Tom Riddle and the Colour of the Sun

Albus could not put it off anymore. He had been thinking all summer about the problem of Tom Riddle. The boy was dangerous - far more dangerous than he’d realised in the first place. 

He recalled his dismay when he’d delivered Mr. Riddle’s first Hogwarts letter. What had occurred at Wool’s Orphanage was exactly the sort of thing the Ministry tried to avoid: a magical child mixed in carelessly with muggle children, and worse, under such conditions that he began accessing his magic at an early age and learning to use it to ill purpose. By the time he was eleven, Mr. Riddle had already learned to steal, lie, frighten those weaker than him, and bend them to his will. Even the matron had spoken of him in hushed tones that implied a level of fear. Of an eleven-year-old. Admittedly, the woman must have only been thirty herself, and she certainly didn’t have native magic of her own to guard herself with. 

Then there were the stories about those who possessed the ability to understand the speech of serpents. Parseltongue was no mere language, but the key to certain rare and eldritch magics. Parselmouths were, for example, more likely to become necromancers than other mages. 

Albus had been worried about the boy’s future capabilities before he attracted the further rare power of a phoenix to his side. Imagine the damage that could be done to the world by an unprincipled, emotionally damaged necromancer with the aid of a phoenix. A phoenix’s sense of justice was at once immutable and strange. Who was to say Tom Riddle’s firebird followed principles which would lead him to be less dangerous? 

Fawkes, for example, had been persistently badgering Albus to take more direct action against Gellert for some time now. As though a mages’ duel of such power would scar the European landscape any less than muggle machines of war. As though the risk of Albus coming into possession of the Deathstick were not equally terrible with the risk posed by Gellert’s possession of it now. It was absurd that the phoenix had been at his side every step of his misguided, stumbling path since his twenties and yet somehow believed that he would be able to hold such an object without disaster. Had Fawkes not warned him against reaching for power at every turn until now? Had he not damaged someone or something precious every single time he had so reached? 

Yet now the blood-red bird at his side insisted that he ought to do the opposite. It defied all sense. Was he meant to die at Gellert’s hand? Was this to be his final penance for Ariana’s death? There was no guarantee whatsoever that Albus could bring him down. It wasn’t merely the substantial matter of who was more skilled, nor the matter of the Undefeatable Wand. No. Strength was more than physical or magical; it was a matter of the soul being undivided in its purpose. How could Albus possibly stand face to face with such a terrible, beautiful thing as Gellert and slay him? He couldn’t, that was how. He would die or he would tear himself apart in the process of succeeding. He could not do it. 

What he could do was check on Tom Riddle and find out just how poor an idea it had been to send a sixteen-year-old mage with a cold heart and a firebird the colour of the sun back to the place he had learned to be cruel and careless. 

He did not expect Fawkes to come with him, but the support was appreciated when he appeared and deigned to stalk down the street after him. 

The block containing the orphanage building was badly damaged. The orphanage itself was missing a significant chunk of one wall. Albus paused and studied the building shrewdly. Damage like that should have collapsed the building, and yet it still stood. Magic. Cleverly applied magic, to make it less noticeable to muggles that there was something unusual at play. It could only have been Mr. Riddle who had repaired and strengthened the structural elements in such a way. 

No, it hadn’t been safe to send him back here. Was he in the building when that bomb landed across the street? 

Albus took a breath and approached the door, which was battered but functional, and had obviously been recently repainted. It suggested that there were still people here, that the orphanage was still open. He stood on the stoop and knocked, Fawkes acting as a sentinel at his back. 

The door was tugged open abruptly and Albus found himself face to face with an exhausted young man with a sandy haired babe in his arms. 

“No, we do not have more room,” he snapped. “Can you not see the -” But Mr. Riddle seemed to grasp all at once to whom he was speaking and froze in place. The baby burbled and he absently shifted the position of his arms. “Professor Dumbledore.” 

Albus was feeling rather shocked himself, as it happened. How strange to see this particular boy in threadbare muggle garb, answering the door with a child in his arms and a phoenix at his back much the way Fawkes was currently standing guard behind Albus. 

“Mr. Riddle. I happened to be in the area, and I thought I would check in on your… situation,” he said. 

“I am alive. Thank you for your concern,” Mr. Riddle replied coldly. He seemed about to close the door in Albus’s face, but he could not manage it with any alacrity because he first had to shift the baby to the support of one arm. Albus took the granted delay to prevent him from doing so. 

“And who is this?” he asked, stepping forward curiously. Mr. Riddle tightened his grasp on the little one and stepped back with a fierce scowl as though concerned Albus meant some harm. 

“He hasn’t a name yet,” Mr. Riddle muttered. “He’s sickly and we’re not certain he’ll make it past his first birthday.” 

“Tom! Who’s at the door? Quit standing there and let them in already! I’ll come down and explain things in a minute!” a woman’s voice shouted from within. 

“No one!” he shouted back. “Just a professor from my school!”

Mr. Riddle’s phoenix let out a chuckling noise. Fawkes responded with a melodious chattering. 

“This is not funny, you traitorous thing,” Mr. Riddle muttered under his breath just as the woman shouted back down the stairs. 

“No one? Where are your manners, Tom Riddle? You let him in and you make him tea! I’ll not have you - Jimmy! Put that down at once!” 

Mr. Riddle’s expression briefly flickered through dismay before tightening into grudging neutrality. 

“Come in, then. Mind your step. Soleil’s been playing with the children,” he said curtly as he stepped back to grant Albus entry. 

The golden phoenix chirped at Fawkes and bobbed its head. Fawkes chattered in reply and promptly hopped over the threshold with a flutter of wings. Albus followed in bemusement only to find himself stepping into a room strewn about with marbles and an assortment of children perhaps six to ten years of age engaged in a lively game. The phoenixes minced across the room, carefully not stepping on the colourful glass spheres or the boys playing with them. The children looked up, took in the presence of Albus’s firebird, giggled amongst themselves, and went back to their game. 

“Through here,” Mr. Riddle instructed, having not paused for so much as a glance at the other occupants of the play room. Albus followed only after noting that Fawkes still sounded curious rather than annoyed. 

Mr. Riddle led him to a room in the back of the building that primarily contained a large, battered table with so many chairs they nearly couldn’t all be pushed in at once. There was a kitchen cramped into the adjoining room, which was visible through a wide doorway. Mr. Riddle did not suggest that he sit before walking into the kitchen and filling a kettle, manoeuvring carefully so as not to jostle the babe on his shoulder too much. 

“I could take the child for a moment, if it would be of assistance,” Albus offered.  

“No,” Mr. Riddle said sharply, then winced and amended, “That’s not necessary, Professor. He’s fussy about how he’s held.” 

“I have held babies before, Mr. Riddle,” Albus said dryly. 

“This baby is more likely to spit up on you or scream than let you hold him nicely,” Mr. Riddle informed him flatly. “And I’ve only just got him quiet. Sir.” 

“I see,” Albus said. He pulled out a chair at the near end of the table, which required disentangling its legs from its neighbours, and sat. Mr. Riddle took out his wand and tapped the side of the kettle to heat the water and set about making a pot of tea. 

“It will be weak. Rationing,” he warned. “You should be honoured. Mrs. Cole saves the tea for important visitors.” 

And he had to reach up to a high cabinet and unlock it with a charm to get it down. In fact, when Albus looked around, he discovered that various cabinets were locked. 

“Rations are kept under padlock?” he remarked. 

“Nothing new,” Mr. Riddle muttered. “What’s new is Mrs. Cole giving me the key.” 

“Which you’re not using,” Albus noted. 

“I’ve got a wand, haven’t I?” Mr. Riddle retorted. The baby let out a weak wail. “Hush, you.” 

The words were curt, but his hands were gentle as he rearranged his burden. 

“You’re taking care of the younger children?” Albus asked. 

“What else would I be doing? Mrs. Cole ran this place on a shoestring before the war. Now she has to run it on half a shoestring,” Mr. Riddle pointed out. “I have hands. I know how things work here. She doesn’t need to know I can also cast cleaning charms.” 

“And repairing charms. You did a fine job on the building,” Albus added quietly. 

“I did not. We need those blasted out rooms, and I can’t put them back together because of the stupid Statute of Secrecy. I’m sleeping in a bloody storage room with this miserable scream factory and a traumatised toddler nobody wants. Soleil is the only reason anyone gets any sleep at night, and even with her singing nearly constantly there’s always somebody waking up in a panic. Or knocking on the door asking if we’ve got space. As though they can’t see that we don’t. As though taking care of children is just a matter of having a room to cram them into,” Mr. Riddle said bitterly. He paced back and forth as he spoke, rocking the baby with absently experienced movements. 

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Albus was reminded strongly of Aberforth and his way of being simultaneously angry and gentle. It was something he’d always thought peculiar to his brother. He wouldn’t have thought to find the phenomenon here, of all places, in this boy who was not quite what he thought he was. Mr. Riddle, in fact, did not seem much like a boy at all in this moment, but like a frustrated young man making the best he could out of an impossible situation. 

There was laughter from the other room, both childish and avian. Mr. Riddle served the tea in stony silence and Albus sipped it. It was, indeed, weak. 

The matron made an appearance shortly thereafter. Mr. Riddle retreated from the room so quickly as to be nearly rude, taking the sandy haired, nameless baby with him. 

Albus had a confusing and enlightening conversation with Mrs. Cole that served to further unsettle him. 

Soleil the phoenix had walked the streets in the form of a golden-winged woman the night of the bombing that killed two children and nearly brought down the building. Mrs. Cole spoke of her as an angel of light and mercy come down from the heavens to heal the children. She seemed to have no awareness whatsoever that the being she had witnessed that night was, this very moment, singing cheerfully in the room down the hall. But she was aware that Tom Riddle was different this summer. 

She told Albus of the strange ways in which his presence seemed to indirectly improve the conditions for the other residents. They slept better than they ought. They laughed more than they ought, and cried less. She had been all but certain the colicky baby would weaken and die before the summer was out, and yet ever since Mr. Riddle had grudgingly taken over some of his care, the child was eating a reasonable amount and keeping most of it down. She couldn’t put her finger on what he was doing differently than herself. She’d watched him and he did exactly as he’d learned from observing her care for babies in the past. It was just that somehow, someway, the sickly child was a little stronger now. 

It wasn’t that Mr. Riddle was any friendlier, she explained in a bewildered tone. He was just as cold and peculiar as ever. He kept to himself. He didn’t play with the children. (The children, she said, as though Mr. Riddle himself was now an adult as far as she was concerned.) She had no explanation for the change she’d observed, save that perhaps that school up in Scotland was doing him some good. 

She asked Albus whether Mr. Riddle might be able to escape conscription if he remained a student long enough. 

When he returned to the playroom at the front of the building, he found Fawkes and Soleil sitting on the floor amongst the boys, their wicked talons curled away tamely. He paused and watched Fawkes flick one of the shooter marbles with his beak so that it crashed into several others and scattered them hither and yon. The boys laughed and haggled over the results. 

Mr. Riddle’s phoenix looked up, directly into his eyes. She tilted her head and whistled in invitation. The boys looked around and noticed him, and abruptly all scrambled to their feet. 

“My apologies,” Albus said. “I did not intend to interrupt. Fawkes?” 

He noticed it was only when he explicitly acknowledged Fawkes that the boys’ eyes widened in astonishment, as though it were his awareness of the phoenixes and not their presence that was astounding. Fawkes trilled a friendly farewell and rose to his feet. The boys watched him go with muttered reverence and disappointment. 

Albus exited the building with the uncomfortable knowledge that he had a lot more thinking to do than he’d realised.