14Summary: Tom Riddle has enough of Dumbledore and drops out of Hogwarts to travel the world. When he arrives at Japan, in the midst of WW2, he discovers ancient magic covering the area. A little bit of probing and there's white blinding light. A whole world lies await with magic used in ways seen only centuries ago.
For Power, War, Immortality and Sassy Snakes.
M/M slow-burn
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Naruto and all involved characters do not belong to me.
A/N: Lots of time jumps in the first two chapters since I didn't want to explain everyday occurrences of Tom growing up. I promise it smoothens out chapter three onwards.
PS. Very excited to share my idea with you guys; hope you like it!
Beta: Linux-Ginny; chapter overhauled and revised for grammatical errors on 16thMarch2020
Fernweh (german) (n.) an ache for distant places:
Missing places you've never been; "Craving for Travel"
Chapter One: The Beginning
'Anger may in time change to gladness; vexation may be succeeded by content.
But a kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being;
nor can the dead ever be brought back to life.'
-Chapter XII: The Attack By Fire, The Art Of War
2ndFebruary1939
When he finally arrived, the sky was painted a bloody red on the horizon; a macabre, yet fitting twilight. Smoke rose in seams making playful swirls in its wake like little whirlpools. He walked cautiously through the rubble noting a stark difference from the lively marketplace he had visited only a month ago. There were bodies littered around the streets, most of them lying on the city front facing south.
At the end of the street, there was a room filled to the brim with at least hundred burnt little bodies. The smell of burnt flesh was still lingering in the air. The children had died in sheer terror and agony.
There was but one survivor.
His lower half was crushed by rubble and was obviously in pain. Hiruzen was late. Hiruzen wanted to grant him the sweet mercy of death. Hiruzen wanted to apologise. He did none of those things, of course. Instead, he bent down to listen when the man began to speak. His words were spaced and forced, as his body began to succumb to shock.
"Kiri.. Iwa... fuinj-scrolls kage-"
He was gurgling out blood now. Hiruzen quickly slit his throat.
The man's words were far too late. They already knew of the Iwa-Kiri alliance. The bastards had swung around and cut off Konoha's approach, because of which Uzushiogakure had fallen. Kiri's silence up until this point had caught them by surprise and Iwa's presence did not help. His eyes glazed for a moment as he looked to the horizon.
The Uzumaki Clans, though few in number, led long lives and were formidable and powerful. More importantly, they were feared.
It really was not much of a surprise that their defeat was cause for celebration for all but their allies. Their lore in fuinjutsu was renowned,. And then there was the main branch's kekke genkai, that he had seen Mito-sama herself use. Those chakra chains were known to trap bijuu and their full use and extent still wasn't researched.
And now we will never know.
The Professor in him died a little.
Now is not the time to grieve. We must get out of here and fast.
The man was right though. If it was at all possible, they had to get to the scrolls before they fell into enemy hands.
He quickly made his way to the library and found that it did not allow entry to anyone except those of Uzumaki blood. He hesitated to leave them there. Perhaps he should send Jiraiya with a small team to recover what they could. Time was of the essence. Hiruzen ordered to quickly burn what was left of the dead and fall back.
He picked his way through the trees as fast as possible. His army was quiet and did not make even a whisper as they passed by with silent tears streaming down their faces. This kind of carnage was unprecedented; it made him wonder if bijuu were involved. He must remain stoic. As Hokage, it was his duty to give the news to his people.
And Konoha would mourn.
12thMay 1929
Tom Riddle was a 2-year-old ominously quiet child with a cherubic face, long lashes and tousled brown hair.
He was also a very precocious child. He knew that the matrons were quite unnerved by his disposition. Which is why he took to smiling at them charmingly when he needed something and ignoring their existence when he received what he wanted. They eyed him knowingly and tittered jealously about how he would leave heartbroken women in his wake.
Wool's was a dreary grey orphanage that was, like all orphanages everywhere, understaffed and overworked. Little children in grey tunics and smudged faces earning their keep was all he had ever known since he had been born. One wondered at his mental acuity at such a young age. His eyes were a sharp grey, his observations keen, and linguistic ability far beyond his years. But even a genius was limited at the age of 2 by the dearth of knowledge he had received and the little world he had seen so far.
I'm cold.
"I want a blanket," he demanded from his caretaker. He had long known she was not his mother, though she had fed him from her own breasts.
She wasn't really paying attention to him. They never did.
He reached out to the jar at his bedside and dropped it, causing a resounding crash. He then rolled over pretending to fall. He smirked when the caretaker predictably rushed to his side and began fussing.
"Cold," he said, looking at her with his big eyes.
"Oh Tom, you know we don't have any more blankets," she whispered sadly. He scoffed at her pretense of caring. He knew she didn't care if he froze to death.
He frowned at her and decided against arguing with her; there was no point. He had tried wailing; the noise had been atrocious and his head had hurt for ages after. Now he just ordered people around by sheer power of will.
Later at night he lay in bed shivering. His teeth chattered, his body not responding to his will. The caretaker looked at him once, seemingly sympathetic, but had left him, nonetheless. He wanted, he needed to be warmer. He wasn't like the other children. He was always cold.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to be warm so badly, that a blanket popped into existence on top of him. He stared at it, flummoxed for several moments. He looked around to see if someone had put it on him, maybe that caretaker. There was no one around. Curious.
He closed his eyes and wished for more blankets.
He woke up the next morning under 5 blankets. Curiouser still were the three bed mates who had come down with pneumonia the previous night. Even curiouser was the resounding slap his caretaker generously bestowed him with while the other matrons stood and watched in anger.
"Fuckin' little thief," they all said.
"Selfish bastard" they said. "Stealing from other children, thinking he ought to get more than his lot."
His eyes narrowed at them in defiance and he decided to go with honesty for a change.
"I did not steal these."
"Of course, you didn't," scoffed one young smarmy looking matron.
"They just appeared over you, did they?"
Yeah, actually.
"I did not steal these." he repeated, his eyes mutinous. He was immediately backhanded for his defiance.
. .
The blankets were on the caretaker now, over her face, suffocating her as she flailed helplessly.
She screamed, desperately trying to pry the blanket off her face, while the matrons looked around looking for the culprit. He was perfectly stationary.
Tom Riddle smiled.
2ndFebruary 1931
He was 4 and weeding the yard out front. The grass was dry, almost grey, and bordered by a small grey fence that was about as tall as he was, with a small grey double hinged wooden gate in the centre that lead to the door.
There was a slight nip in the air. The children and matrons gave him a wide berth and so he was isolated into mundane and unnecessary work such as weed picking, which suited him just fine.
It was a little over a year since his little display of power, since the caretaker had been declared barmy. He smirked as he thought of that old hag. After all, who would doubt poor, beautiful Riddle.
Even so, they took him to church and shoved a bible in his hand. When he looked at it blankly, they cooed.
Fools. He had read the drivel of course. Took him about a month. He wondered what would happen if he ran his mouth on what he really thought about religion. Nothing good, he thought, feeling annoyed and oddly suffocated.
Despite their fear of him, a priest had nonetheless been summoned to come and talk to him. Just in case. His expression curdled. That had been an annoyingly pointless conversation.
The priest had been pedantic, rude and insulting. Tom had taken to putting up an absolutely perfect front on subsequent visits. Just to get the drivel over with.
Since the little incident with the blankets, he had started to focus more and more on the little ball of energy within him to call objects to himself or expel them or simply make them float around.
He knew he was different.
He knew he was Special.
He wondered if there were more like him. Unlikely. They wouldn't leave me in this dump.
All he knew that he was far superior to the others at this orphanage.
He took a deep breath and expanded his senses. He instinctively knew where the weeds were, on account of studying the feel of the little plant in his hand. He opened his palm and a tiny flame appeared, to burn it.
Burn, he almost hissed.
The weeds around him burned enthusiastically and as suddenly as the fire had appeared, it also quelled. Feeling satisfied and more than a little tired because of that little stunt, he lay down under a gnarled tree, next to the fence. He stared at the clouds, wondering what to do next.
A shadow fell over him.
"You wouldn't happen to have the time, son?" A voice over the fence croaked.
He sat up in a rush, not used to being taken by surprise. The ability to sense the approach of another creature was one of his newfound abilities.
The man was old, older than he had ever seen. He had wrinkles on his mongoloid features. He wore a shabby suit, but his almond eyes smiled down at him.
"You aren't from around here," Tom blurted out. He was immediately embarrassed, a bit discomfited by the lack of control.
The man chuckled.
"Oh, I am far from home. I simply followed the snakes."
"Snakes?!" A wariness was beginning to creep on him.
"I wonder…" the man trailed off and rummaged through his bag. He recovered a thin looking book. "Here, take this."
Tom was suspicious. People never offered him anything for free. He had also been warned against strange men. He stared at it blankly.
"It won't bite," chuckled the man. Tom looked at him.
"Don't you know knowledge is power? And here I was ready to part with this gift I got in Japan…."
Before he was even aware of it, Tom's hand had shot out to snatch the treasure away.
"Japan?" He asked, curiously.
The man was amused. "Oh yes. That book was translated from Mandarin; that is spoken in China though. It is always good to learn a few languages."
Tom nodded distractedly. He was already thumbing the thin book. Belatedly, he wondered if this was where he must... thank the man.
He looked up. The man was gone.
Tom frowned.
A little spooked, and not ready to admit it, he settled down against the tree to read, opening a page at random.
'Whether the object be to crush an army, to storm a city, or to assassinate an individual, it is always necessary to begin by finding out the names of the attendants, the aides-de-camp, door keepers and sentries of the general in command. Our spies must be commissioned to ascertain these.
The enemy's spies who have come to spy on-'
The sound of hissing interrupted him. 'Nasstyy humans plod around so heavily. No respect for the game."
Alarmed, Tom found himself looking at a small -green, with a yellow and black collar, pale belly, and dark markings down the side- grass snake: "this human isn't very smart, is he? Look at him stare down at me. Why won't he stop?… I will bite him!'
'Do NOT bite me!' Tom was befuddled. The snake stilled. "A Speaker!"
The snake slithered quickly towards him, causing him to rear back rapidly. "Human! The days are cold," he lamented. "You must cease this incessant plodding around. The game has all but disappeared. You must sacrifice yourself as a source of heat-"
…what in the world?! Why. What. Why was a crabby snake -?!Hold On. Am I speaking to a snake?!
"… Mr. Snake?"
"Yes, Human?"
"Do you talk to a lot of humans?"
"Of course not, speaker!" The snake was affronted. Tom's mind did a summersault. Snakes have expressions?!
"We haven't seen a speaker in a decade or two. May I stay with you? Why were you carrying that musty tome, there were more at my nest—"
Does this snake ever shut up? Wait a minute-
"Did you say you have more books?"
"Yes speaker, it is in one of the human nests, further down from here. There are many, many tomes; they make me sneeze. Humans stare at them daily"'
The snake looked pleased; he had imparted crucial knowledge.
A library. The snake speaks of a potential library.
Tom had to sit down. It had been an odd day, and there was a snake curled on his chest looking for heat.
15thJune 1931
He was lazing in the garden again, reading his book in the sun, with curled up at his side. He had to admit, Mr. Snake was more resourceful than he first realized. It was through Mr. Snake's knowledge that he realized his ability to sense approaching people was through vibrations. No wonder he always had a resounding migraine when it was too loud around him. He shoved his fingers in his ears, trying to figure out the difference. He really needed to do something about this. Earmuffs maybe? He scoffed. There is no money and definitely not in the summer.
He was violently jarred out of his musings when the bane of his very existence at all of 5 years old, snatched his book out of his hands.
"Oh-ho! What is little Tommy reading now?" Billy Stubbs held up the book upside down in disgust.
"Appen-dix," he stumbled over the word. It was a medical book from the library Mr. Snake showed him and he did not have the money for a fine in case Billy decided to do something stupid.
"Too fancy to play with us lowly mortals, eh?" It was astounding that Billy even managed to pronounce all the words in that sentence. He was probably emulating their matron. He was ripping the pages of the book with gusto now.
Suffice to say, angry was a mild word in Tom's dictionary.
"May-maybe you shouldn't do that, Billy," a shy voice spoke from behind him.
Billy turned around to find Amy Benson, who was standing a little way off. She cowered from him a little. Whatever little sympathy Tom had for her shriveled up and died and when she shrieked, catching sight of Mr. Snake next to him.
Oh no. "RUN! MR. SNAKE" he hissed desperately.
Mr. Snake didn't make a move despite Tom's desperate pleas. It was once explained to him by that reptiles were selfish creatures. They did not fend for anyone but themselves and their nest mates.
Tom's eyes widen. Mr. Snake thinks I'm his nest mate!
"Freak! Hissing at snakes; they don't understand you," Billy shoved Tom out of the way.
Tom paled. He was significantly smaller in size compared to Billy. He wasn't allowed the time to think before Billy was stomping on Mr. Snake- he was trying to pull Billy away- Billy was viciously kicking-
The wind was knocked out of him when Billy threw a punch to his stomach.
ENOUGH
A gust of wind blew through the yard, smacking Amy and Billy away against a rock, knocking them out cold almost instantaneously.
He held the bloodied remains of Mr. Snake in his hands, silent tears running down his face. He hadn't really thought of Mr. Snake as his first and only friend, until he was gone. Who will talk to him and snipe at him now? Mr. Snake was never scared of him. Mr. Snake only ever helped him. Mr. Snake was MINE.
He decided then and there that making friends was not worth it if this was how it felt when they were gone.
He went into the woods bordering the yard and dug a small hole in the ground. He carved Mr. Snake on to rock as an epitaph.
The next day, Billy's pet rabbit hung from the rafters by its neck.
17th June, 1931
'The skillful tactician may be likened to the shuai-jan. Now the shuai-jan is a snake that is found in the Ch'ang mountains. Strike at its head, and you will be attacked by its tail; strike at its tail, and you will be attacked by its head; strike at its middle, and you will be attacked by head and tail both'
Tom's debacle with the hissing snake, had, of course, spread like wildfire throughout the orphanage. Billy's dead rabbit was talked about in hushed whispers. And Mrs. Cole's attention finally fell on Tom. He was taken to the church again. This time he was exorcised. Only the devil spoke to snakes. He was told to hold his hands out while a conscription of hundred beatings with the cane was inflicted on his knuckles. He did not flinch even once, which made the priest angrier.
Mrs. Cole took it upon herself to cure him. Perhaps, she thought if she punished him enough, he would cease this blasphemous behavior.
He was locked in a broom cupboard for an entire day with absolutely no reprieve.
Putting a child in a small, dark room with barely any place to stand, no food or water, and no bathroom facilities was a psychological landmine.
The children jeered from outside while inside, Tom, quite understandably, raged. The children found the confidence they needed when it came to dealing with him and began tormenting him.
This was quite unfortunate.
For them.
Some of the older boys thought it would be a hoot and a half to beat Tommy up at night while he slept. They snuck into his room in the middle of the night and beat him up black and blue.
They broke his femur. For once, the energy inside Tommy's chest did not respond to him. The four-year-old took the beating and kept his screams to a minimal, which was a kind of dignity you would be hard pressed to find in many adults.
The next day, the matrons turned a blind eye to his split lip and his swollen leg. Growing boys roughhouse, everybody knew that.
Tom's book from the library, carefully pasted together, gave him the basic anatomical information he required. He read with one keen eye (since the other was swollen shut) about bones, blood and lymph, and about inflammation and body responses.
He held his hand over his leg and WILLED. He willed for all his injuries to go away.
He did not know if this would work, but he had to try. The pain was excruciating, and no one was going to take him to the doctor. So, he imagined the little blood vessels anastomosing the crack between the bone realigning and healing. A soft green light was emanating from his hand. The swelling did not go down immediately, but the pain had become tolerable.
By that very evening, he was busy plotting.
The next day saw the three boys with similar fractures and accompanying broken noses.
From each of them, he took a souvenir (a yo-yo, a silver thimble and a tarnished mouth organ) and put it in his cupboard.
When asked, none of them gave Mrs. Cole a name of their assailant, but all of them had the fear of god in their eyes.
Tom himself was not satisfied. Getting payback was easy.
He prayed for the day his enemies re-considered and hesitated a hundred times before attempting to even think his name in their silly little heads again.
8thJune 1936
Summertime sometimes meant that the orphanage organized little excursions to the beach mostly. It didn't matter that there were clouds in the sky almost every time they took this trip; it was practically a sunny day, as far as Mrs. Cole was concerned. Tom personally felt it to be a heedless chore. He was happiest in the musty library surrounded by his books and serpents. If he could live there, he would.
Tom had acquainted himself with a few more snakes. He carried Mopey with him to the beach on this year's trip. He hadn't forgotten about Mr. Snake. He exacted his revenge on that idiot Billy already. Now all he needed was-
"Hiya Tom!" Amy chirped from behind him. She wore red swim wear with white polka dots and had two golden pigtails.
Such a naïve child. She thinks I have forgiven her. She thinks I have forgotten about what she had done to him. Oh, well.
The poor girl probably fancied him.
"Hello Amy," his smile was practically angelic. "Do you want to explore the creeks later?"
The silly girl was ecstatic.
All in all, it wasn't very difficult to persuade her to follow him to a creek he had already scouted out on his previous visits. He coaxed her to swim in the high tide and reach a little cave that was hidden from view, just so.
He was aware the world did not approve of hurting people. But the world had never given him the same consideration.
It wasn't difficult at all to make little cuts over her arms with a little sharp rock he procured a few weeks ago until she was bleeding, crying, blubbering mess.
Quite stupidly, Dennis Bishop had followed them into this cave. No doubt, he wanted to be the hero of this story. Too bad Tom didn't care for snitches. Dennis Bishop was now crying in horror on the floor and Tom stood over him, impassively. He blinked slowly.
"Are you going to tell anybody about this?" Tom asked Dennis as he stared at the blubbering boy.
Dennis Bishop had wet his pants, but that would not be his only problem if he did not comply.
2ndAugust 1938
Tom had turned 11 years old last December, and suffice to say, he was not happy. There had been whispers of another war brewing. Talk about a Lugou Bridge incident during that battle between China's National Revolutionary Army and the Imperial Japanese Army. This was the second time he had heard of Japan's strength and prowess on the battle front.
I wonder where I can learn more.
Tensions were coming to a head. There were whispers of an invisible yet formidable foe in Germany.
Whispers of Hitler…
But that really was not why he was presently upset. Only 2 days ago, he had received a letter. A letter from a Hogwart's School of Magic. As if someone was keeping tabs on him, suffice to say, Tom had spent two extremely paranoid days. The letter had said that someone would come to introduce themselves to the non-magical folk that he lived with, to explain everything to them. The date was for today.
So Tom lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, counting backwards slowly in his head.
There were footsteps and then voices outside his door. Mrs. Cole rapped on his door twice and entered without him saying anything.
"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"
Tom sat up immediately on top of the grey blankets, legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book. He did not want to engage with this trickster from a position of weakness.
Tom's eyes narrowed as he took in Dunderbore's eccentric appearance. There was really not much he could say about his ghastly cut suit of plum velvet.
There was a moment of silence.
"How do you do, Tom?" said Dumbledore, walking forward holding out his hand.
Tom hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard-wooden chair beside him, so that they looked like a hospital patient and visitor.
"I am Professor Dumbledore."
"Professor?" A suspicion began to form in his mind.
"Is that like a doctor? What are you here for? Did she get you to have a look at me?"
Mrs. Cole had been quite obviously inebriated when she had walked in earlier. While that in itself was not a cause for alarm, it was certainly troubling to think about what she might have revealed in her drunken stupor to this imposter. His hope that this Dumbledore took her words with a pinch of salt died when Tom looked into his eyes.
She got to you already, didn't she? I can see it in your eyes. You already dislike me. The most I can do is try and overwhelm you.
But that was easier said than done. Even from their small interaction, he can tell this man's energy-magic was far, far superior to his. If all the adults in this new world were as powerful as this one, he would have to tread carefully.
But he was backed into a corner. And he liked the idea of school, the idea that there were more like him, that he could learn and be more powerful. No, he needed to eliminate all doubts, He needed for this to be true.
"No, no," The Man was smiling.
"I don't believe you. She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!" Tom infused it with as much magic as he could. This needed to be foolproof.
The insipid man was still smiling. This wasn't working. Why wasn't this working?
"Who are you?" Tom asked.
"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 school- your new school, if you would like to come."I need to make this convincing. Tom leapt out of bed and backed away from the man, 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!"
"I'm not from the asylum" Dumbledore intoned 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," Tom sneered.
"Hogwarts is a school for people with special abilities-"
"I'm not mad!" Tom exclaimed.
"I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic"
"…Magic?" Took your own sweet time to admit it, didn't you old man?
"That's right"
"it's… it's magic, what I can do?"
"What is it that you can do?" He asked. Tom could tell he was probing. Oh well... in for a penny..
"All sorts." Tom couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement. It's not like he could disclose what he could do to anybody and everybody.
"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 forwards and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in a prayer.
A New Beginning.
"I knew I was different," he whispered to his own quivering fingers, "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something."
"Well, you were quite right" said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Tom intently. "You are a wizard"
Tom looked up, a wild happiness on his face. He clocked the discomfort on Dumbledore's face and winced inwardly. I've revealed far too much.
"Are you a wizard too?"Of course, he was.
"Yes, I am."
"Prove it." Tom said flatly.
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.
"If, as I take it, you are accepting you place at Hogwarts-"
"Of course, I am!"
"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'Sir'."Tom almost smiled out of respect for that conniving move. Tom moved to talk with his most polite voice.
"I'm sorry, sir. I meant- please, Professor, could you show me-?"
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.
Tom was a cold ball of fury. There were, after all, only so many belongings an orphan had to his name, and each belonging was more precious than the last. How dare he-?
Tom jumped to his feet howling in shock and rage. All his worldly possessions must have been in there; but even as Tom rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.
Tom stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore.
He inhaled slowly.
Then, his expression greedy, he pointed to 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 cupboard."
And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Tom looked frightened.
Mrs. Cole… She told him everything.
This man. He does not care for my explanations. He was moving to blackmail me-
I am. He is out of my league.
Tom felt dizzy. Like a helpless hatchling in the face of a hawk.
He could feel the adrenaline pumping in his veins. His flight or fight instincts were tingling. And right then he felt very cornered.
"Open the door, Tom," said Dumbledore.
Tom hesitate d, 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," Dumbledore command ed.
Tom took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved.
"Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" ask ed Dumbledore.
Tom Riddle gave 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 content onto his bed without looking at them.
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 on 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."
Tom 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, 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.
This man was powerful. And this man, quite frankly, disliked him. There was not much he could do in this situation but agree and follow what he was saying. It was not surprising for a powerful man to use such underhanded tactics.
Tom put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he 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 spell books and so second-hand, but-"
"Where do you buy spell books? Tom interrupted, quite done with the proceedings. He had taken the heavy moneybag without thanking Dumbledore and was now examining a fat gold Galleon.
"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 Tom, looking up.
"Certainly, if you-"
"I don't need you." said Tom. "I'm used to doing things for myself . I go around London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley- sir? He added, catching Dumbledore's eye.
Dumbledore handed Tom the envelope containing his list of equipment, and, after telling him 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-"
Tom gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly.
"You dislike the name 'Tom'."
He was hardly going to tell this strange man that the only person ever allowed to call him Tom (and not the disgusting variations of Tommy) had been Mr. Snake. He settled on saying, "There are a lot of Toms" instead.
Which was true enough. He made a desperate attempt to change the topic.
"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. 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. You will leave from King's Cross station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there, too."
Tom nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again.
Tom wanted to change this around. This man was obviously in a position of authority. Tom was overcome with the urge to want to impress him, and it showed.
Taking it, Tom 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 wizard?"
"It is unusual," said Dumbledore, after a moment of hesitation. "But not unheard of."
His tone was casual, but his eyes moved curiously over Tom's face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken, and Dumbledore was at the door.
"Goodbye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts."
Tom watched silently as the red-haired man departed. He knew because he was looking for it. He had almost instantly regretted his last-ditch attempt at wanting to impress this man, especially since he had never had the urge to impress anybody ever before. In Dumbledore's hesitation when told about his snake speech, there was no tell. His face had been impassive. No tell, except that the man's hand was in his. And his finger had given a slight twitch. The very fact that the man didn't beam at him told him…
If it was at all possible, Dumbledore hated him all the more for his ability. Tom groaned.
One foot forward, two feet back
AN:
1. Most of these quotes are from The art of War.
2. You might have noticed the last section looks familiar. That's because everything written in bold has been directly extrapolated from 'The half Blood Prince'. Sections in between are my takes of what Tom is thinking during that time, as opposed to the Dumbledore POV in the book.
3. Author will also be posting on ArchiveOfOurOwn.
Please do not copy down to any other site. Cheers!
