the tea trolley near him. The fireplace blazed brightly then too.

"This would be her first Christmas without her family." Melchior answered. "Their absence is going to be more noticeable, isn't it? The loneliness would grate more."

"Well, at least she has us now." he answered.

"Yeah, but 'tis not quite the same, is it?" Vespasian, his other curly-haired Knight, unexpectedly chimed in. He seemed to be wearing a hat that was at least a size larger—enough to pull down over his ears. Probably to ward off the cold dungeon hallways. "Family's just family, y'know? They might be the most boring hedge bird, duffers and foists, but you can trust them not to mess your fawney rig. They'd be down for whatever game you're playing, whether they think you're a rum fella or just a flat. 'Cause they're not going to give you the final gift fer Caesar, alright?"

Abraxas had unconsciously started nodding. Like Melchior, he'd decided to stick with hot chocolate with their current weather.

"I don't really get all your gobshite—" he leaned away to avoid Ves' swat while his fancy blue Delft mug kept his hot cocoa from spilling even then, "—but the general feeling's true, though. Family…is different. They just mean different to you."

Tom hadn't said anything yet since he couldn't quite understand it.

Pendleton made an uncharacteristically pointed cough at Abraxas, catching the attention of the rest of them.

"What, you disagree?" Abraxas raised his voice in challenge.

"Not really, but your answer was so insipid that I could feel myself losing brain cells after I heard it," was his calm reply.

"Oh, up yours too, Pendleton!" The blond gave him the two-fingered salute.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Pendleton asked with the slightest hint of amusement on his face.

Abraxas merely re-emphasised the gesture with his arm movement again.

Tom was currently trying to dig deeper into his memories about anything close. Mrs. Cole was strict but had always been frank and fair with Tom once she realised that he had the mind to comprehend many things that even children older than him might not understand. She hadn't had tried to hide anything from him since he was very young, so much that he couldn't quite remember when the change occurred either.

He knew of how Deidre Cole adjusted the way she spoke based on the children she was speaking (he conceded that just on this ability alone, she was capable of managing many children, even more so when combined with her other skills). Tom also knew that Mrs. Cole was never as blunt or honest with them as she had been with him. She did not try to feed him lies and he could grudgingly respect her for it.

"Seriously, Brax, that was bad." Gallus chimed in. He was seated across Pendleton, waiting for his friend to pour him some tea. His scarf was particularly long today, as it managed to make three loops around his neck. "Maybe you can paraphrase it?"

"And considering that it's Ves that's more coherent than you, that's saying something," Melchior's tone was dry.

" Et tu, Melchior??"

Ves scratched his head uncertainly, not quite sure whether it was a compliment. "Uh, thanks, I suppose?"

"Oh, come on, you know what I mean. Family feels different!" the blond said, louder. "That's obvious enough, right?"

This time, it was Mordred who raised his head from whatever prefect stuff he was working on from the other corner of the room. He replied with a scoff.

"Yes, well, I feel different about Gamp compared to other people, and I feel differently about my parents compared to most too. I'm pretty sure I don't want to push my parents into the Hogwarts' Lake in winter, though. Just 'different' doesn't work, Abraxas."

The Walpurgis Knights plus Mordred continued their arguments and jeers, without Tom having said anything more yet, still pondering his own concerns.

Complete reliability? The feeling of Mrs Cole being irreplaceable? No, Tom did not have such sentiment, not even with her. He certainly did not have it with the other denizens of the orphanage. Especially not the ones with barely anything in their skulls. Empty-headed sheep, the lot of them.

He had tried tracking his parentage already at the end of the last school year. Even a journeyman member of the Royal Wizarding Heralds would find untangling one's closest bloodlines to be a simple matter. (That is, as long as one reads the fine print that distance of descendance affects strength of inheritance claims along with actual magical potential and strength). After all, mere blood connection from a simple trace like that would not be able to win any inheritance case in court. It was too sensitive, and it traced too far. Most purebloods wouldn't even need to bother with it, since the result would be a tangle of the list of wizarding families that have intermarried over centuries to produce them.

Yet for halfbloods with an uncertain genealogy, or muggleborns who want to find any potential connection to a magical family, they offer a priceless service.

It did not cost much to pay for it—at least it was not for any well-heeled pureblood or halfblood. Tom had managed to collect several of them as his sponsors, so it had not been a problem for him either—he had suspected that he was a halfblood, but this was a nice early confirmation. After that came the hard work of checking all the descendants of the families he had on the list and eliminate the ones that are too distant. Even this work was made easier by Pendleton's knowledge of relevant archives—a side effect of the blond following his father to work for years and assisting him every other time.

Ves could also rattle off more than one tracing potion or bloodline-strength check to make the elimination process faster, and he can make them when Tom was too busy to do so. Matching the results with established bloodlines or families meant asking one of the Heralds to do so with the blood pattern kept in their archive, which costs yet more money. It was convenient that money was one thing he wasn't lacking then, and so it was barely a bump in the process.

The closer the search led to figures and people from their generation, the more driven Tom had become. He checked the people of the last two-three generations above them himself to take control of the final step and answer, and all the hard work had successfully left one family to remain, the Gaunts. They were still on the list of families descended from Slytherin, so he was not worried about his blood connection at all.

From there, he found the name of his mother, one Merope Gaunt.

"Melchior, I'll be leaving first," Tom stated as he stood up.

Most of the others were involved in discussions or spats—though Pendleton had his nose in a geomancy book yet again at this point, lost to the world. The Nott heir, on the other hand, had a good hearing and immediately looked up when Tom did so.

"Alright. Going out?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps to Diagon Alley. I might be more inspired if I see what they have to offer."

Tom walked in the direction of his dorms, fully intent on changing. He wasn't paying attention when Melchior spoke again.

"Actually, you could try checking out the mail catalogues first…oh bother, he's gone already."

Abraxas turned to him. "Huh?"

He sighed. "Nothing. Just leave whatever Christmas shopping catalogue you have at Tom's table."

"Ah, sure thing."

Tom walked down the stairs leading away from the Slytherin common room, half sunk in his own thoughts. At the sight of his companions' December cheer, something unexpectedly sour rose inside him. It was not envy; he was sure. He really couldn't care less about any of their families except in figuring out how they could be useful to him.

His previous search on his own genealogy culminated in a little town called Little Hangleton. It was fitting, really. A pathetic name for a lacklustre place, he had thought back then. All it took was leaving the orphanage a day early during the summer hols and claim that he was staying with his friends for a bit, and yet making no plans to arrive at the Notts until the next day.

That day was spent in a visit at that particular borough, with a disguise charm to make him look like a random, bland adult. It had been merely one day out of many, for he visited frequently for a month, at least once a week and oftentimes twice that.

The stories he gathered from that time was…illuminating.

He claimed that he was merely there as someone's agent to keep a low profile, and so he talked with the publican and anyone else who wouldn't mind giving him a piece of their mind. The news trickled bit by bit, as he encountered different people on different days. Merope was dead, that was quickly established and did not surprise him. Her family was, to borrow a phrase Abraxas would've used with relish, an absolute bellend. That was also not a surprise. Tom had never had any illusions about the decency of humanity; if her family was more capable, they would've raised him by themselves. That he had ended up at Wool's Orphanage instead was a small piece of the answer to him. She was either a fallen woman, or her family was simply something no one respectable would want to write about. He knew enough about both types of women from the families of other children at Wool's.

He'd heard about Merope's obsession with the useless young lordling of the local manor, who was more concerned with horseflesh than anything more productive. The voices of people gossiping with relish stayed with him along with the strength of their morbid curiosity. It was not hard to find people who were too happy to find a fresh ear to listen to this old debacle. They had talked the ears off the people in the neighbouring counties as well years ago, and as such, a new potential audience didn't come by often, especially once they figured out that he was no lackey of the Riddles who would pass on what they said to the family.

Merope's chase of the landlord's handsome son was something of a well-known local spectacle more than a decade ago. There hadn't been a young woman more senseless or shameless before, and they weren't even sure if anyone would be able to outcompete her on that front in the future. Around a year or more into this chase, this local show gave even more shock and unexpected drama to the peanut gallery. The landlord's son seemed to have taken complete leave of his senses at one point and actually ran off with her!

Tom's nails did not just indent his palm, he'd even bruised himself the more he heard of how things had played out more than a decade ago.

Everybody had an opinion and a theory about that, particularly because the entire affair 'made no goddamn sense', as one farmer put it. People clamoured one after another to tell their tale. The landlord's son had never hidden his dislike of her, his expression completely betraying him whenever she came upon his sight or force herself into his company. He'd never had a good word said for her, not even out of politeness

'Well, he'd never been the politest young man, or the smartest—'

' He's a fop, Gertrude. No need to sugar-coat it.'

'—so that might not mean much to you…but he's never been that sharp to anyone else either!' as a passing old woman told him, with her brother cutting in.

'He was already courting a very pretty lady from down south too! Why would he just…run away like that??' a red-nosed middle-aged man argued.

'Yeah, I only met his lady once, but Merope had nothin' on that lady. Nothin', I tell you!'

'Even if it wasn't her, he could've gotten someone much better—he's pretty good lookin', you know?'

Tom almost didn't want to know what he was like, but even the slight glimpses that he saw from a skimming legilimency turned his stomach.

Other than some slight differences, the man practically looked like an older version of himself.

The tales continued of course, each new wreck revealed to him with every new visit, talking to previous contacts or newer people. Nobody was surprised when the landlord's son came running back around a year later like all the hounds of hell were on his trail, or how he never gave a complete answer to anyone questioning him about what happened.

They all saw his face though, and how he either went as pale as sheet, green with ill feelings, or red with anger alternately. He cursed anyone that had asked him questions half the time, the other half, he'd hit one person and came close to blows with at least two more.

After all that, of course he couldn't give a damn about any possible child that she had, Tom had thought distantly. He didn't really need to hear about the man's drunken dalliances with the local barmaids, not really. Nor did he want to hear of one old man's tale of catching him behind the bushes half-naked with a young woman. The flash of image he'd gotten from an accidental legilimency turned him green.

The returning young lordling added drinking to his current list of hobbies on top of horse racing. He could do without seeing the flash of image of the man swaying out of the pub, his collar lopsided and drunk out of his gourd. Tom really didn't need to see someone who was his older double do that, misusing his face with abandon.

He'd had quite enough of the news, but it was unfortunate for him that this time, the pub visitors wasn't done with unloading all that they knew. He couldn't quite decline the opportunity without breaking his cover.

' It's good that his mother has an iron grip on the family's finances—he'd either gamble or piss his inheritance away otherwise' a more perceptive man had commented, even as the red-nosed man he knew from earlier grunted and agreed that it might actually be a good thing that the family's matriarch was a shrew who controlled practically everyone else's expenses and even managed her husband's trips to London.

Tom was ready to wash his hands off the useless man (he refused to even dignify the muggle with a name, which he can't believe they shared ( bloody feather-brained infatuated woman)) when one of the old ladies he'd met earlier took him aside.

' Merope might have been…unusual, but she didn't exactly have anything else, you know?'

No, he didn't know. His reply had been dry. It wasn't as if he'd lived there for decades, was it?

But the old lady didn't give up at his sardonic tone and told him of how Merope was practically a domestic servant at her own house. How Merope's mother had died when she was barely leaving childhood, and her father had saddled her with all the chores, with relish. Her brother simply followed his example and doubled her load.

' And I think he was not quite sparing with the belt. Not often enough or hard enough to leave noticeable marks. The vicar would've found him and asked pointed questions if he did and more, and he had enough low cunning to avoid that. But I've seen some signs, you see, even if it's only very little…'

He'd heard more than enough and he walked away right after that conversation was over. If anything, it made him want to keep at least ten miles of distance between him and any of the people he'd heard about—the Gaunts and the Riddles both.

Family.

For him, the word was the root of his enthusiastic preference to burn the Gaunt and Riddle houses down to their bedrock, occupants included. Wipe the place clean of any trace of these complete failures of human beings. That was what he knew as familial feeling, if at all.

His hand twitched. He'd pointed his wand at a scared house elf before he realised it, and Tom lowered his arm with a long exhale. He would've just moved on, but knowing Hermione's preference for the critters, he met the creature's eyes.

"My apologies, you've caught me at a bad day."

"No problem at all Master Tom! No problem at all."

He almost corrected the house elf when he realised that it was also calling him with that fop's name, and ask it to call him Riddle. Yet even his last name was something he got from him, wasn't it? It wasn't even a magical name, or one that carried the weight of history like Dumbledore.

…he liked the name Gaunt even less.

Burning two houses was starting to look more and more like a good idea to him. Just before he set off to do just that, he realised that this definitely wouldn't be a great gift for Hermione. It was hard to imagine that she'd be very pleased at the list of people he'd offed in the process either. He could picture her with steam coming out of her ears in frustration if he joked that he was just procuring spare (body) parts for his next project.

Standing in his dorm room alone, he chuckled. For all of her logical counter-arguments against him trying to construct a flesh golem, he was not so ignorant as to fail to see that she had clearly-held moral compunctions against them too.

No, it would not be a good present at all.

It was one of the greatest ironies of living, he thought. The witch who missed their family the most was the one who had all of them die on her. The wizard who wanted his family the least was also the one who was unwittingly saddled with all of them. If only there was some way that he could exchange his living family members with hers, then it would've been the perfect Christmas gift, paid for at the perfect price.

'-

Tom had planned to find Slughorn for a second opinion on this matter.

(If there was a lesson that he absorbed from seeing Mrs Cole direct dozens of children of different ages to clean the orphanage together, it was that delegation was the skill that allowed a leader to achieve many things with masses of people. The main skill that allowed a leader to lead is the ability to be listened to.)

He did arrive at Slughorn's office and met the Potion Master who was a little less upbeat than usual. It was tiredness, his head of house admitted, as the end-of-year crunch had arrived upon them ("you don't really think that the house elfs were responsible for all of Hogwarts seasonal decoration, do you?") Tom apologised for interrupting Slughorn's rest time, but the professor waved his concerns away easily. He didn't mind the visit at all, he insisted, and somehow Slughorn had ushered him in within two seconds.

Truly, the speed of his social grace was something to behold.

"What is it, Tom?" his voice was kind as he asked. Tom kept his gaze on his mug.

"I'm not sure how to put it."

Slughorn gave his best supportive smile, which Tom saw when he glanced up once. "You know you can tell me anything, my boy."

The young wizard let the silence build his case for a moment, unspooling anticipation between them. Finally, he sighed and spoke up.

"I can't give Hermione the perfect gift she'd have wanted this Christmas."

"Ah, really? A gift isn't always about how expensive it is or how rare the item is, though it does help. It's also about how genuine you are! I'm sure Hermione would appreciate any gift that you bring her as long as it's from the heart."

The young wizard smiled and didn't bother to make it anything other than the thin one he had right now. It was not as bright as he could make it. It was as comforting as raw ice, a brittle and cold shard of winter.

It matched the heavy snow falling outside.

"The best gift she'd want would be to have her family alive with her."

Tom dropped the statement casually. It sunk into the room with the grace of the Titanic.

Tom's current expression did, however, had the slight upside of being mostly his real inclination than one of the façades he could slip on easily. Not that Slughorn was sharp enough to even tell the difference. However, this was still more cracks than Tom had ever allowed himself to show to his head of house. Slughorn's hesitation and unusual quietness was therefore not an unexpected reaction to him.

"I'm not certain that I can get her anything close to that." The Slytherin finished in a lower voice.

He'd let out a short, involuntary chuckle at the end. Even as he forced himself to be open to Slughorn, to get him to also help with the problem, he kept trying to think around this particular problem himself. He had hoped that he could still find other possible solutions. Yet his efforts so far had been futile. He had failed to come up with any alternatives right now.

Even the usually exuberant Slughorn had no words to say to him, other than a sympathetic pat to his shoulder.

This time, Tom couldn't quite summon the drive to be pleasant in return. He chose to keep his head lowered for a while then, to better keep his thoughts to himself. It was all well and good for the Slytherin Head to be nice—must be great to have the love of the entire Slytherin House, but it didn't exactly help with anything now, does it? It occurred to Tom that it wasn't too different with his experience of going to Slughorn when that impertinent Auror ended up making assumptions about his Hermione. He had succeeded in finding her in the end, but that wasn't because he was following Slughorn's trail in the Ministry.

It had felt like such a narrow escape too.

Tom didn't bother to give a facsimile of happiness anymore. If his smile was a little stiff when he bid Slughorn goodbye, that was no longer his concern.

'-

Tom was quite certain that his plan had been to get a second opinion from Slughorn.

Slughorn hadn't come up with anything better than encouraging words about him 'being there for her' and to 'not let her be alone' as he left the Potion Master's quarters. Tom inwardly rolled his eyes on the latter; Hermione had enough complaints about him sticking to her all the time in all her classes. He'd only started easing up on his distance again now and as such, he wasn't sure the last advice was going to be useful.

He'd thought of giving up for the moment and execute a strategic retreat on the whole endeavour. Perhaps it was time to reassess this campaign; it might be prudent to accept that the current objective had been too lofty within the limited time frame. Perhaps he should aim for something more achievable. Yet a part of him scoffed loudly at that and strongly objected to the idea that he couldn't give Hermione something that she would love more than anything else anyone can find this season.

He knew he could. It would be within his power. He was not one to balk at the cost of something as long as he considered the results to be worth it.

Perhaps, if it was merely about power—

Dumbledore poured hot chocolate for both of them.

"So, what brings you to my humble abode, Mr. Riddle?"

Tom found his throat to be a little itchy and so he cleared it while gathering his thoughts together.

"I may have a, slight, problem." he took a careful breath, making sure that it was not sharp enough to be audible.

Why was he in Dumbledore's office? Which part of his plan required him being in Dumbledore's office? He couldn't quite read the placid calmness in the Transfigurations Master's gaze, and it unsettled him slightly. His eyes flickered back to the garish orange mug Dumbledore had prepared for him, and his eyelid twitched at the colour and he barely succeeded in suppressing a wince. He hadn't been paying attention when the mugs were brought out, simply nodding by reflex when the professor asked him if the mugs would do. Sure, the other one was glowing-mushroom green, but for some reason it still felt more palatable than the eye-searing orange.

At least he provides hot chocolate and not pumpkin milk.

Thank Salazar for small mercies. There was really no accounting for taste in the wizarding world.

(He was trying not to think that he hadn't been paying attention while walking earlier either. He didn't want to wonder precisely why some part of him decided to go here.)

"Tom?"

He couldn't quite suppress the twitch he had at the name, even as he knew that he can't really complain. It was his name, and yet at the same time a mere copy of some cheap and shoddy original.

Hate flared loudly inside his head, and Tom needed a moment to shut it away once more.

"Is there anything I could do for you?" Dumbledore asked, his voice unexpectedly considerate. "Miss Curie couldn't have been caught by another problem just yet, could she? Hogwarts has been rather quiet lately."

The Transfigurations professor mused; his gaze fell on Tom again after a while.

"Hermione's in fine health the last time I saw her," the prefect finally managed to answer.

"And are you?"

Tom blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Are you in fine health too, Mr Riddle?"

His eyes met the professor's blue ones and for the first time, he wasn't sure what he could see there. Tom was sure he was seeing things. Perhaps he'd been a touch tired and overworked, and that was why he'd been a little slower on the uptake and even caused Dumbledore to explicitly express concern. Yes, that's probably it.

"I'm quite well, thank you, Professor."

The answer was a touch too quick to arrive and the corner of Dumbledore's lips twitched. Tom acted as if he didn't see that, more occupied with his hot chocolate as he took another slow sip.

'-

Albus found the whole thing intriguing.

Here was the teenager whose frozen soul had concerned him. Here was the young boy who'd killed and then hung a friend's rabbit from the rafters without even blinking about it, who inflicted cruelty with the same ease as giving a beaming smile. This was the young wizard whom he'd feared would only grow into a feral beast the more power he gained in Hogwarts, devouring other students to sate his own hunger and greed.

Here sat an awkward young man in a teacher's living room, wishing he was somewhere else.

Oh, the boy was level-headed, with a degree of grace that Albus knew some men ten years his senior could still envy. His words were well-chosen, his expression never lacked for charm. He was the very portrait of a talented young man, whose rosy future bloomed in his cheeks and the vigour of youth sprang from his very smile. You couldn't see discomfort in his air at all.

But Albus had seen uncertainty in the flickering looks he'd made occasionally; a cornered deer trying to find an open path to escape. His smile was a little stiff, and Tom had been making small talk without actually touching any major topics yet. It was as amusing as it was a little inconvenient. Thankfully, Albus was quite well-versed in being patient—one either develops the habit for it when one often stalks various rare magical creatures for alchemical reagents, or one gives up on their projects.

And Albus wasn't someone who was prone to giving up easily.

"Would you like some cake or pudding? I have some in the ice box, though I have the warmer varieties too in the pantry if you'd like that instead."

Tom Riddle had raised his head again, but there was more than a hint of disbelief in his eyes.

"So? Cake or pudding? Warm or cold?"

"…a warm pudding would be nice, Professor."

"Excellent! Let's see, now where did I put that…"

He stood up and puttered about in the pantry, chuckling a little when his long hair was almost snagged by a cupboard door that wasn't shut tight. Albus hummed something cheerful to himself as he prepared two plates. He supposed there was some tray around here somewhere, goodness knows that Phyllida had outright asked one from a house elf once when she saw him searching for too long for one. Yet the auburn-haired wizard was feeling a little lazy today and decided that he couldn't be bothered.

It was just the two of them, anyway. He could bring two plates with no problem. Merlin's beard, he can easily float half a dozen plates, for that matter! He was no green stripling with barely any magical knowledge.

That was precisely what he did when he realised that he'd also have to bring the silverware to eat the pudding with.

"And here's the pudding, Mr Riddle."

"Thank you, Professor."

Riddle had stood up the moment Albus and his entourage of floating plates and spoons came around, picking them from the air and placing them down without prompting. His brisk involvement and deft movements in setting the table reminded Albus that this was a child that had grown up doing a myriad of chores around the orphanage. Tom had even casted Scourgify on some accidental drips and even the faintest trace of ring stain on the old coffee table had disappeared now.

He was quick enough that Albus was certain his brother would praise the young man, and offer a position in his establishment should he ever need it. The professor blinked and shook the unexpected image away. Aberforth would've said that he's a good worker. It also ruefully reminded him that he hadn't talked with his brother in months.

They had both sat down again, now with pudding at hand. Albus ate the crème caramel with relish, while Riddle was slower, more careful as he did so.

It was hard to keep thinking of the boy as a threat when he reminded Albus of Aberforth's staff, or of the boy who helped out his father at the pub in the family village. Yet even some of the men who seemed normal may turn out to have raised his fists at his family when drunk. The impression could easily go either way. Then again, he supposed that was true of most.

People can go either way.

The professor glanced at the young wizard's long, tapered fingers. There were hints of callouses here and there, along with the faint traces of scratches or other old wounds. It was another marker of his difference compared to most pureblood scions; these were the hands of someone who hadn't shied away from doing his own work.

Riddle looked like a rather normal young man, really. Even Albus couldn't conjure a vision of his hands splattered in blood.

He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.

Thus, he decided to ignore the discomfiting complicated feeling. Dumbledore smiled and proceeded to treat him like any students he was already familiar with.

"So, how have your classes been?"

"Challenging, but not impossibly difficult," Riddle answered after a little thought.

"You have no concerns about the upcoming end-of-term tests, then?"

The student huffed. "If you review the lessons properly, every day, that would cease to be a problem."

He had guessed that, of course. Riddle didn't strike him as someone who would be careless or sloppy when it comes to his classes. He'd been the student who'd taken the most classes in his year, at least before Hermione came around.

"Professor,"

"Yes?"

"…why do you ask?" The wariness hadn't completely left his gaze.

"The same reason anyone asks about anything—to know." he answered frankly.

That seemed to render the Slytherin speechless for a moment before his brows creased. "You don't really have to care—I'm not one of your House."

Ah, so he's going for blunt honesty once more, then. It was certainly more interesting than mere bland politeness, so Albus didn't mind it at all.

"Yet here you are. I'm also one of your teachers still, Mr Riddle. I do care about the academic progress and concerns of all my students, you know?" His tone was a touch wry.

The young wizard said nothing in reply, his gaze drawn to his mug of hot cocoa once more.

Godric knows what could be so interesting in it. The auburn-haired wizard was even quite certain that Riddle detested that particular glowing shade of orange—he'd seen him suppress a shudder at an overly-enthusiastic supporter of Chudley Cannons completely garbed in the team's colours, for one. It had been a little joke of his, he had to admit, to present it to Riddle at the beginning of his visit to get a reaction out of him. Yet when the prefect barely reacted or requested a change of mug and simply nodded on, Dumbledore realised that there must have been something quite heavy indeed that was weighing on his mind.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" Albus asked again.

For all of his trust in Hermione's competence, a part of him couldn't help but still worry after he'd realised just what misfortune she'd fallen into with Blakeshaw's interference. It was a good thing that Orpheus enlightened him about it. Otherwise…

Well, better safe than sorry.

"I don't know, Professor."

Albus blinked. Did Riddle just…gave up on presenting the image that he had everything under control? That was a surprising shift, so unexpected that he had to quickly search for something to say next as he took his time to digest that.

"Have you tried asking for Horace's opinion?"

"I was there earlier, before I walked here."

"Ah."

Riddle certainly looked as if he was still mulling over the problem himself. If Albus pushed him too fast and too far, he ran the risk of destabilising this delicate deliberation. How can he find out what the problem was without coming across as too nosy? It was a nearly impossible balancing task, and thus he said nothing else for a while. He let the quiet to blanket them once more.

Oddly enough, it was not uncomfortable or that awkward.

"Do you ever wish that you can exchange some terrible living people with those who are good but had died too soon?"

The question came quickly and the banked frustration that drove it wasn't even hidden. Albus could see the fire in Riddle's dark eyes, the wellspring of anger carefully controlled.

Dumbledore's smile was sad but understanding. "All the time, Tom. All the time. But alas what Fate hath written cannot be unwritten. Whose loss did you miss?"

He shook his head. "It wasn't mine—it's Hermione's. I know the best Christmas gift she'd ever want; to be able to meet with her family again. I know it, yet I can't give it to her. My entire plan is a dismal failure. Slughorn's advice of 'be there for her' so she can get through the sadness of spending the holidays without her family is honestly, practically useless."

Albus did not consistently practice tact (it was overrated—really, any Minister of Magic did not need him to sugar-coat any critical news or reports that he had), but this was one of the few times he firmly clamped down on his curiosity. He'd wondered who the terrible people that Riddle knew and wished he could exchange for Hermione's family, but considering that he grew up in an orphanage, that list did not sound as if it was short.

The Head of Gryffindor had heard from several of his prefects of how the Slytherin had torn down Jemima Avery, one that lead her to some sort of psychotic break, even. The details of his words had made the transfigurations professor wince. It was not merely about the cruelty, that was unfortunately rather par for the course for Slytherin intra-house conflicts (regardless of whatever Slughorn insisted on otherwise). It was simply the glimpse that it provided into the world Tom Riddle grew up in; it was hardly a pleasant environment.

Albus could sympathise with Hermione—he knew just how deep the pain of losing family members could inflict.

( Arianna…I'm sorry. I've failed you.)

"There may not be anything that could replace family that you've lost. That one is a fool's errand, Mr Riddle." Albus saw the fire starting to flicker out of Riddle's eyes and he continued on. " However, that doesn't mean that there is no way to ease the pain and salve the wound. Instead of being stuck thinking of their last painful memories, it would be better to remember how they've lived their lives…."

Carefully, he opened that locked corner of his mind that was filled with all things related to his sister. Step by cautious step, he tried to share his experience of what had made the grief more bearable, and how one begins to come to terms with a loss so large that it felt like entire chunks of his life had been torn away.

Albus had no idea how he ended up giving gift-giving advice to Tom Riddle, of all people, but he couldn't argue that it wasn't a pleasant surprise. It was why he loved being in Hogwarts—there was never a dull day.

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End Notes:

Laptop has some dodgy keys on its keyboards. Had to download the copy of the chapter from the cloud and manually edit some formatting and add the end notes manually on my phone. Merde.

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List of Stuff One Might Try to Look Up:

Delft (porcelain): (earthenware) a famous type of earthenware produced in the city of Delft in Netherlands with its distinct blue colouring. Not actually a 'true' porcelain, but still requires intensive skill to create.

The Royal Wizarding Heralds: This is a reference to the wizarding counterpart/sub-section of a real-world institution—the College of Arms also known as Herald's College in the UK. Incorporated under a royal charter dated 2nd of March 1484 by Richard III. Its scope of authority covers granting new coats of arms as people's heraldry, recording pedigrees* and genealogical research. It's the latter's scope of ability that I consider would be relevant in the wizarding world, what with blood being a lot more traceable using magic than it would be in the non-magical world before the advent of DNA sequencing.

'*Recording them to make sure nobody uses two arms that ends up being described the same way, so no one has double coat of arms.

As to why the institution is called the Royal Wizarding Heralds as opposed to the College of Wizarding Arms to fit the modern name of the non-magical counterpart…well, let's just say that the magical side of the institution concerned themselves with the genealogy of magical families and stayed mum on the subject of royal succession. The latter is technically still the purview of the College of Arms, and so they had pretty tense periods in history during times of uncertain successions (the members were split in position during the English Civil War, for one). The wizarding heralds were consistently not in the position of power, and they used that opportunity to duck for cover very well. They also maintained an image of harmlessness to any reigning sovereign.

This served them well, as they still retained their original royal charter.

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