Chapter One
July 1937
Tom Riddle was sitting on top of the grey blankets of his bed trying to read an old book when two sharp raps on the door announced the arrival of Mrs Cole.
‘Tom? You’ve got a visitor,’ the woman told him without meeting his eyes. He caught a flicker of movement behind her in the doorway. ‘This is Mr Dumberton - sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you - well, I’ll let him do it.’
A flamboyant looking man with long auburn hair and a matching beard stepped into the room uninvited, smiling across at him as if they’d known each other for years. The stranger was wearing a horrible plum suit, made of velvet - unlike anything he’d seen someone wear before.
Mrs Cole closed the door behind the man with a snap, leaving them alone. Tom stared, feeling a strong prickle of annoyance.
His blood boiled slightly that Mrs Cole had not asked permission for the man to enter his territory. He hated the shame he felt, but his room was incredibly bare, with only an iron-framed bed, a wardrobe and a wooden chair. He put down his book.
‘How do you do, Tom?’ The man said now, walking forwards and offering him a bony hand.
Tom hesitated for a moment before shaking it, deciding he was curious enough to show a semblance of politeness. The man sat down on the chair, making a show of bringing it closer to the bed. Closer to him. Tom watched him suspiciously, saying nothing.
‘I am Professor Dumbledore.’
‘‘Professor’?’ He repeated warily. ‘Is that like ‘doctor’?’ His suspicions grew further as he remembered Billy Stubbs’ recently deceased rabbit. Mrs Cole was always sharper than she looked - he’d known she suspected him. ‘What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?’
Dumbledore’s blue eyes followed Tom’s finger towards the door, where Mrs Cole had left. He smiled in apparent understanding. ‘No, no.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Tom said with a shake of his head. ‘She wants me looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!’ He spoke the last three words with all of the venom he could muster, staring hard at the strange man.
It had always worked whenever he’d given commands like that before. He’d always notice the prickle of fear when he framed his words that way. He liked knowing people found him difficult to disobey. Being in control.
This man, however, continued to smile at him, infuriatingly so. It hadn’t worked. Tom prickled with irritation, though he felt slightly unnerved by the audaciousness of his visitor. He changed tact.
‘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 leapt up from his bed, backing furiously away from the man towards the window behind him.
‘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!’
The foolish man had barely raised an eyebrow at Tom’s outburst. ‘I am not from the asylum,’ he said patronisingly. ‘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,’ Tom sneered, imagining the white-coats trying to wheel him into a curtained out ambulance. Whoever tried to force him to do anything would feel his wrath, he thought.
‘Hogwarts,’ continued Dumbledore as if he wasn’t even listening, ‘is a school for people with special abilities -’
‘I’m not mad!’ He interrupted again, clenching his fists. Was the idiot even paying attention?
‘I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.’
Tom froze at this, his vicious retort suddenly dead in his throat… He looked between the man’s eyes, trying to catch him out in the lie… he could always tell. The blue eyes looked back at him with earnest.
‘Magic?’ He whispered, a strange feeling crossing his mind.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Dumbledore with an overly patient nod.
‘It’s… it’s magic, what I can do?’
‘What is it you can do?’
‘All sorts,’ Tom replied, a flush of pleasure crashing through his body. He thought back through some of his wonderful abilities, a crashing understanding dawning on his features.
‘I can make things move without touching them,’ he admitted boldly. ‘I can make animals do whatever I want them to do, without training them.’ He paused, wanting to impress. ‘I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.’
Tom felt his legs shaking as he voiced this. He sank down onto his bed, staring down at his hands in wonder.
‘I knew I was different,’ he whispered out loud. ‘I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something…’ He felt a lick of vindictive pleasure as he remembered the mocking of the other children when they were small. Nobody at the orphanage mocked him these days. Especially not after they’d visited the secret cave on their last summer outing. They were all well aware of the hurt he could cause them if he chose.
‘Well, you were quite right,’ replied the Professor solemnly. ‘You are a wizard.’
Tom felt as if a jolt of lightning had struck his brain at these words, hitting him like a locomotive. A wizard. Of course! He felt a mad thrill take over him as he looked back up at the man, smiling widely.
He took in the Professor’s strange appearance as if for the first time, feeling a small pang of disappointment amidst the thrill of this great discovery when he suddenly realised something.
‘Are you a wizard too?’
‘Yes, I am.’ Dumbledore nodded.
Tom looked him up and down. ‘Prove it!’ he heard himself say in the same commanding tone he’d used before. This man couldn’t possibly do what he could, he scoffed internally.
This time his command seemed to have an effect, though perhaps not the one he’d hoped for; the man raised his eyebrows.
Is he mocking me? Tom wondered. He didn’t like this Dumbledore.
‘If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts -’
‘Of course I am!’ Tom said quickly, forcing himself not to roll his eyes with impatience. He was going to a school of magic. He wanted to shout with glee, to see magic for himself. Was that so much to ask?
‘Then you will address me as ‘Professor’, or ‘sir’,’ said Dumbledore haughtily.
Tom felt another flash of innate anger. In less than a second, he realised this man was not somebody he could easily manipulate, nor control.
Thinking rapidly, he slammed up a mental wall to hide his discomfort and changed tact again. He decided to offer implicit politeness this time, though it pained him for this old fool.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I meant - please, Professor, could you show me?’
It worked. The man reached into an inside pocket of his suit jacket, drawing a long and decorative stick. Tom watched eagerly as Dumbledore pointed it at his wardrobe. It burst into sudden flames.
Horrified, he jumped back to his feet with a howl of rage. All of his coveted possessions were inside that wardrobe - No! How dare he!
Even as he turned to scream profanity into the man’s crooked-nosed face, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged… It was magic. Tom stared greedily at the wooden stick, unable to stop himself pointing.
‘Where can I get one of them?’ He demanded.
‘All in good time,’ replied the man. ‘I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.’
Tom heard a rattling from inside his wardrobe, and for the first time, felt truly afraid.
‘Open the door,’ the man prompted.
He had little choice but to obey. The man could likely set him on fire if he refused. He sulkily flung open the door, but hesitated when the cardboard box of coveted items he’d hidden on the top shelf rattled at him ominously. The man wanted his box?
‘Take it out.’
Tom did as he was told, trying to hide his shaking fingers from view.
‘Is there anything in the box that you ought not to have?’ Dumbledore asked him in an annoyingly pleasant tone.
He glanced at the man, wondering whether to lie, understanding again that this was not a person he should cross. How had he known?
‘Yes, I suppose so, sir,’ he replied woodenly.
‘Open it.’
He had no choice. He took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed. He didn’t even look down when they stopped rattling, mortified at how blindsided he felt. He saw Dumbledore survey the items with interest.
‘You will return them to their owners with your apologies,’ the Professor commanded him. ‘I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned; thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.’
Tom stared at him rather coldly, though he knew there was no getting around it. He forced the dissatisfaction to the back of his mind, unwilling to let the man see.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘At Hogwarts, 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.’
Tom was listening closely, his thoughts racing as he repacked his little box of coveted items. The Ministry of Magic, he’d said - so government of some kind.
He saw a flickered image of his own future in a heartbeat, of himself at the peak of this pyramid of power. If he could show his talent at this Hogwarts school, then it could all be his, surely…
He began to wonder what punishment wizards could possibly hand out to other wizards before realising Dumbledore required an answer.
He nodded in acknowledgment. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said again. He had a lot of work to do if he was going to prove his worth to these wizards. This old man had seen a bit too much for his liking, however... impervious as he seemed to Tom's own power.
He needed one of those magic sticks, and there had to be other requirements for this school. A realisation hit him and he turned to look at the man.
‘I haven’t got any money.’
‘That is easily remedied,’ replied Dumbledore, drawing a leather pouch from a pocket and offering it to Tom. He took it as the man continued, ‘There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on second-hand, but -’
‘Where do you buy spellbooks?’ This was important to know, he thought eagerly. He examined a strange gold coin from the leather pouch, though he listened carefully to the response.
‘In Diagon Alley. I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything -’
‘You’re coming with me?’ He interrupted yet again. He knew he needed to work on his patience with the man, however this was not welcome news.
‘Certainly, if you’d -’
‘I don’t need you,’ Tom replied quickly in another attempt to dominate the conversation. ‘I’m used to doing things for myself, I go around London on my own all the time.’ It was a lie, but one he hoped the man would not catch.
He couldn’t imagine himself walking down any street with someone like this. He’d prefer to take it all in for himself.
‘How do I get to this Diagon Alley?’ The man caught his eye and he quickly remembered to add, ‘Sir?’
If the Professor had been about to insist, he suddenly changed his mind. He handed Tom an envelope, which he took without opening. He listened intently as directions from the orphanage were relayed, to a secret place known as the ‘Leaky Cauldron’.
‘You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you - non-magical people, that is - will not.’
Muggles, Tom sneered internally. There’s even a word for people without special powers… Like Mrs Cole, the Muggle.
Dumbledore continued, ‘Ask for Tom the barman - easy enough to remember, as he shares your name -’ Tom’s muscles tensed automatically at these words, and the man paused, taking in his response.
‘You dislike the name ‘Tom’?’
‘There are a lot of Toms,’ he admitted quietly, as the knowledge of how he’d gotten his name sprung to the forefront of his brain. He hated to show that he was uninformed, but he suddenly burst out, ‘Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ replied the man in a somber tone.
Tom found this hard to believe - of course his father would have been powerful too. He’d had the fleeting idea his father might have once ran this Ministry of Magic Dumbledore’d mentioned, though perhaps the self-proclaimed teacher was too low down in the pecking order to know.
‘My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t have died,’ he muttered out loud. ‘It must have been him.’
He realised the Professor was still watching him intently and changed the subject. ‘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,’ gestured the man. ‘You will leave from King’s Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there, too.’
Tom nodded and Dumbledore got to his feet before offering his hand. Shaking it, he realised he had failed to make a good impression.
A sudden urge to change this made its way to his lips and he heard himself admit, ‘I can speak to snakes… I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips - they find me, they whisper to me.’ He felt a wave of pleasure when Dumbledore looked at him uncertainly for the first time. He continued, ‘Is that normal for a wizard?’
‘It is unusual,’ the man replied after a pause, still holding Tom’s outstretched hand in his own. Dumbledore was looking down at him curiously. ‘But not unheard of.’
They stared back at each other and Tom felt a thrill of satisfaction when the man broke eye contact first, dropping his hand. He was at the door in an instant.
‘Goodbye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.’
Tom sat alone for a few seconds in awed silence after Dumbledore left the room, his mind racing. He sloped off his bed after collecting himself and sprinted out the door after the man, shoving impatiently past Dennis Bishop at the top of the stairs. He caught sight of the plum coloured suit at the bottom just as the man was about to turn down a corridor.
‘Professor Dumbledore,’ he called down boldly. The man turned to look back up at him, his auburn beard swinging slightly.
‘What is it, Tom?’ He asked lightly.
‘How long will I be coming to this Hogwarts for?’
‘I imagine you’ll stay with us for the full seven years. You’ll have to return to the orphanage over the summer holidays at the very least, but you’ll be allowed to stay for the remainder of each year if you so wished.’
Mrs Cole came out of another doorway beside the Professor at that moment, and looked between the man and Tom with a sort of bewildered expression on her pudgy face.
‘Is everything alright?’ She asked the Professor as one of the urchins in a spare room began to screech annoyingly.
‘Oh, yes. I think everything is in order, Mrs Cole,’ Dumbledore replied with an overly gratuitous smile. ‘Thank you again for your marvellous gin earlier.’ His eyes twinkled up at Tom as he said this, who looked back with slightly narrower eyes now.
So Mrs Cole had filled his head with stories of him already, had she?
‘Farewell, young Tom. I’ll be seeing you.’
Mrs Cole had turned away, her eyes looking strangely disoriented…
Dumbledore clicked his fingers and disappeared into thin air within the blink of an eye, leaving Tom to stare hungrily at the place where he’d been stood.
***
As the warm summer faded slowly into August, Mrs Cole had found Tom to have been strangely polite in the orphanage ever since the visit of Mr Donnalore or whatever his name had been.
She found herself wondering whether she’d apportioned an unfair or biased description of the boy, but whenever she tried to recall the details of the conversation, it was always somewhat hazy.
She was loathe to be a gossip, but my, Tom was a strange boy… whatever she’d told the teacher, she doubted it was wrong.
She remembered clearly his traumatic birth on the New Years Eve of Nineteen Twenty-Six, born in blood and gore.
The death of his waif mother barely an hour after he was born came as a shock to none of them, pallid and sickly as she’d been on her arrival. She’d been as plain a woman as Mrs Cole thought it possible to be.
‘I hope he looks like his papa,’ the waif had whispered. ‘His name… Tom Riddle, after… his father… Marvolo… after my own father. Please.’ She had died without another word and had later been buried in the small pauper’s yard across the street.
Tom had visited the grave there once or twice in his earlier years, but he’d never asked much about her after Mrs Cole told him of how he’d gotten his name. He was always detached from her, somehow.
Mrs Cole thought it right the girl had gotten her dying wish as the boy did not show anything of her in his features, thankfully.
Tom was very handsome, even for his young age of eleven. He was tall and lean, elegantly dark haired with bold dark eyes. He was solemn, but that only added to his looks. He'd be a heartbreaker, as the saying went.
As the years past by, no Tom Riddle senior, nor any person called Marvolo, had ever showed up to collect the boy, so he’d remained to grow up at the orphanage.
Mrs Cole hadn’t expected it, given the likelihood of the boy being born out of wedlock, but still, it was difficult not to feel badly for the children who were forced to grow up in the poor, rather grim environment they did at Wool’s.
She knew Tom’d always had an unusual way about him. He’d never cried, not even as a baby. He rarely showed emotion at all, now she thought of it. He’d offer a scathing look from the corner of his eye, an odd - awareness, perhaps - which had never faltered, but he was otherwise almost adult-like in his demeanour.
She’d always found him to be an overtly sharp and intelligent boy, probably more so than she thought it normal for a child like him to be. Tom forever had his head in a book, preferring to spend his hours reading long histories of war rather than playing out with the other children.
He was always alone, and never seemed to enjoy the company of his peers, ignoring all encouragement until she’d finally given up trying. He was a child without any particular joy.
She’d always noticed the other children stayed clear of him, and nobody ever ventured into his room, especially not alone… Whenever something bad happened, Tom would invariably have been present, and Mrs Cole was not a believer in great coincidences, though the boy had proven himself impossible to catch actually doing something he shouldn’t.
Mrs Cole knew young Tom Riddle was at the bottom of a lot of these things from over the years. She was also acutely aware Tom knew this, too, and this made her uneasy.
He’d grown up to be sullen and often rather rude towards her, and she had to admit at times she found it difficult to look the child in the eye… she’d often imagined herself to see a red gleam behind the dark eyes.
It would send a shiver of unexplainable fear down the nape of her neck before she’d remember she was the one in charge. Any other child would receive a spanking, but for a reason she couldn’t fully understand, she never did lay a hand on Tom Riddle.
Occasionally, Mrs Cole had heard a panicked scream upstairs, or one of the children would be found with an unexplainable injury. This wasn’t unusual in a place such as Wool’s, but nobody could ever tell her who was responsible.
Nobody had ever actually named him, so of course she couldn't be completely certain… But every time something did happen, Mrs Cole would turn to find a young Tom, who'd be standing watching her in silence, the ghost of a smile on his perfect features.
***
Tom, for his part, was counting down the days until he could leave the orphanage behind. He’d thought carefully over the advice Professor Dumbledore had given him, and had decided however loathsome, it was best to do as he’d been told.
Tom had taken special note of the Professor’s words; ‘I shall know whether it has been done.’
He had therefore obediently gathered the trinkets which he’d stolen from the other children from the box and returned them in secret, though he decided against an apology to any of his victims. That would seem weak - as if he’d been wrong.
Each of the items he’d collected had felt special to him, a souvenir from a time he’d exerted authority; of pain or control... Dumbledore had taken that from him.
There’d been an old tarnished mouth-organ, which Tom despised the sound of. He’d taken it from Eric Whalley the year before.
Eric had told them all the mouth-organ had belonged to his grandfather, spending countless hours breathing his fetid breath into it and distracting Tom from his books with it’s harsh, tuneless noise.
There’d finally been a day Tom’d been forced to sit in the day-room with the other children. He’d done his best to ignore them all but Eric had been trying to make funny songs with the mouth-organ to impress the little ones.
Tom had felt a flash of maddening anger and slammed his book down into his knees, causing the children to look over at him in fear.
The tuneless noise from Eric had abruptly stopped.
He distinctly remembered the look of panic on Eric’s face when he realised his mouth-organ had somehow glued itself to his lip. They all watched as the boy began to scream that it was burning him.
Tom had walked up and peeled the mouth-organ from the boy’s blistered mouth, leaving him sobbing in fear and agony. ‘I’ll keep this,’ he’d whispered to the terrified boy. ‘And if you ever tell, I’ll burn the rest of your lips from your stupid face.’
By the time Mrs Cole had ran in to see what the commotion was, Tom was sat back in his chair in the corner, his book raised past his mouth to hide his smirk.
The mouth-organ was in his pocket, and in his pocket it stayed. Eric never did tell Mrs Cole. None of the children ever dared.
The yoyo was another trinket he’d prized. It had been a Christmas present from several years before which Mrs Cole had given to one of her favourite urchins, a chubby girl called Fran.
He’d felt jealous as he compared his own gift, but it was only when Fran decided to practice with her new yoyo outside his bedroom, taunting him with her silly incessant giggling. 'Watch this, Tom!' she'd laughed.
Tom remembered staring at her hand and finding himself wishing he could play with the yoyo. Why should this fat girl get all the fun?
It had been an intense feeling of envy, and he’d felt his knuckles whiten as he clenched his fists. How was he to know how the string managed to wrap so tight around her finger?
Just because he’d wanted her skin to break and the bone to pop, it didn’t make it his fault that it actually happened… The yoyo had been dropped on the floor in all the hubbub that followed, and Mrs Cole had come running.
Finders keepers, Tom had shrugged, unable to believe his good luck. Poor Fran. She never did ask for the yoyo back, even when she’d see him practicing with it in the days that followed.
She had one less of a finger to know why it wasn’t worth it to take it back from him. She knew it was Tom’s toy after that.
There was a story behind each of the trinkets Tom had gathered in his little sacred box, from the mouth-organ, to the yo-yo, to the tiny thimble.
Each had a tale. He'd taken them as a toll, or as a keepsake memory from a time he’d felt especially powerful, feared, lucky. Special... Yes, Tom had always known he was special.
***