Jules
Katie was gone, sent to St. Mungo's before she woke up or Jules had a chance to talk to her. The news was all over the school by then. Details were fuzzy, but everyone knew that Harry had been there and his friend Greengrass had been instrumental in helping save Katie. Leanne Wengrow, Katie’s best friend and a Hufflepuff, insisted to anyone who asked that the Slytherins had been nothing but helpful. “Black cast some spell that ended the curse, and two of them caught her on a stretcher they just conjured, and then Nott started trying to work out what the curse was, and Greengrass was trying to heal her. Madam Pomfrey said she did a really good job and definitely slowed down the progress of the curse,” Jules had heard Wengrow saying over dinner. It made him, of course, wildly suspicious: sure, maybe the Slytherins just happened to be nearest, and maybe Harry just happened to know how to end the curse, and maybe Greengrass just happened to know some healing charms or countercurses that would work.
That was a long string of coincidences.
Jules… still didn’t think Harry actually had anything to do with it even though that was Ron’s theory. He knew his brother was pretty ruthless when he wanted something but Harry wasn’t the type to hurt random people and as far as Jules knew Harry had only ever treated Katie with a sort of distant respect and courtesy, the way Harry did most people about whom he didn’t care one way or the other. No, Jules was convinced Malfoy had been involved, and that’s why Harry and his pack of snakes knew what to do: it stood to reason they all knew the same sorts of spells, the way the Gryffindors often shared different charms and jinxes with each other.
The one thing nobody seemed to have realized was that Katie wasn’t the real target. Jules, however, had gone and asked Leanne, and he heard that the package had ripped.
"Obviously it was meant for someone else, and she’d been Imperiused, but then the paper tore or something and the curse got Katie instead," said Jules to Ron and Parvati.
“How d’you know?” said Ron. “Maybe whoever it was—” since Jules had said firmly that Harry had nothing to do with this, while Ron maintained Harry was probably in on it with Malfoy— “wanted to scare people. That’s the kind of tactics You-Know-Who liked using before. Terrify ‘em into listening, or whatever. Show everyone no one’s safe here.”
Parvati, meanwhile, continued her new policy of feigning deafness whenever Jules mentioned his Malfoy-Is-a-Death-Eater theory.
Jules had wondered where Dumbledore was over the weekend. All McGonagall would or could say was that he was gone on personal business. Having seen no sign of the Headmaster by Monday evening, at the time of Jules’ next scheduled lesson, Jules wasn’t sure if he should even still go; but no one had told him not to, so off he went. The password from last week’s note worked and, when he knocked at the top of the stairs, he was bade enter.
There sat Dumbledore, looking unusually tired, though he smiled when he gestured to Jules to sit down. His cursed hand looked maybe a little more shriveled and cramped the last time Jules was in here. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling.
"Hogwarts has had rather a busy time while I have been away," Dumbledore said. “I presume you have heard of Miss Bell’s unfortunate accident?”
"Yes, sir. How is she?"
"Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin. There was a tiny hole in her glove. Miss Greengrass, I have heard from Madam Pomfrey, was also instrumental in slowing the curse; the two of them held it back long enough for Professor Snape to study the curse and determine how to properly remove it from her and allow for healing.”
Jules’ jaw flexed. Of course it was Snape. No one could argue he was good at Dark magic, though why Dumbledore seemed to think that was more reason to trust him, not less, remained a mystery.
“Anyway, the St. Mungo's staff are sending me hourly reports,” Dumbledore went on, which seemed to Jules something of an invasion of Katie’s medical privacy, but okay, “and I am hopeful that Miss Bell will make a full recovery in time."
"Where were you this weekend, sir?" Jules asked, disregarding a strong feeling that he might be pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by several of the portraits, who often thought he was impertinent, and several of whom made rather discontented noises.
"I would rather not say just now," said Dumbledore. "However, I shall tell you in due course."
"You will?"
"Yes, I expect so," said Dumbledore serenely, withdrawing a fresh bottle of silver memories from inside his robes and uncorking it with a prod of his wand.
Oh, okay, he’d been off hunting down more information. Part of Jules couldn’t help wondering just why the fuck Dumbledore didn’t do this years ago. So far none of the memories had even happened within Jules’ lifetime. Why had Dumbledore suddenly made this a priority?
"Professor," said Jules, after a short pause, "did Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?"
"She told me of your suspicions, yes," said Dumbledore.
"And do you — ?"
"I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Miss Bell’s accident," said Dumbledore. "But what concerns me now, Julian, is our lesson."
Jules tamped down his resentment. Dumbledore had said no more secrets, and yet he seemed to be keeping just as many. But he said no more about Draco Malfoy. Clearly he was on his own for that one like he’d been in first year with the Stone.
Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the Pensieve and gently swirled the basin around while speaking in a thoughtful tone. "You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort's beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his wife, Merope, a witch of the House of Gaunt, 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 do you know she was in London, sir?"
"Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke," said Dumbledore, "who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing."
He swilled the contents of the Pensieve. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes, who spoke in an unpleasant, self-satisfied sort of voice.
"Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Yule, oh, years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, and, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along . . . Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin's. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, 'Oh, this was Merlin's, this was, his favorite teapot,' but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!"
Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come.
"He only gave her ten Galleons?" said Jules indignantly. For an heirloom like that, and bought off a pregnant, obviously destitute witch, over the holidays? Forget paying her a fair price, Jules would’ve whisked her straight off to St. Mungo’s and tried to help her find somewhere to live after she had her baby.
"Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity," said Dumbledore. "So we know 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, the locket that was one of Marvolo's treasured family heirlooms."
"But she could do magic!" said Jules. "She had a wand, we saw that much, and she might not have been a great witch but she wasn’t a squib… If nothing else, couldn’t she have magicked some Muggle into letting her stay in an empty flat? I know it’s not—not right—but if you’re not turning someone else out, and it’s that or lose your baby…”
"Ah," said Dumbledore, "perhaps she could have. But it is my belief—I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right—that when her husband abandoned 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; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life."
This explanation didn’t sit right. Jules had almost immediately seen the problem with his own idea: Merope had lived her entire life cloistered away with no idea of how the wizarding world worked, let alone the Muggle. Being out in Muggle London was confusing for Jules who had grown up going Muggle decently often. And…
"She wouldn't even stay alive for her son?"
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?"
"No," said Jules quickly, and then frowned. “Well, I mean, yeah, I guess. He was just a baby then. He wasn’t even born yet, he hadn’t done anything to anyone. It could’ve been any baby in there.”
"Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her,” said Dumbledore gently, “and while it speaks to your character that you would sympathize with her unborn child, you ought not judge her too harshly, my boy. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother's courage."
His mother’s courage.
Jules was only alive because his mother had died for him and Harry. Jules had grown up surrounded by mothers who would kill and die for their children: Molly Weasley, Andromeda Tonks. So no, Jules didn’t think Merope had just chosen to die and give up. Or, if she had, he had to think some really awful shite had happened to push her that far. Someone hawking their last family heirloom for a pittance to get a room in which to give birth… that wasn’t someone who’d given up, who wanted to die.
Maybe there was a problem with the pregnancy. She hadn’t looked very healthy in the memory of the Gaunt shack. Maybe she was sick, or weak, and her magic wasn’t working right; that could happen, Jules thought, having a baby’s developing magic inside a witch could make the witch’s magic hyperactive and stuff. Molly had said once that her charms were either overpowered or just didn’t work while she was having Fred and George. Or, he suddenly thought, maybe she just never learned the right spells! For Merlin’s sake, she’d never gone to Hogwarts, and it wasn’t like the Gaunts had had a single book lying around that hovel they called a house.
But obviously Dumbledore didn’t want to hear any of that. Obviously Dumbledore had already made up his mind and was just letting Jules think it all through.
"I guess you’re right,” Jules said, and Dumbledore beamed at him. Ooookay. “Where are we going?"
"This time," said Dumbledore, "we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Julian…”
Jules touched a finger to the surface of the memory-liquid. For a second he felt its cool half-smoke half-liquid texture and then he was plummeting through darkness.
His feet hit firm ground. He opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street, dusty and choked with Muggle automobiles very different from the ones Jules saw nowadays, and Muggles wearing clothes that he thought were from a long time ago. The buildings, too, were different, and—Jules squinted up—the air was thick with heavy smog, as if there had been a fire. “What’s wrong with the air?”
“That, I believe, is the byproduct of Muggle factories—they burned great quantities of coal, you see, in order to power them, and this was an area largely inhabited by the people who worked in those factories,” said Dumbledore, looking about.
Jules looked a little closer at the people near them. Most appeared pretty worn down and haggard: their clothes weren’t great quality and lots of them were really dirty like they’d been working somewhere with lots of soot or something. It was just a memory, but Jules felt kind of bad for them, running around like this without so much as a cleaning charm or anything. How Muggles got on without magic always impressed and confused him in equal measure. They had lots of really brilliant ways to do things with machines and whatever that Jules could do with just his wand, but Merlin, it seemed exhausting to have to live like this.
"There I am," said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart. This younger Albus Dumbledore's long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing.
"Nice suit, sir," said Jules, before he could stop himself.
Dumbledore chuckled. Jules smiled, but he hadn’t really been making a joke. Younger Dumbledore, dressed like that, around all these people who looked like they hadn’t money to spare for shoes without holes in them, stuck out like a sore thumb, especially since he didn’t seem to care how much or why he kept drawing attention.
They followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a courtyard of scrubby weeds and packed dust that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. The very walls seemed to give off an air of unhappiness and depression.
Jules hated it on sight.
Young Dumbledore mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron, who looked Dumbledore up and down with an expression of pronounced disdain.
"Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?"
"Oh," said the girl. "Um. . . just a mo' . . . MRS. COLE!" she bellowed over her shoulder. “Y’AVE A VISITOR!”
Jules winced at the volume.
A distant voice shouted something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore. "Come in, she's on 'er way."
Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean; and empty, aside from their welcoming committee, who picked up a mop and bucket and scurried off into a side room.
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, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold.
"Good afternoon," said Dumbledore, 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 Jules now saw 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. Jules resolutely did not look at either Dumbledore as this went on: it was the sort of behavior Dad had always taught him was not okay, because Muggles were defenseless against magic and you weren’t supposed to use that against them unless it was to protect yourself.
"That seems perfectly in order," Mrs. Cole 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 and Jules twitched a little bit.
"Er — may I offer you a glass of gin?" she said in an extra-refined voice.
"Thank you very much," said younger Dumbledore, beaming.
Jules tried not to gape.
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. She smacked her lips and she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time. Jules had never seen any kind of alcohol hit anyone that quickly and wondered if the gin was potioned. There were some potions that you could give Muggles without making them too sick… he wouldn’t have thought it, before today, but…
Young Dumbledore didn’t hesitate to press the 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," said 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 inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass.
Jules was now absolutely certain that the gin had been potioned or spelled.
"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 Jules 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?"
That was… gory.
"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. It got physical, you know how boys are, and Tom’s always been slight. 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?" said Dumbledore. "He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer."
"Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker," said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Jules 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 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, Jules saw, were all wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, or at least they weren’t skinny to the point of being unhealthy, but it was also obvious that neither was there an abundance of food. The worst part was the looks on their faces. Not a one of them regarded Mrs. Cole with anything like affection, or trust, or curiosity. Every single kid they passed just looked wary or seemed to outright shrink and avoid attention.
No one should have to grow up in a place like this. Not even baby Voldemort.
"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."
Jules and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.
There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. Merope had got her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old but skinny like Mrs. Cole had said, dark-haired, and pale. A smudge of a fading bruise showed on his collarbone where his slightly-too-big shirt had slid to the side.
The boy’s 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.
Tom 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. Jules shuddered.
"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. Fuck. Jules, who had spent ages studying an Auror body language manual at Moody’s instruction, saw his already tense shoulders get even more so, and the tightening skin under his eyes.
Riddle had started off afraid and Dumbledore’s ability to resist what was surely an impressive display of intentional magic use had made him even more so. Afraid like a cornered animal.
"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!”
His Muggle lower-class accent got stronger with every word. Even knowing this kid would turn into Voldemort, Jules felt bad for him; whatever an asylum was he was obviously terrified of it.
"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.” Well maybe you should have led with that, Jules thought. “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, alight. His expression was one Jules had seen on all sorts of Gryffindor’s Muggleborns when they first did something like cast a Protego or start a fire with their wand. "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, not—not evil. 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, transforming his features for the first time from guarded fear into open, uncautious, blazing delight.
"Are you a wizard too?"
"Yes, I am."
"Prove it," said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, "Tell the truth."
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.'"
Jules winced at that tone of voice. It definitely wasn’t going to do anything to help with a kid this freaked out—and yeah, sure enough, Riddle’s expression had already hardened off again, every trace of real emotion vanished behind that same scarily good mask. He was just as good—Jules jolted a bit—just as good at that as Harry had been at eleven.
"I'm sorry, sir. I meant — please, Professor, could you show me — ?" Riddle said, in an unrecognizably polite voice. This, too, Jules had seen before, that kind of uncanny on-a-knut switch from one behavior to another.
But giving Muggle-raised students some kind of demonstration was common practice, Hermione had told them all about McGonagall making her living room furniture dance about the room. And, really, Jules couldn’t blame Riddle, who had apparently had Mrs. Cole as a benchmark of good manners, for getting demanding about proof that magic was real. Hermione had said her parents took half an hour and sixteen spells to be convinced.
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 with a howl of shock and rage: all his worldly possessions must be in there. Jules realized he too had lunged forward and sheepishly withdrew, glancing at the older Dumbledore, who merely gave Jules an indulgent smile and beckoned him back to continue watching from the side of the room.
But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.
Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore. Fear and rage vanished behind 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, and the fear returned to Riddle’s face.
"Open the door," said Dumbledore in a forbidding voice.
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. Jules, who had expected something much more exciting, saw 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 baldly, "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?" interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon with some awe leaking out from behind the disturbingly blank mask.
"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.
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, and all Jules could see was— "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?"
Jules wondered why he’d waited this long to ask that. Maybe to impress, though it didn’t seem any weirder, from some random kid’s point of view, than controlling animals or—or hurting people. Maybe it was fear.
"It is unusual," said Dumbledore, 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 Jules’ side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the present-day office.
"Sit down," said Dumbledore, landing beside Jules.
Jules obeyed, his mind still full of what he had just seen. Dumbledore seemed to be patiently waiting for him to think things through.
"Did you know — then?" asked Jules slowly.
"Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time?" said Dumbledore. "No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others' sake as much as his.”
Jules nodded and opened his mouth, but then shut it again. Dumbledore probably wouldn’t want Jules to ask why he had been so short with a kid who was a rude little berk but had quite obviously grown up surrounded by other rude little berks and no adults who cared to teach them otherwise.
“He was really good with magic at that age,” Jules said instead.
"That he was. His powers, as you heard, were remarkably intentional for a child of his age. Most magical children do not learn conscious control of their magic before they gain wands.” Jules nodded again; he’d tried doing magic now and then as a kid, but mostly by filching Dad’s wand. Kids not being able to do wandless magic on purpose was… everyone knew that. Except clearly that wasn’t true, and they could, and maybe most kids didn’t bother trying because they thought it was pointless.
Dumbledore went on: “More notably, he was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive. . . . 'I can make them hurt if I want to. . . .'"
“Did you see the bruise, though?” said Jules. “And Mrs. Cole said he got into some kind of fight with that other kid, Billy something. I’m not saying it was right,” he added quickly, when Dumbledore began to look disapproving, “but, I mean… it’s not like we know for sure he started all that stuff.”
“Children everywhere can be thoughtlessly unkind,” Dumbledore said, “but most of them, indeed most magical children, do not grow up to become Dark Lords, or even dark wizards. You must remember, Julian, that it is not the circumstances which made Tom Riddle what he is. Perhaps he was influenced, but to use his magic in such a way? To torment other children by stealing their treasures, in a place of such scarcity; and by killing their pets, and doing permanent mental damage after luring them away? You are a good man, Julian, and it is only natural to wish that no child should have to grow up in an orphanage, in the care of adults whose attention is at best rather erratic. But do not doubt that Lord Voldemort took pleasure in causing pain long before he set foot in Hogwarts.”
“It was pretty disturbing,” Jules admitted, mostly because he didn’t want to disagree outright, but… well. Sure, baby Voldemort had done some messed up stuff, but none of it was exactly Dark Lord behavior. If Cormac McLaggen didn’t have teachers and Hermione slapping him with detention every other day he probably would’ve been just as awful to other kids in Hogwarts.
He didn’t want to say all that, so he added, "And he was a Parselmouth," in hopes of changing the subject.
"Yes. A rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although not as indubitably as the current beliefs may tell you. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination.” Dumbledore sighed, and a troubled expression crossed his face. “All behaviors associated with Dark wizards, those who deal pain and subjugation without remorse.”
Jules sat back and tried to think of something else to say.
Dumbledore glanced at the now-dark windows and sat up a bit straighter. "Alas, time is making fools of us again. But before we part, I want to draw your attention to certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings.
"Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle's reaction when I mentioned that another shared his first name, 'Tom'?"
Jules nodded.
"There he showed his contempt for anything that tied him to other people, anything that made him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, separate, notorious. He shed his name, as you know, within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of ‘Lord Voldemort' behind which he has been hidden for so long.
"I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless? He did not want help or companionship on his trip to Diagon Alley. He preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, that they alone are close to him, even understand him. They are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one.
"And lastly — I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Julian — the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behavior, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later.
"And now, it really is time for bed."
Jules got to his feet. As he walked across the room, his eyes fell upon the little table on which Marvolo Gaunt's ring had rested last time, but the ring was no longer there.
"Yes, Julian?" said Dumbledore, for Jules had come to a halt.
"The ring's gone," said Jules, looking around. "But I thought you might have the mouth organ or something."
Dumbledore beamed at him, peering over the top of his hall' moon spectacles.
"Very astute, Julian, but the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ."
And on that enigmatic note he waved to Jules, who understood himself to be dismissed, and took his leave, mind spinning.
Honestly, he couldn’t help thinking Dumbledore wasn’t totally right about Voldemort. Wanting to be special and not have a common name like Tom, that was convincing, and the way he liked to collect stuff, sure—little trophies and trinkets. It was the kind of messed-up thing the present-day Voldemort would probably do. Jules could imagine him taking trophies from people he’d killed and, like, going through them like someone would a photo album—okay, yeah, no, he wasn’t going to think about that.
But then there was the wanting to be alone thing. Dumbledore had acted like—like a kid not wanting a minder to go shopping was a bad sign. But Jules thought Mrs. Cole had probably never been someone Riddle could rely on, and it didn’t look like there were any other adults around, and anyways Dumbledore had been… kind of… rude and dismissive, and if Jules was being really honest with himself, he could see why Riddle wouldn’t have wanted Dumbledore along while he shopped.
What bugged Jules the most was something he didn’t dare bring up to Dumbledore or anyone else.
Tom Riddle reminded him irrevocably of Harry.
They looked somewhat alike, when Jules remembered Harry that first summer—skinnier than they should be, pale, dark-haired and shifty-eyed. Hot shame made Jules flush to think back on how dismissive he’d been of Harry then, calling him weird and not giving a single thought to why his long-lost twin was so withdrawn and awkward and unlike Jules himself. Harry’s mask back then, his distrust of people, the way he’d shut down at the littlest thing and seem resigned about it like he hadn’t expected anything else—all that Jules saw in Riddle. They were both half-bloods, both oddly powerful, both raised in the Muggle world in desperately unhappy places with adults who didn’t love or care for them, both sorted Slytherin where they went on to gain a power base among the House’s wealthy and powerful.
But there the similarities stopped, because whatever else you could say about Harry, he wasn’t a blood purist and he did care about people. His friends were his friends… in a weird sort of way, because Jules had eyes, he could see how Harry was the center of all their orbits… and Harry would go to the ends of the earth for them. For Jules too.
Dumbledore was so convinced Tom Riddle had been bad from the start. Maybe he was. But growing up like that sure hadn’t helped.
And another thing… now that he was thinking of it, there was another similarity, one that made Jules want to sit down on the floor and maybe cry a little.
Both Harry and Tom Riddle had been abandoned by their fathers.
Maybe it wasn’t the same. Dad had thought Harry had gone to people who’d love him and that Harry as a Squib would really be better off with Muggles. Jules believed that Dad had really believed both of those things. But it wasn’t a loving home and Harry wasn’t better off, even if he had been a Squib, which obviously he wasn’t. And Dad had never… never even looked.
Jules couldn’t imagine not looking, if it was him. Even if it hurt to see his son and never know him. He’d want to know if he was okay.
The tears were slipping out despite his best efforts to hold them at bay. Jules ducked into the nearest door, found himself in a storeroom of some kind, and sat on a crate with his face in his hands; and he cried for the father who had fucked up Jules’ relationship with his brother maybe forever, and for the brother he might have had, and for a ten-year-old Harry in his head, looking up with burning, greedy eyes upon being told by a wizard he could leave his miserable life for a world of magic.