For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Twenty-One: Evil Intentions

The morning after, the Great Hall was doused in a pale October light. The vast and typically welcoming room possessed a forlorn aura as the students from all four Hogwarts houses gathered at their designated tables.

Slowly and then all at once, the room began bustling with hushed rumors about the bullied Ravenclaw fourth year found dead and soaking wet inside of one of the first floor lavatory's stalls. Olive Hornby, a stuck-up, pretentious Gryffindor, had stumbled across the body when Headmaster Dippet told her to go look for Myrtle Warren, whom she had publicly humiliated during dinner that day.

Tom now sat at the Syltherin table, surrounded by his followers, and stared intently toward the front of the room. Thoughts of his conversation with the Headmaster yesterday clouded his mind, nestled just under the current bubbling feeling of pride that was settling underneath his skin.

"Sit down," said Dippet. "I've just been reading the letter you sent me."

"Oh," Tom said. He sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly.

"My dear boy," said Dippet kindly, "I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?"

"No," Tom said at once. "I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that—to that—"

"You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?" said Dippet curiously.

"Yes, sir," Tom replied. He couldn't help the slight rush of blood to his face. He was not only embarrassed, he was angry. He loathed that the wizened old man would ever mention that horrible place to his face.

"You are muggle-born?"

The question came as a dastardly blow to Tom's ego, but he handled himself well in the presence of the Headmaster. He could not let on that he held any disdain for his unfortunate heritage.

"Half-blood, sir," he explained. "Muggle father, witch mother."

"And both your parents—?"

"My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me—Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather."

Dippet clucked his tongue sympathetically.

"The thing is Tom," he sighed, "special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances..." he trailed off warily.

"You mean all these attacks, sir?" Tom supplied.

"Precisely," said the Headmaster. "My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be for me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy... the death of that poor little girl... You will be far safer at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the board of governors from the Ministry of Magic have decided to close the school until it is deemed safe to return. We are no neared locating the—er—source of all this unpleasantness..."

Tom bit his lip, feigning some serious thinking. "Sir, what if I told you that I think I know who did this to Myrtle Warren?"

"What do you mean?" said Dippet with a squeak in his voice, sitting up in his chair. "Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?"

"Yes," he said slowly. "I believe I do."

"W-Well," Dippet stuttered in disbelief, "it is of the utmost importance that you tell me the whole truth, Tom!"

"Of course, sir," Tom replied solemnly. "Looking back, I wish I told you sooner. After all, the boy's been raising werewolf Cubs underneath his bed this term and wrestling with trolls in the Forbidden Forest since second year. Perhaps the little girl's death could have been prevented, but I just didn't want to seem as if I was out to slander anyone's name."