Chapter Text
“This is our room – Tom and I share,” Ansel says.
Dumbledore is a legilimens, he remembers. Mind reader. The magic of this world seems so far away, but it’s already crashing down. February fourth. Eleven years old. Happy birthday, Ansel Addison. The future depends on this very moment, you need to be charming and charismatic, and you can’t stumble. Failure is not an option here.
The scariest part is that Ansel doesn’t remember how legilimens works. It didn’t seem like an important detail, back when he was scouring through the pages of an epic fantasy series, more interested in the wacky adventures than the finer details. How does it work?! Are the thoughts tumbling out of his head, floating up into visible words that only mind readers can see? Do they have to sustain direct eye contact? Is it through physical touch? Have they been doomed from the start?
“Ah, thank you for the escort, madam,” Dumbledore tells Miss Cole, who doesn’t dare take a step into the boys’ room. “I’ll take it from here.”
Tom, so puny and white, like a paper doll waiting to be blown away in the wind, stands steadfast by Ansel’s side. He’s too proud to stand behind anyone, even if this is Ansel’s visitor.
The door closes.
Dumbledore smiles gently. “Hello, boys. I will introduce myself again. I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, from the Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. Usually, we bring our enrolment papers via owl, but for those in the muggle world – we call non-magical humans muggles – a professor will accompany the letter in order to answer any necessary questions.”
At that, the wizard reaches into his suit vest and brandishes a crisp off-white parchment letter. Ansel’s been staring into the stars, pretending to be a dazed, loony child because eye contact is out of the question. And so is physical contact, so he carefully reaches out to pluck the letter out of the offending hand, all whilst internally screaming about the different species of birds native to England.
“And Tom’s going to get his letter when he turns eleven?”
Fuck, the lack of eye contact is probably making Dumbledore convinced that he’s half barmy. Ansel turns to look at Tom instead, breaking focus. He opens his letter, and Tom leans in to read it with him. Nosy brat.
“Yes, Mr. Riddle here is on our register of magical children,” Dumbledore says politely. “Hogwarts accepts children from ages eleven to seventeen, so I will be coming back to Wool’s in time for Mr. Riddle’s letter.”
Ominous.
This man is dangerous. Powerful, prestigious, and politically influential. Not as important as he will be in the future, after he destroys Grindelwald, but still not someone to cross. Ansel needs to play it safe here, so he asks the basic questions first, just to get a sense of this new territory. Each answer, though, reveals sour truths. The muggle world and the wizarding world are so abhorrently different, and Tom must feel even more unsettled.
And then–.
“Can you prove it?” Tom spits out. It comes out harsher than the demon child must have meant, such as all insecure boys do. “Prove that you’re magic, like us.”
They’d just wrapped up a conversation on how a supply teacher will be taking Ansel out during the summer for school shopping. There’s a bursary for orphaned children, and a very small monthly allowance during the school year, until he turns of age at seventeen.
It sounds like a challenge. This is a man who shouldn’t be challenged. This man is like hellfire, too strong to even witness without the devil accompanying you.
Dark chocolate. Red chilis. Vinegar.
Dumbledore tilts his head to the side, ever so slightly that Ansel might’ve imagined the subtle movement, and the flower pot bursts into flames. No, not flower pot. The knee-high metal waste bin with cracks and dents, acting as a container for a bucket of sprouted weeds. No, not weeds. Tom’s birthday present.
There are words that come from Ansel’s mouth. No, don’t! Don’t! No! No! Something of that nature. Something with brevity, but still loud and scared, enough to encapsulate the immediate feeling of panic. And then he’s flying, zooming past a figure taller than life, trudging through mud and stone and sticky peat, to put the delicate flesh of his hands into the fire.
He puts his hands through the white stalks, the orange leaves, and red flowers, and it’s supposed to burn but it doesn’t, and then one blink after the next and the fire has been extinguished. None of the flowers are damaged. The air smells of smoke, but the plants are alive.
Fire.
Bright, loud, aggressive. A warning. Something impressive and grandiose, as proof of magical ability. Some day, you could be powerful like me. Like this. That is what this higher authority, this wizard, is saying.
There’s a pause.
“Ah, my apologies, Mister Addison, Mister Riddle,” Dumbledore says, and to his credit, there is a morose quality in his voice. “I hadn’t meant to shock you like that.”
Perhaps this man is capable of sheepishness. Ansel can’t raise his gaze to check his facial expression. Instead, Ansel makes up some drivel about how new this magic thing is, and how interesting this whole thing is, and that he’s so terribly excited to learn about this at Hogwarts, even if the fiery display initially gave him one hell of a fright. It must be believable. It has to be. Because Dumbledore makes up a response, something pandering to young children, and Ansel is staring at Tom the entire time, trying to make sense of the last words he heard.
My apologies, Mister Riddle, because Ansel wasn’t the only one petrified from the blatant destruction of their makeshift vase. The demon child? A ghost. A shaking thing, as if sopping wet in this cold. Angry as bittercress. A matryoshka doll with every single negative feeling in the world inside him, under all the other, tinier matryoshkas with their cute faces and painted lips and glittering eyes.
“I just– I have one more question,” Ansel whispers. Whispers, because quiet means complacent and complacent means innocent. Looking at feet, because there are anemones and bluebells growing between his little baby toes. They tell him to be shy and uninteresting. “Were my parents wizards? Or…”
Even if he doesn’t care about his previous life, because it has no impact on him, the closure would be nice. The original Ansel Addison, may he rest in peace.
“Your parents were muggles, my dear. The registry looked into it. You’re what we call a muggleborn wizard.”
A very fresh slate on life. A practical nobody. That’s… well. Good. Probably.
“And for you, Mister Riddle,” Dumbledore says, and Ansel forces himself to come back to focus. Goldfinch, blackbird, robin. “I’ll see you this December.”
A well groomed man, three piece suit and all, with such strikingly handsome features, is picture perfect for any kind of authority over these scrawny orphan boys, and everyone knows it. Ansel is stricken first with fear, when Dumbledore leaves through the creaky wooden door, then relief because this foreigner is out of their safe space, and then glee because one of the greatest wizards of all time will be teaching him how to do magic.
There are no more footsteps in the hallway. One, two…
“He set fire to your flowers,” Tom says quietly. “Did it burn you?”
Saying they’re okay with a laugh and a smile isn’t going to be enough. The flowers, the mangled assortment of weeds and invasive species in a used bin with stolen dirt, aren’t just that. They belong to Tom. And Tom is, to say the least, highly possessive of his belongings, considering that he has so few. The avarice in this demon child is at an all time high; this boy belongs in a manor with all the materialism that wealth can buy. Being a poor, pitiful orphan is not meant for him.
The reminders cause great pain.
“Did it burn you, Addison?”
Tom walks up to Ansel, grabbing his hands from limpness. Icy cold hands meet warm, unblemished ones, and the difference in temperature almost hurts.
“No, I’m okay,” Ansel says, attempting a warm smile. It feels real enough. “Fire can’t hurt me.”
After a minute, Tom seems to realise that he’s holding hands with a fairy. The boy scowls, sneers, and huffs in successive order, takes his hands back, and glares at nothing in particular. “No, I suppose it can’t, Addison, but this new magical society can. Unlike you, I have a brain, and can tell when adults aren’t so trustworthy. Don’t flirt with these wizard professors unless you know what you’re going into.”
“You– what?”
Tom glares, if possible, even harder. He might be trying for an aneurysm, perhaps. “Didn’t you hear, dafty? Muggleborn wizard. That implies that there are non-muggleborn wizards. Normal wizards, with no added addendums. Entire branches of magical families – a whole society of them, actually, and the fact that there’s a damn prefix added to you means it’s not supposed to be there. Magical people aren’t meant to live with the muggles. When you go to Hogwarts, don’t tell anyone that you’re a muggleborn. Make up a lie. Say that both your parents were wizards, but they died before they could tell you. You need to lie, Addison.”
Ansel had thought that the whole magic discovery thing would put Tom in a good mood, but nope. Tom fucking Riddle goes against all expectations for him. Somehow, closure has made everything worse. Answers just lead to more questions.
“Britain is built on the class hierarchy,” Tom says slowly, because Ansel knows that this brat thinks he’s dumb. “Magical Britain is even worse, probably. Just listen to what I say and you won’t get bullied. You’re too sissy to survive without me.”
And that’s an… insult? It definitely reads as an insult, but knowing Tom, it’s more likely an awkward attempt at opening up his feelings.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Tommy.”
By the end of that particularly exhausting day, he’s finally able to turn Tom’s musings into more positive ones. The fun stuff. A school for witches and wizards! A long, long roll of parchment with all his first year school equipment needs! Cauldrons, feather pens, a real life pointy hat, books with odd titles, and an animal familiar. An owl, a cat, or a toad.
They debate the merits of having a toad.
It immediately turns into a snooty giggle fest.
“An owl has air mobility, such as a carrier pigeon,” Tom points out. “That professor implied that owls are their preferred mail system of choice.”
Did he?
“Yeah,” Ansel says. “But. Cats. Cats are cute.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Yes, but they don’t travel long distances, and are known to be quite lazy, even if effective pest deterrents.”
“You said but! So you agree that cats are cute?”
“I didn’t say it like that, idiot!”
“But you agree with me, Tommy, that cats are cute and worthy of being a wizard’s familiar. Maybe after a long day of spellcasting and potion brewing, all I want is to admire an aesthetically pleasing and adorably fluffy creature. Isn’t that important for my mental stability? And emotional regulation?”
Tom sputters and turns rosy. “Wh-What is wrong with your mind? Am I going to catch whatever inflicts you?”
The days continue like this.
Proper fantasies of a better and cooler world than the shithole they’re in now, and then Tom getting too high and mighty about it and Ansel pulling him back down with silly verbiage. The last week of February, there’s a sudden and acute snowstorm that brings the temperature back down to below zero, and Tom and Ansel are the only two kids who are physically able to go outside to play. The charmed clothing helps. Any amount of vitamin D exposure is good for budding sociopaths and all associated irritability.
The snow melts in March, and by April the colour green starts back up again.
And Ansel, one night, has a dream. More like a vision, really, but the syrupy feeling running over his body makes it more of a dream. He isn’t eleven, but seventeen. He’s no longer a gangly mess, but now a relatively thin young man with soft skin. Tall, but not tall enough, because a sixteen year old Tom towers over him, saying all sorts of evil things and decorative plans. Ruby eyes and Satan’s smile. Lilith’s companion. The dream says despite your best efforts, Voldemort still arises. The tall, handsome, finely crafted sixteen year old Tom Riddle smirks at his cowering form, slammed against a stone wall. It has to be a dream. Am I not everything that power aspires to be? This is what this older Tom says, and Ansel tries not to cry in this dream. Then the handsome man turns into a snake-faced monster.
He wakes up with physical pain in his chest.
There is still so much more work to do for poor Ansel Addison.