Chapter 333: Tom Riddle
Dumbledore seemed quite satisfied. He popped a Lemon Sherbet into his mouth and offered one to Sean.
"Muggles created these sweets, you know. But they aren't just popular in the Muggle world."
Sean took the Lemon Sherbet. The candy had a hard lemon-flavored shell with a soft white center that hissed and fizzed on the tongue.
As he ate the sweet, Sean's gaze drifted across the Headmaster's desk. Silver trays were piled high with an assortment of treats: Lemon Sherbets, Cockroach Clusters, Acid Pops, raspberry jam, and various other sugary delights.
"Minerva isn't particularly fond of sweets, though she does buy them on occasion," Dumbledore said, his eyes crinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Come along, Mr. Green. Follow me."
The Chamber of Secrets.
They passed the rows of towering stone pillars carved with entwined serpents. The massive statue of Salazar Slytherin loomed before them. Inside the statue's hollow, the Basilisk was curled up, still wearing its oversized goggles.
Then, to Sean's immense surprise, he heard a low, sibilant hiss. He whirled around to find that Professor Dumbledore was the one who had spoken.
"Surprised? Did you think it was such a difficult tongue to master?"
Sean quickly looked away. It appeared the Headmaster didn't just understand Parseltongue; he had actually learned to mimic it.
The giant stone face of Slytherin groaned into motion. Its mouth opened wider and wider until it formed a black abyss, and the monster inside slithered out with eager speed.
"Salazar Slytherin intended for this creature to protect the school," Dumbledore said. "As far as I am aware, for centuries, it did exactly that—remaining a faithful, if hidden, guardian. Then, an 'accident' occurred. Do you know what it was?"
"Voldemort used it to kill Moaning Myrtle," Sean replied.
The Basilisk had reached Sean's feet. It towered over him, massive enough to swallow a hundred students, yet it merely circled him with affectionate, heavy movements.
"It is a tool, child. It cannot be denied that it was created with a dark purpose. But does one's birth decide everything? I think not."
Dumbledore's voice echoed through the damp, dark chamber. "But let us speak of tools. In some hands, it is lethal. But I see you have settled it quite well. It already has its spectacles; perhaps if it wore a pair of earmuffs as well, the truth of what it hears might be even clearer."
Dumbledore gave him a playful wink.
Sean was stunned. If the Basilisk were fitted with earmuffs to block out Parseltongue commands, it truly could function as a guardian for the castle. Though, in truth, the creature was currently so docile it was almost a non-threat.
The Basilisk returned to its slumber. Dumbledore led Sean out of the Chamber.
A group of students hurried past them in the corridor, but none of them spared the pair a glance. They moved through the crowd as if they were made of air. Sean looked down and realized he was indeed invisible; Dumbledore had cast a high-level Disillusionment Charm on them both without Sean even noticing.
They walked back to the Headmaster's office in silence. Once there, Dumbledore gave Fawkes a gentle stroke on the head before uttering a name that made Sean pause:
"Tom Riddle...
"Few people know that this was once the name of the young Lord Voldemort. It honestly surprises me that you have crossed paths with him so many times now, and each time, you have not lost. It is quite remarkable."
Dumbledore flicked his wand. A shallow stone basin materialized on the desk, its rim carved with runes and strange symbols. The center was filled with a swirling, silver substance that was neither liquid nor gas, but something like captured clouds.
"We are going to enter my memory. I believe you will find it not only vivid in detail, but perfectly accurate. You first, Mr. Green... lean down..."
Sean leaned over the Pensieve, his face breaking the surface of the cold memory. He felt a sudden sensation of falling through darkness.
Seconds later, his feet hit solid ground. He opened his eyes to find himself and Dumbledore standing on a busy, old-fashioned London street. Dumbledore took him by the hand and led him toward a grim-looking building: an orphanage.
"There I am," Dumbledore said cheerfully, pointing to a tall, younger version of himself walking ahead.
Sean found it surreal to watch the Headmaster point at "Professor Dumbledore." In the memory, the younger professor was speaking to a handsome, dark-haired boy.
"I am here to take you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," the memory-Dumbledore said.
"Magic?" the boy, Riddle, whispered.
"That's right," Dumbledore replied.
"The things I can do... is that... magic?"
"What sort of things can you do?"
"All sorts," Riddle said in a low voice. A flush of excitement spread from his neck to his hollow cheeks. He looked feverish. "I can move things without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."
Riddle's legs were shaking. He stumbled back to his bed and sat down, staring at his hands as if in prayer. "I knew I was different," he whispered to his trembling palms. "I knew I was special. I always knew there was something."
"Yes, you were right to think so," Dumbledore said, his smile fading as he watched the boy with intense focus. "You are a wizard."
Riddle looked up. His face transformed instantly, lit by a feral, hungry joy.
Beside Sean, the Headmaster's expression became profoundly complex. "When granted extraordinary power, wizards are always faced with a choice. At that moment, it is very easy to fall toward the darkness."
The scene shifted. A new memory took hold.
"Open the door," the memory-Dumbledore commanded, pointing to a wardrobe.
Riddle hesitated, then walked over and yanked the doors open. A few tattered clothes hung from the rail. On the top shelf sat a small cardboard box, which was vibrating and rattling as if filled with frantic rats.
"Take it out," Dumbledore said. Riddle pulled the box down, looking utterly bewildered.
"Is there anything in that box that you should not have?" Dumbledore asked. Riddle gave him a sharp, calculating look.
"Yes, I suppose so, sir," he finally said in a dry voice.
"Open it."
Riddle lifted the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed. A yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ spilled out. As soon as they left the box, they stopped rattling and lay still on the thin blanket.
It was obvious. They were stolen trophies.
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