Mrs. Cole rose briskly, her movements steady despite having downed most of a bottle of gin. She led Snape and the two Dumbledores out of the office, ascending the stone staircase while barking orders at her assistant and scolding the children they passed.
The orphans all wore identical grey tunics, their appearances meticulously neat. They seemed well cared for, yet their expressions lacked the lively spark typical of children their age.
"It's not a terrible place," Snape remarked with a shrug, "but it's hardly a good one either."
"Indeed, Severus," Dumbledore agreed, nodding. "The atmosphere here is far too grim and oppressive."
"Since you're going to take Tom to Hogwarts anyway, why not just let him grow up there?" Snape voiced the question nagging at him.
"No one's ever done that," Dumbledore replied with a hint of resignation. "Hogwarts has its rules. Young witches and wizards are only brought to the school at the appropriate age."
"Yes, it seems orphans are doomed to grow up in misfortune," Snape muttered under his breath, his mind involuntarily conjuring the image of the cupboard under the stairs at Number 4 Privet Drive.
Mrs. Cole led them around a corner on the third-floor landing, stopping at the first door along a long corridor. She knocked twice, then pushed the door open without waiting.
Snape and the two Dumbledores followed her inside, and Mrs. Cole closed the door behind them.
In the sparse room, a handsome dark-haired boy sat on a grey blanket, his long legs stretched out in front of him, a book in his hands.
"He's quite good-looking," Snape commented quietly, "but there's a sharpness to him."
Tom was glaring at the younger Dumbledore, his eyes wide with suspicion and wariness. "I don't believe you. She's trying to get someone to check me over, isn't she? Tell the truth!"
To prove the existence of magic—and perhaps to intimidate—the younger Dumbledore calmly drew his wand from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. With a casual flick toward the rickety wardrobe in the corner, he set it ablaze.
At the younger Dumbledore's command, Tom reluctantly opened the wardrobe door. He dumped the contents of a cardboard box onto his bed: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished harmonica.
"At Hogwarts, we don't just teach you to use magic," Dumbledore said. "We teach you to control it. The Ministry of Magic punishes lawbreakers harshly. Once you enter our world, you must abide by our laws."
"I don't need you," Tom retorted. "I'm used to doing things on my own."
"The Leaky Cauldron," Dumbledore continued. "Ask for the landlord, Tom. Same name as you."
"I can talk to snakes," Tom said abruptly.
"Goodbye, Tom. We'll meet again at Hogwarts."
Seconds later, Snape and Dumbledore were soaring weightlessly through darkness, landing smoothly back in the reality of the headmaster's office.
"Professor," Snape said, settling into a chair in front of Dumbledore's desk with a peculiar expression, "Voldemort despised the name 'Tom' so much. It's a wonder the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron has survived this long."
"Your connections are astute," Dumbledore said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "But that's not the focus tonight. We should consider what useful information we can glean from this memory."
"Right, then, a different topic." Snape shifted in his seat. "Is that how you taught Tom? By setting his wardrobe on fire?"
"I'm afraid so, Severus," Dumbledore said with a heavy sigh. "I was young then, too confident in the power of force."
"And when did you stop believing in force?" Snape pressed. "After 1945, perhaps? I recall the Chocolate Frog card mentioning your defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald that year. Surely that couldn't have been done without power."
Dumbledore fell silent, staring intently at Snape.
When the headmaster didn't respond, Snape continued, undeterred. "Professor, do you think if Tom had grown up with parents or in a loving wizarding family, he would've still turned out that way?"
"I don't know," Dumbledore sighed again. "No one can know the outcome of what-ifs."
"I still have some doubts—or rather, grievances," Snape said, his brow furrowing slightly. "The wizarding world's approach to young witches and wizards is far too blunt and crude. Children with magical abilities often use their powers, intentionally or not, which can harm others. Or worse, it can lead to them getting hurt or provoking retaliation from Muggles. It's been this way for centuries, and it's still the same. Isn't there a better way?"
Dumbledore's long beard trembled slightly. He took several deep breaths, visibly trying to calm himself. Behind Snape, Fawkes let out a soft, melodious trill, then fluttered onto Dumbledore's shoulder, nuzzling his head.
Snape noticed that Dumbledore's bright blue eyes seemed dimmer than usual.
"Severus," Dumbledore said at last, "are you trying to help me fight Voldemort, or are you helping him fight me?"
"What are you talking about?" Snape feigned confusion, eyes widening. "I don't understand. Of course I'm fully committed to fighting Voldemort with you."
Dumbledore didn't press the issue. "I trust you see the importance of this memory now?"
"Yes, Professor," Snape said, sitting up straighter. "Young Tom liked collecting trophies. That box was full of items he'd taken from others, one way or another. Could we assume he'd collect objects suitable for Horcruxes in the same way?"
"I agree," Dumbledore said. "But judging by the diadem, I believe Tom wouldn't choose ordinary trophies. He has his own standards and would carefully select the vessels for his soul fragments."
"It's a pity I couldn't get Borgin's memory directly," Dumbledore added, raising his wand and drawing a long, silvery strand from his temple. "But even his fragmented words hold significant value."
————
Supporting me on Patreon to gain early access to advanced chapters and enjoy expedited updates. Your support is greatly appreciated.
pat-reon .com/Dragonhair
(Just remove the hyphen - and space, to access Patreon normally.)