He Is Adapting
Chapter Eight: He Is Adapting
London, 1938
Professor Albus Dumbledore—average height, skinny, middle-aged—was a strange man. His blue eyes twinkled with youthful good humour, though his true age was belied by the silver strands threading his auburn hair and beard. He might not have had such a hard time blending into a crowd, if not for the garishly-bright velvet suit he was wearing. Then again, perhaps not; even sitting in the drab mundanity of Wool's Orphanage, Dumbledore gave off a sense of extra, different. Tom did not need the man's introduction to know that he was a wizard; his own magic had perked with curiosity the moment the older man had walked in.
Wizard. Not the word Tom would have chosen, but it fit. He was a wizard. That knowledge threw his entire childhood into sharp clarity—no wonder he'd always dominated his peers, his very nature had simply made him superior to them. And now there was this opportunity to learn and grow, to attend a school where he could be among his own kind. He'd gotten so used to the idea that the magical community wanted nothing to do with him or Hermione that this invitation drove him to stunned silence.
"It's a lot to take in," the Professor interrupted his thoughts. His words were spoken kindly, but Tom couldn't help feeling as if the older man was secretly laughing at him.
He allowed his expression to fall blank, trying to will away the flush that was steadily creeping over his neck and cheeks. "It's not that," he hurried to say, affecting a neutral tone. "I've been using magic for years. I'm just surprised that there's a school."
Dumbledore took the mood-swing in stride, smiling bemusedly as he asked, "You can use your magic intentionally?"
Tom assessed the situation as best he could. Dumbledore had introduced himself as Deputy Headmaster and a professor of Transfiguration, whatever that was—this was a man that he would have to interact with regularly, who would potentially hold a position of authority over him for the next seven years—getting on his bad side would be a patently terrible idea. And, given the Professor's inherently friendly demeanor, Tom got the feeling that just about any of his more aggressive talents would upset the man. He needed a trick that was both benign and impressive. After a moment's consideration, he summoned a tongue of crimson fire, allowing it to burn non-threateningly over his bed.
Dumbledore appraised the fire, running his fingers through the cold flames as he said, "That's impressive, Mr. Riddle." His tone wasn't precisely praising, but Tom did get the sense that his sentiment was genuine. "Most wizards your age could not manage that even with the benefit of an incantation and a wand."
"A wand?" Tom's mind briefly flashed to the vision he'd seen last year in the seaside cave: an Evil Man wielding an immensely powerful bit of polished wood. "Is that how you do magic?"
Dumbledore withdrew a wand from an inner pocket, angling it for Tom to get a better look. It was glossy mahogany in color, about as long as the man's forearm, with a well-worn handle that had been rubbed smooth with age. The wand possessed no adornments, gave no indications that it might even be magical, let alone strong; wildly different from the one he'd seen in the cave. Yet Dumbledore wielded it with a surety, effortlessly banishing Tom's fire as he explained, "Our wands are conduits that allow us to focus and guide our spellcasting. Wandless magic, as you've proven, is perfectly possible," he smiled at Tom reassuringly, "though generally not suitable for more complicated spells." He fell into silence for a moment, staring briefly at where the fire had been. When he spoke again, his tone was still kindly but there was an unmistakable edge of authority present, "Since you say you've been at this for some time, I must ask you, Tom: how open with others have you been about your abilities?"
Seeing as he'd previously been on the receiving end of that need for secrecy, the question sparked Tom's temper. For a nasty second, he wasn't sure he'd be able to choke it down in time, but he understood the necessity of reassuring Dumbledore. This was a test, and he'd be damned if he failed it. "I've told no one," Tom replied demurely. "Not that anyone here would believe me, even if I had."
Yet, surprisingly, for someone who seemed so trusting of others, Dumbledore did not exactly take him at his word. One auburn brow rose as glittering blue eyes considered him over the brims of his half-moon glasses. "No one?"
He'd been caught in a lie? No one ever saw through his deceptions, not even Hermione and she'd had the benefit of practice! This wasn't good—it didn't cast him in a trustworthy light—but how to save the situation? Perhaps if he looked embarrassed or sorry—after all, he couldn't have known about their rules ahead of time. Tom cast his eyes downward, trying to appear contrite as he explained, "There's a girl, but she can do most things I can, so she must be a witch."
"Caution would be wise, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore replied seriously. "Our world is shrouded in secrecy for a reason. If a muggle—non-magical person—were to witness something that betrayed our existence, there would be severe legal repercussions. Am I understood?"
Tom just barely stopped his jaw from clenching. How was any of this his fault? He'd been purposefully left in ignorance for eleven years; he couldn't be held accountable for what he'd done in that time! "Yes, sir," he returned shyly, hoping Dumbledore couldn't see through that as well. "However, as she can levitate her desk off the ground for several minutes straight, I'm fairly confident in my assessment that she is a witch." His tone was brazen, bordering on rude, but the Professor didn't seem to notice.
Dumbledore was bemused once more, though clearly interested by this turn of events. "The two of you taught yourselves wandless magic?"
"Yes, Professor," Tom replied evenly. It was clear that whatever Dumbledore had expected, whatever was average for a boy his age, Tom had already surpassed it. Wanting to save a little face, he allowed his voice to drop into nervousness as he asked, "Was that wrong?" There was a mocking lilt to the question that he couldn't quite suppress; hopefully the older man would simply mistake it for anxiety.
"Wrong? No," the Professor hurried to assure him. Once more offering a cheery smile, he continued, "Surprising, perhaps. I certainly look forward to having you in class! That is, if you've decided to attend Hogwarts."
"I would like to, yes, but I haven't any money." Tom felt the burn of greatness slipping from his fingers as reality crashed down around him. He'd been stuck with his stunningly mediocre lessons provided by the orphanage for a reason after all, and it certainly hadn't been because he enjoyed them. "There will be tuition fees no doubt, supplies to buy and other expenses necessary to attend… I've no way to pay for any of it." Even if Hogwarts offered scholarships, it was likely too late to apply.
Dumbledore remained calm in the face of his turmoil, pulling a small pouch and a thick envelope from the same inner pocket he'd withdrawn his wand. "The school is capable of providing you with an annual stipend," he explained, handing the items over. "It is not a large allowance, unfortunately, but it is enough to cover necessities, so long as you are unopposed to buying a few things secondhand."
Tom spared a glance for the coins—fat gold disks littered amongst smaller silver and bronze pieces, certainly not like any other currency that he'd seen—before opening the envelope. There were several sheets of thick parchment inside, along with a train ticket dated for the First of September. He flicked through the acceptance letter quickly, as well as the brief explanation of how to find the Hogwarts Express, before settling his attention upon the supply list. Neat rows of textbook titles—Hermione would be thrilled—followed by potion ingredients, basic equipment, uniform instructions, general guidelines for approved pets—row after row of fantastical brilliance laid out in the most mundane way possible. He couldn't help but notice, however, that there were no suggested shops listed alongside the unique items; familiar as he was with London, he couldn't think of a single establishment that might offer what he needed. "Where am I meant to get any of this?"
If Dumbledore found his conspicuous lack of gratitude impolite, he took it masterfully in stride. Smiling cheerfully again, he explained, "There is a mercantile district right here in London—a place called Diagon Alley—where you will find everything you need. I can take you there now, if you're ready."
Tom waged a hearty debate with himself in the space of time it took for Dumbledore to rise from his seat. On the one hand, being guided by someone already immersed in the magical community could provide Tom with a lot of useful information. On the other hand, he didn't want it to seem as if that help was necessary—as if he were the wizarding equivalent of a country bumpkin. Pride winning out, he decided, "If it's all the same to you, sir, I would prefer to go alone."
Dumbledore nodded easily, but pressed, "Are you certain?"
An opportunity had arisen. Compromise was generally a foul concept to Tom—an admission that, for whatever reason, he was not capable of getting his own way—and yet here it might serve his purpose. If he asked the older man to escort him part of the way, there would still be time to suss out some valuable information. Mimicking a nervous smile that he'd seen Hermione wearing a few times, he amended, "Perhaps you could show me the way, and teach me how to use the money. But, yes, I would like to make my purchases unaccompanied. If that's alright." It was, in truth, more of a demand than a request, and no amount of coy shyness could cover that fact up.
But a part of Dumbledore seemed to understand, to know that Tom wished to learn on his own; that the orphan didn't want an audience as he attempted to stretch his coin as far as it could possibly go. Or to be seen for the first time while in the company of a man who was decidedly not a relation. Perhaps he was giving far too much credit to his peers, but he didn't want anyone casting him in a pitying light before he'd gotten the chance to prove himself—and the Professor clearly realized that this first impression was important to him. "Very well," the older man acquiesced. "I shall take you as far as the Leaky Cauldron, then—it's the entrance to Diagon Alley."
London, 1990
Professor McGonagall took them first to Gringotts, where she helped them exchange some money for wizarding gold. The exchange rate was actually quite favorable for muggle money, she explained to them; apparently, they were still recovering from a steep market downturn that had begun some years before Hermione was even born. She only really listened with half an ear—economics was one of the few subjects she found deeply boring—too busy marveling at the bank around them.
The lobby alone was a massive temple of marble and brass, a hive of activity as goblins flit about and patrons came and went. Though the atmosphere felt timeless, there was something about the neatly polished floor and the rich candlelight that put her in mind of the 1800's—like she'd just stepped into a Victorian-era establishment. Diagon Alley was a bit like that as well—a cramped and winding cobblestone street, filled to the brim with shops of all kinds—it was how she'd always imagined an older, less modernised London. Yet, the magic turned it into something else entirely; what might have been a Victorian bank felt a bit more like a palace ripped from the realm of Middle Earth. Hermione could just picture an Elven Lord striding proudly through these halls.
As her group finally exited Gringotts, she took in the lively eccentricity of Diagon Alley once more. Witches and wizards were not quite what Hermione had expected. Not that she was disappointed; the atmosphere around her was very romantic and whimsical—the idealization of late medieval culture married together with touches from the 17- and 1800's. It had a certain look that was very charming, and where it lacked current technology magic picked up the slack. No personal computers among this crowd, that was for certain—no need for computers, in fact. Yet there were conspicuous anachronisms—like the wireless radios she could see stacked inside a junk shop—so the magical community could not be completely isolated from the rest of the world.
There were very few people in normal street-clothes, now that she was really looking around. Here and there, Hermione could spot a jumper and a pair of trousers, but by and large the masses seemed to favour an entirely different sort of fashion. Witches were predominantly clothed in robe-like gowns: some were fanciful and complicated while others were as simple and understated as an old housecoat. The realization made her nervous at first—she knew nothing about muggle fashion, let alone what her magical peers might find pleasing—until Professor McGonagall steered them into a dress shop; once she got an eyeful of the Hogwarts uniform, she wasn't quite as nervous anymore. Truthfully, the school's outfit didn't look that far off from what she might have worn at any other school, the only real difference being the black outer-robe that stood in place of a blazer. Standing still for the robe fitting was dreadfully hard—Hermione's mind kept skipping up the street to where she'd seen a sizable bookshop on their way in—but Madam Malkin was patient. Or rather, her tape measure was patient; it floated serenely around Hermione, unaided as it took all sorts of information down for the seamstress.
Uniform squared away, they returned to the busy street outside. Hermione was a bit disappointed when their next few stops were in service of general equipment—she'd decided to eschew a pet for now, too nervous at the uncertainties of boarding school and unfamiliar lessons to want the responsibility of an animal added into the mix—but eventually all that was left to purchase were her books and wand.
Professor McGonagall led them to a place called Olivander's. It was an ancient-looking shop, the storefront dulled with the heavy patina time, but the gilded letters were brightly polished. The Professor had her to go in alone, saying that the connection between a witch and her first wand was a private moment. Olivader's was eerie on the inside. It was very dim and quiet, the preternatural hush seeming to come from all the little boxes lining the walls—as if they were waiting with great anticipation.
An elderly gentleman stepped forward from the back of the shop. "Ah, a new face. Welcome," he greeted, beckoning her closer. Mr. Olivander was an interesting fellow—he reminded her of The Storyteller in his own unique way—and though his blue eyes were turning milky with age, they were still sharply intelligent. "Finding a wand is a delicate process, it can take seconds or hours. You must not be impatient or the wands will sense it and become stubborn. And a stubborn wand is a reckless wand—a very poor companion, indeed."
Hermione found her voice, small and quiet in the heavy atmosphere of the shop, "You speak as if they are alive."
"In a way, they are," he agreed, setting a score of boxes down in front of her. He carefully removed the lid of the topmost box and gingerly reached inside as he said, "Vine wood, 10 ¾ inches with a core of Dragon Heartstring."
It was a pale instrument, tapered at one end, with delicate carvings along the handle that resembled ivy. The wand appeared unobtrusive, no different from any of the other ones she'd seen, and yet when Hermione took it from Mr. Olivander her chest swelled with warmth. It felt right, perfect, like she could do anything so long as she did it with this wand. She was so delighted at the sensation that she almost missed his next words.
"First try," Mr. Olivander marveled quietly.
Hermione blinked, lowering the wand a bit as she asked, "Is that bad?"
"It is very rare. You are the first person in this shop to do that in about, oh… fifty years, I'd say," he explained. A curious expression stole over him, something torn between worry and delight. He began slipping the untried boxes back under his small counter, spinning a tale as he went, "You know, my grandfather was very keen about wandlore—most of it is just children's stories and comforting platitudes, but there were certain things he held to be true. 'Garrick,' he used to say, 'if you believe nothing else then believe this: wands are desperate for great people. If someone is chosen by the very first wand they pick up, it is because that wand could not stand being passed over by greatness. It is destiny.' He had a very romantic soul, my grandfather," he explained, giving her a sad smile as he turned back around to face her.
For as much as she'd been attempting to keep an opened mind, Hermione was still a logical girl—and, more to the point, she was not an arrogant one. She was dedicated, yes, and perhaps a little more clever than her peers, but did that really speak of greatness? This was all just coincidence—one in a million chances still happened on occasion, after all. And yet, she could not stop herself from asking, "Do you believe that?"
He hummed noncommittally, replying, "I can only tell you what I have seen."
Unimpressed with his suddenly evasive attitude, she pressed, "What about the other one, then? Did they do great things?"
"Yes," he sighed in a pained tone, slipping the wand out of her fingers. "Although for the sake of us all, I pray you do not follow down his path—the world could not survive another such as him."
Hermione watched as he put the wand back in its box and bent to retrieve some butcher paper and ribbons. "Who was he?"
"A brilliant young boy, ambitious, innovative," Mr. Olivander reminisced, carefully wrapping the narrow box. "He could have changed the very idea of what it meant to be magic." His fingers stuttered, shaking slightly as he created a delicate bow by hand. "Instead, he threw himself so deeply into the Darkness that we dare not speak his name." And with that, he slid the package over to her, signaling the end of their conversation.
Yet Hermione could not shake his words. Even as she wandered the impressive shelves of Flourish & Blotts, even as she cooed over the wealth of knowledge spread before her, she kept hearing Mr. Olivander at the back of her thoughts. His final meaning stunned her, for she'd never considered the possibility—there were evil wizards. She didn't know exactly why that came as a surprise; after all, Newton had taught her that every property had an equal opposite. So, surely if there were marvelous wizards there had to be monstrous ones as well. All very logical, and yet worrisome; so much power in the wrong hands could be catastrophic. Tom for example—what if they hadn't become friends, what if he'd remained that angry and violent little boy she'd first met? Proper magic at his disposal could have been deadly. She liked to think that she'd changed him for the better, and she hoped, for the good of everyone, that she truly had.
London, 1938
As they walked, Professor Dumbledore explained the wizarding money—a strange system based largely around odd numbers—and then talked a bit about the prices of everything on the supply list. Eventually, however, Dumbledore ran out of things to say, and though he'd assured Tom it was only a short walk from Wool's there was still a bit of time in hand.
Not one to waste an opportunity, Tom decided to ask after an idea that had sent both himself and Hermione into theoretical fits. "Is it hereditary?"
The Professor startled, perhaps having grown accustomed to the steady seconds of silence. "I beg your pardon?"
"The magic," Tom clarified, shooting a sideways glance at the older man, "is it a family trait? Otherwise, why me and no one else at Wool's?"
"It can be a family trait, yes, but not always," Dumbledore replied. Then, seeming to realize how much of a non-answer that was, he hurried to explain, "There are those among our numbers called muggleborns—individuals born with magical capabilities despite the fact that there has been no previous family history of such. However, and it is very important to understand this, regardless of what some refer to as blood status, our numbers are small—so whatever our origins, each life is precious."
That was a sickeningly trite message, and patently untrue—regardless of magical origin, some people were just born worthless, and that was a fact. Tom suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. If Dumbledore really thought everyone was so precious, then where had he been for eleven years? Tom wanted to confront him about it, to force the man to face his empty idealism, but held himself in check. Instead he asked, "Is there a way to tell, though? Was someone in my family magical or am I the first?" Hopefully he hadn't just signed himself up for part two of Dumbledore's moral treatise.
"I'm sorry, Tom," the older man replied heavily—and for all of Tom's cynicism, even he realized that the sentiment was genuine, "your situation is unfortunately unique. There are not many orphans within the wizarding world. All I know is that your name has been down in the school register since your birth. Hogwarts keeps meticulous records of all former students, however; perhaps, if any of your family attended, you might find information of them there."
It was a rather empty gesture; the only full name he had to search with was his father's and that wouldn't help him if the magic was from his mother's side. Though he'd long resented her for succumbing to death, he had to admit that names like Merope and Marvolo sounded much more in line with what he'd heard of the magical community. But how far could he get into the school records with only first names? And that was only assuming that either of them had gone to Hogwarts at all. There was still the possibility that he was a muggleborn; that assumption didn't feel right, though—somewhere, deep down, he knew there had to be old magic flowing through him. "Would someone from a wizarding family be stronger?"
Dumbledore shook his head derisively. "You will certainly meet those who would like you to believe that is true, but the fact of the matter is that there's no proof a pureblood is any stronger than a halfblood or a muggleborn. It is the individual that matters, Tom."
Of course, given what he'd seen of Dumbledore's inclusive ideology, there was no way to tell whether he was hearing a fact or an opinion. Not wanting to press the issue—lest he accidentally trigger a full-blown lecture series—Tom changed the subject, "Are there different sorts of magic?"
"Oh yes, you will start with a number of subjects this term," the Professor replied enthusiastically. "Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, Astronomy—"
"Animals?" He had a sudden impulse, a desire to impress. There was one power he knew he possessed that Hermione did not—save time-travel, but his lips were sealed on that front—and though Dumbledore would likely never meet the girl, Tom wanted this moment to set himself apart. And yet a small voice at the back of his thoughts cautioned him to hold his tongue. If he had not shared something so important with Hermione, then why should he tell a man that had objectively not earned even a single ounce of his trust?
"Care of Magical Creatures is offered as an elective starting third year," Dumbledore nodded. "Do you like animals?"
Tom waged silent war with the voice. He knew he'd already impressed the older man with his fire trick, but Dumbledore had implied that there was an incantation for that spell, meaning it wasn't nearly so unique as he'd thought. Whether the Professor thought him gifted was irrelevant—gifted students came and went—Tom needed to show the man that he was different. The small voice lost the fight. "I like snakes."
"An odd choice in the city," Dumbledore said lightly, clearly just humouring him at this point.
"They find me all throughout London, searching me out so that they can talk to a," he switched to the serpent tongue, preferring to use their word as he did not have one of his own, "Snake-Speaker."
Dumbledore snapped to attention, nearly flinching at the spitting hiss that issued from his mouth. The older man went curiously still, deathly calm as he asked, "You can talk to snakes?"
He widened his eyes and adopted a serious expression, asking with boyish earnestness, "Is that normal for a wizard?" He already had a fair idea that it wasn't. After all, Hermione had never displayed any such ability, and while two children were hardly an ideal sampling size to draw conclusions from, Dumbledore's reaction seemed to support his idea—it was unique.
Dumbledore's face danced through a curious number of expression, never settling on one long enough to be identifiable. At length, he said, "Parselmouths are rare, though there have been others." He glanced at Tom for a long second, both of their expressions now studiously blank, before glancing around the street. "Here we are," he said, walking up next to a pub, sounding suddenly relieved to have finally reached their destination. "Just ask the barman to show you how to get through. Would you like me to wait here for you, to walk you back?"
The idea of Parselmouths clearly upset the older man, and while Tom wanted to pursue the thought further he didn't want to alienate his future Professor. Better to remove temptation and send him away. "I'm sure you're very busy, Professor Dumbledore," he replied demurely. "I know my own way around London."
To his credit, Dumbledore did not let any of the liberation he likely felt show on his face. Instead, he gave Tom a curt nod, "Then I shall see you at the start of term, Mr. Riddle," and disappeared into a crowd of passersby.
The Leaky Cauldron was not at all impressive—it was a shabby, dusty establishment that set rather a poor tone and greatly lowered Tom's expectations for Diagon Alley. Through the light rain of ash that seemed to be accumulating from all the different ways people were smoking, he managed to locate the barman and enquire how he was supposed to get through.
Finally standing at the entrance to Diagon Alley, Tom conceded that he could not have been more wrong—it was magnificent. There were shops everywhere he turned, vendors even set up in the street, and not a single boarded-up window to be seen. Unlike the London outside, the Alley was clean and bright and welcoming—no starving urchins begging for scraps, no mud crusting over the neat cobbles, and though it lacked the fancy electric lights that were popping up all over the city it certainly didn't suffer from their absence. Diagon Alley was held aloof from the troubles of the outside world, a haven of peace and prosperity.
He could not overlook the people, however. There was nothing overtly extraordinary about the witches and wizards around him—they were very much like any other crowd he'd ever seen: some tall, others short, some clever, many not. In fact, were it not for the magic, the scene before him would actually be quite mundane. Why had he been forced to wait eleven years for this? Why was this some grand secret, and who had thought that they had the authority to decide Tom's fate? Who had thought it would be best for him to grow up in ignorance? 'Unfortunately unique situation' or not, there had been nothing stopping any of the clearly wealthy families littering the street from adopting him, from sparing him a childhood full of bitter struggles. What gave them the right to forget about him—to discard him—and hope that introducing him to a world that he always should have been a part of would erase their sins?
They were all in for a rude awakening. Tom Marvolo Riddle did not forgive, and he did not forget. It would take time—years, maybe decades—but eventually he knew he would call in that debt and mete out punishment for this transgression.
Setting those thoughts aside, Tom made his way down the Alley, purchasing his supplies as systematically as he could. Never having truly owned much before, these things were all wondrous to him, yet he could not help resenting the necessity of buying so much secondhand. He was as discerning as possible, scouring shelves high and low for the newest copies and the best quality. His books were in relatively good order—although, disappointingly, there was not enough money to afford him a few extracurricular titles—basic equipment a bit scuffed, but otherwise perfectly acceptable. His robes, too, were pristine, sharp eyes unable to find fault with the school uniforms. The thought came to him that, even secondhand, they were still the finest clothes he'd ever owned.
But there was one thing left to purchase, the one thing that would truly be his and his alone: a wand. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about wands—he'd been doing magic well enough without one—but the idea that it would be the first thing he'd ever owned that no one else had possessed before him was deeply appealing.
Olivander's was different from the rest of the Alley—dim, dark, quiet, sharing none of the flash favoured by its neighbours. Unassuming as it was, Tom still found it an interesting place. Potential swirled thickly through the air, unspoken promises of power and wealth—the silent cries of hundreds of wands begging for him to choose them. Each nondescript box called to him, pleaded for attention.
"Ah, another bound for their first year at Hogwarts, I presume." A man stepped from the back of the shop; he was lean and whippish, with startlingly blue eyes that seemed to see more than was actually present in the physical world.
Knowing that he would not likely encounter this man again—barring some sort of unfortunate accident—Tom decided to eschew pleasantries. "How does this all work?" He asked, scanning the long rows of narrow boxes.
"The wand chooses the wizard," Mr. Olivander replied in such a tone as to suggest it was a common phrase. "It can take a lot of trying out to find the right match. Sadly, there is no way to expedite the process, but if you want a wand that obeys you completely then you must have patience."
Tom allowed his fingers to slide along the labels, stopping when he felt a great pull. Idly, distracted, he asked, "But any wand would respond?"
"To a greater or lesser extent," Olivander shrugged, "but no wand will ever be as comfortable as the one that truly chooses you."
The box was identical to all the others, but the air around it felt different. This wand roared with the desire to be his. It left the air thick with aggression and had a strong edge of welcoming greed that he found strangely appealing. The label proclaimed it to be, 'Yew, 13 ½ inches, Phoenix Feather'. He'd always liked yew trees—ancient, enduring, able to survive great stress without succumbing to death or disease. And a Phoenix Feather—bringing in ideas about the great cycles of death and rebirth—was just fanciful enough to make him smile. Tom didn't even have to touch the wand to know that this was the one.
But appearances had to maintained, and there was no sense in getting gouged on the price for seeming rude. Turning to Olivander, he pointed at the box and politely asked, "May I?"
From the older man's expression it was clear that this was not how things were done, yet he seemed curious enough not to take offense. "By all means. We must start somewhere, after all."
Tom slid the box away from its compatriots and carefully pried the lid off. The wand inside was bone-white in colour, twisted almost imperceptibly in a gentle, tapering spiral. Its handle displayed the natural beauty of the wood, pockmarks and scarring coming together with such regularity that they at first appeared to create an intentional and intricate design. He hardly dared to breathe as his fingers curled around the surprisingly light instrument. At first contact, the searing burn of magic instantly shot up his arm, but it did not hurt—it felt like triumph, like completion, like he'd been missing a vital appendage all these years. Curious, Tom gave the wand a wave, summoning a tongue of azure fire—it came to him as easily, as effortlessly as if he were standing in the rich air of that seaside cave.
Olivander watched him in stunned fascination, needing a full minute to process what had happened. Eventually he muttered out a price, thoughtful eyes watching as the boy exited his shop.
Tom wasted no time organizing his purchases once he returned to Wool's. He flipped reverently through his books, studied his wand, reread the Letters to be sure he understood what he had to do. Hogwarts was going to change everything. Finally, some proper instruction for him and Hermione to—
Hermione!
Given that Hogwarts was already over a thousand years old, it was a likely bet that it still existed fifty-two years in the future, and there was no doubt that Hermione would be invited to attend. Similarly, she would know that there was no doubt he would be attending. So how to explain why they were both first years at the same school and yet didn't share any classes? He might be able to keep the ruse up for a few days, but after the first week she would know something was wrong. And what would he tell her then? 'Sorry Hermione, but I've been lying to you all this time and am actually visiting from several decades in the past,' seemed like an excellent way to get her angry. Non-violent or not, he had a feeling she might actually slap him if those words left his lips. If only there was a way to shift her focus from what would likely be perceived as a betrayal, to get her excited about the prospect instead…
Perhaps if he presented it as a puzzle? Hermione loved mysteries—she might get so caught up in the idea of solving his secret that her anger fell to the side. It was a shaky gamble, and a part of him knew that continuing to lie to her was not advisable, but it seemed better than letting her anger feaster over the remaining weeks of their summer. At Hogwarts she would be surrounded by the unfamiliar, making Tom—a well known quantity and, to date, her only friend—all that much more soothing and precious to her. Would she really stay mad at him when she had no one else to turn to? He didn't think so. Tom was prepared to weather a storm or two, but in the end he knew she would forgive him—she always did.