The Enemy of my Enemy

The Memory, Part II

Dumbledore did not press her, though he was interested.

"Billy Stubbs's rabbit. . . well, Tom said he didn't do it and I don't see how he could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"

"I shouldn't think so, no," said Dumbledore quietly.

"But have no idea how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then on the summer outing-we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside— well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things. . . "

She looked around at Dumbledore again, her gaze was steady.

"I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him."

"You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?" said Dumbledore. "He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer. "

"Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker," said Mrs. Cole. "I suppose you'd like to see him?"

"Very much," said Dumbledore, rising too.

Teddie shared a look with Harry as they followed the two Dumbledore's out of the office. With Mrs Cole in the lead, she climbed the stone steps, barking orders and instructions to other matrons and children alike. So far this place had done nothing but prove to Teddie why Voldemort had turned out the way he had, there was no love here. She couldn't go as far as to say there was no care, because Mrs Cole and the other workers did seem to care about the children, but this care wasn't the same as the maternal one children should've had from their parents.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.

"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."

Harry, Teddie, and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the grey blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.

"Merope got her wish, didn't she," said Harry, his voice low as he leaned over to whisper in Teddie's ear.

Teddie nodded. There was absolutely no trace of her grandmother, great-grandfather, or even great-uncle in Tom Riddle's face. He was the spit image of the Muggle his mother had fallen in love with, though, for an eleven-year-old, Tom Riddle Jnr was tall, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's appearance.

There was a moment's silence.

"How do you do, Tom?" asked Dumbledore, walking forward, and holding out his hand.

The boy hesitated, then took it. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor.

"I am Professor Dumbledore."

"'Professor'?" repeated Riddle. He looked wary. "Is that like 'doctor'? For what are you here? Did she get you in to have a look at me?" He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.

"No, no," said Dumbledore, smiling.

"I don't believe you," said Riddle. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!"