Emerald and Obsidian Snarry// badlightside

the riddle of riddle and memory lane

when harry woke it was to the sound of a shouted "stupefy" from outside of the door. he came too lying on soft silk sheets in a beautiful room, one that screamed prosperity. he felt for his wand, but it was not there. 

"its a beautiful room isn't it? a bit to rich for my tastes" 

harry looked up, in an intricate, almost throne-like mahogany chair was riddle.

"you" harry hissed, attempting to sit bolt upright

"me, i would not try to sit up, there is a sticking charm binding you to the bed until you've calmed down"

"calmed down! clam down! i will kill you the minute I am released! how did you come back? drained another innocent girl of her soul did you?"

tom surveyed harry potter carefully, blood red eyes staring into green, then he approached the bed, and grabbed Harry's hand, too firm for harry to pull away from.

"what are you doing?!"

"we are taking a trip down memory lane."

and then all was dark

                                                                                           ***

the sensation of falling was what awoke harry, and, as his eyes snapped open, he was falling through darkness then.... Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground, and light and color began to flood his senses. when harry looked around, he saw that he was in  a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of a ratty gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book. he had neat hair and sharp features, an are of almost aristocracy shining through, even though the book he was holding was tattered and the cuffs of the grey tunic he wore were frayed.

"hello?"

"he will not speak to you" harry whipped his head around to see tom, standing in the shadow of a corner, his eyes sad. "he is but a memory of the past"

"who?"

then riddle looked up to meet his eye "me"

the boy on the bed looked around, and harry doubted for a second whether this was memory or not, but then the door opened.

The younger Albus Dumbledore's long hair and beard were auburn, face weathered but not wrinkled, wearing a flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet. 

young tom surveyed him His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence.

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

The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. 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'? What are you here for? 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!"

He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds  Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still.


"Who are you?"

"I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a

school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school --

your new school, if you would like to come."


Riddle's reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.

"You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course -- well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!

"I am not from the asylum," said Dumbledore patiently. "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you --"

"I'd like to see them try," sneered Riddle.

"Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle's last words, "is a school for people with special abilities --"

"I'm not mad!"


"I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."


There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore's, as though trying to catch one of them lying.

"Magic?" he repeated in a whisper.

"That's right," said Dumbledore.

"It's. . . it's magic, what I can do?"

"What is it that you can do?"


"All sorts," breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. "I can make filings move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to." His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.

"I knew I was different," he whispered to his own quivering fingers. "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something."

"Well, you were quite right," said Dumbledore, who was no longer

smiling, but watching Riddle intently, features almost cold, calculated. "You are a wizard."


Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: There was a wild
happiness upon it, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.


"Are you a wizard too?"


"Yes, I am."


"Prove it," said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, "Tell the truth."


Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts--"

"Of course I am!"

"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'" Riddle's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice,