Chatterbox: Inkwell

So, my internal editor kicked in and guess what I did. No, really, guess.

Yeah, I started rewriting the TMG fic AGAIN. YES, I know this is like the fourth time and YES I am ashamed of myself. Ugh, its like an addiction and I can't stop.

This time, at least, it's not as drastic as Number Three's complete plot rehaul. It's mostly just characterization this time. Because Tom wasn't enough of a sociopath and stuff. Yes. And because the beginning irritated me. It was... not good. Also I needed to refine some of the messier bits of my original fanon. And fix some things that were broken. Okay, so it was a combination of things. The POINT is I started over.

I swear, the amount of time I've devoted to this fic is ridiculous. I've been writing essays about GOBLINS because of it. (Four pages. Handwritten in my smallest handwriting. What is this I don't even)

FOR the uninitiated who weren't around for the previous three installments of my irrational obsession with this stupid thing, this is an AU in which Dumbledore is still teh evols!!1! with Grindelwald because Ariana's death never happened. And Tom Riddle is the protagonist. And the Black family tree got dragged back in time 26 years for no other reason than that I ship TomxBellatrix. And I have the EPIC PLANSSSS of DOOM for the next six books if I can STOP REWRITING for long enough to actually GET to them. And reasonable Harry Potter debate is WELCOMED here even if it has NOTHING TO DO WITH THE FIC because ranting about Harry Potter is one of my FAVORITE THINGS and I love it EVEN MORE when people enable me :D. So if you want to overanalyze plot minutia here instead of reviewing the fic that is FINE BY ME. It's very early in the morning, can you tell? 

So... this is the First Chapter Mark Four.

o0O0o 

One night, a starving woman appeared on the doorstep of Wool’s Orphanage. It was a very cold New Year’s Eve; not windy, but so cold that the chill air could freeze the insides of your lungs if you weren’t careful.

The woman was on the point of giving birth. The orphanage staff took her in with little to-do. Within the hour she’d given birth; an hour after that, she was dead. Before she died, she said that the child was to be named Tom, for his father, Marvolo, for his grandfather, and that his surname was Riddle. 

Those were her last words.

Tom Marvolo Riddle lived in Wool’s Orphanage for ten years, and the matron, Mrs. Cole, told him the story so often that he could recite it with her. Every year on New Year’s Eve, he made her tell it again; afterwards, he would sit in his room with all the lights off. He stared up at the ceiling and imagined in details, trying to picture everything exactly as it had been.

His mother had been ugly. Mrs. Cole always made a point of mentioning that, and how his mother’s dying wish had been that Tom would look like his father. “She was right to,” Mrs. Cole would say, shaking her head at the memory. “All skin and bones, and a face like a busted clog…”

His mother got her dying wish; Tom was handsome, tall for his age and pale. He had a thin face, dark hair, and ice-blue eyes. Mrs. Cole had told him once that he had a charming smile, and Tom had spent the better part of a day standing in front of a mirror perfecting it for future use.

Tom propped himself up on an elbow, the bedsprings squeaking loudly in protest. Through the frost-covered window he could make out bits of the street outside. It was snowing; it had been for a while now, and the heavy flakes were gathering on the outside of the sill. If it kept up, the other orphans would go mad with excitement over it in the morning.

Tom had never gotten along with the rest of the orphans. He found them boring, and ignored them because of it; they did the same, mostly. When they didn’t, he ridiculed them and systematically nicked whatever little trinkets they owned until they stopped bothering him. Over the years Tom had built up an impressive collection: yo-yos, pins, playing cards, and, once, a tarnished mouth organ. He kept them in a cardboard box in his wardrobe, next to a couple of ragged books.

Despite her best efforts, Mrs. Cole never caught Tom stealing. This was because Tom wasn’t like the other children; among other talents, he could make things move without touching them. He’d found out when he was quite young, and with time and practice it had become very useful. He could get food from the kitchen wherever he liked, keep flying snowballs from hitting him, flip up the corners of carpets to trip people who annoyed him—the possibilities were endless. He’d once bloodied a boy’s nose from across the room by shoving his head into a door frame.

That wasn’t the only thing Tom could do, either. He could make animals do what he wanted to without having to train them first, change the temperature of water, even freeze it completely if he concentrated, light candles without using matches… Almost every summer, they were taken on outings to the country, and on one of these trips, he’d found he could speak to snakes.

Odd things sometimes happened outside of his control, too. Once, after a nasty argument with one of the older boys, Tom had snuck into his room, intending to set his beloved rabbit free into the street. By the time he got there, the rabbit was dangling from the rafters by a grubby shoelace, its feet twitching spastically. 

Another time, during one of their summer trips, he’d left the group to explore a cave he’d found. A couple of the others had insisted on tagging along. Eventually he got sick of them, and part of the cave roof had slammed down immediately. They were trapped on the other side. Tom had left them there; after a while they must have stopped screaming and found a gap big enough for them to crawl through.

Of course, Tom always knew that these incidents happened because of him. He could feel it when he made something happen, even if it wasn’t quite on purpose. Without any proof, though, Mrs. Cole couldn’t punish him, which made the orphans resent him all the more. 

Somewhere in the city, a bell tolled midnight. Tom grinned and squirmed into a more comfortable position on the bed. Downstairs, Mrs. Cole would be pouring over her ledgers, probably well into a bottle of gin by now. Like Tom, her New Year’s routine never changed. In a few minutes she would finish. She’d tiptoe up the stairs and pause in front of Tom’s bedroom, then knock very quietly on the door and wish him a happy birthday before continuing her rounds. 

Eleven. He was eleven today. Tom liked the sound of that. He rolled onto his side, yawning hugely.

Tom must have fallen asleep shortly afterwards, because he woke up that morning without any memory of hearing Mrs. Cole pass by. 

He dressed without really paying attention to what he was putting on—it didn’t matter, anyway, since all of his clothes were the same—and then flopped back onto his bed with one of his books. It was about a man who could talk to animals and Tom had read it so many times that half the pages were falling out. Tom had barely made it to the second page, however, when someone knocked twice on his door.

Before he could answer, Mrs. Cole pulled the door open and peered in. Her cheeks were flushed, and Tom raised his eyebrows; she usually didn’t drink during the day. “Tom?” she said. “You’ve got a visitor. This is Mr. Pen—” she hiccoughed. “Penrose. He’s come to tell you—well, I’ll let him do it.”

Tom nodded, and she stepped aside.

The man who walked into the room wore a very bright yellow suit. For a few seconds that was the only thing Tom could see; then he blinked, narrowing his eyes as he took in the rest of Mr. Penrose’s appearance. Mr. Penrose was tall and skinny, with a turnip-shaped nose and greying brown hair that stuck out in from his head in uneven tufts. 

Mrs. Cole closed the door behind him, and as it clicked shut, Mr. Penrose walked forward. “How do you do, Tom?” he said, holding out his hand.

Tom hesitated only slightly before taking it. Mr. Penrose walked over to the window and picked up the wooden chair that stood in front of it. He pulled it over to the bed and sat down, folding his hands in his lap and smiling. Tom watched him warily.

“I am Professor Penrose.”

“Professor?” Tom’s eyes narrowed further; he didn’t like the way Penrose was sitting over him as if he were visiting Tom on a sickbed, and he liked the word “professor” even less. It made him nervous. “Is that like ‘doctor’? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?” He pointed at the door.

Penrose blinked owlishly at Tom. “No,” he said.

No, of course not. He wouldn’t have gotten Mrs. Cole drunk beforehand if he was here on her request. Tom swung his legs off the bed and sat up straight. “Who are you, then?” he demanded.

Penrose smiled. “Well, as I said, my name is Professor Penrose. I work at a school called Hogwarts. I’ve come to offer you a place there, if you would like to come.”

Tom stiffened, shutting his book with a snap. “Don’t kid me,” he said. “You’re from the asylum, aren’t you? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course.” He sneered. “I’m not going and you can’t make me.” Penrose had stopped smiling; now he looked rather put out. 

“I’m not from the asylum,” he said. “I am a teacher, and if you will please calm down, I’ll tell you about Hogwarts. No one will force you to do anything.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Tom muttered angrily.

Penrose cleared his throat loudly. “Hogwarts,” he said, “is a school for people with, ah, special abilities—”

“I’m not mad!”

Penrose bobbed his head once, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he suppressed a smile. “I know that. Hogwarts isn’t a school for mad people. It’s a school of magic.”

Tom froze; that he hadn’t been expecting. He waited for Penrose to laugh and say he was joking, but it never happened.

“Magic?” Tom whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

“Yes,” Penrose said. He smiled, clearly enjoying himself. 

“It’s magic, what I can do?” Tom leaned forward, his book sliding off the bed and landing on the floor with a thump. He ignored it, his eyes still fixed on Penrose’s face.

The professor’s smile broadened. “What can you do?” he asked.

Tom’s heart seemed to have lodged itself in his throat as he said, “All sorts. I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to without training. I can make bad things happen to people who deserve it.”

He was trembling. His fingers clenched and unclenched in his lap. “I knew I was different,” he continued. “I was special. Always, I knew there was something…”

Tom looked up at Penrose, who wasn’t smiling any more. “Well,” Penrose said slowly, “you were right. You are a wizard.”

“You’re one too?” Tom asked. Penrose nodded. 

“Yes, I—”

“Prove it.” Tom’s eyes watered as he struggled not to blink, determined not to miss anything by accident.

Penrose didn’t seem in the least bit fazed by this demand. His hand dipped into a pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a slender piece of wood. He flicked it towards the wardrobe in the corner; the door creaked open and dozens of silver marbles poured out, rattling as they hit the floor. The wardrobe door shut and the marbles grew wings and fluttered into the air. They soared once around the room before vanishing, one by one, into little puffs of yellow smoke.

Instantly Tom wanted a wand of his own of his own, more than he had ever wanted anything before. He watched hungrily as Penrose slipped it back into his pocket.

“Where can I get one of those?” he breathed.

“I take it you’re convinced?” Penrose asked.

Tom nodded impatiently; Penrose was missing the point. “Answer my question!”

Penrose twitched as if he’d been stung. “There’s a place called Diagon Alley,” he said. “You will be able to buy a wand there, along with your books and other equipment. Funds will, of course, be provided for you, though you’ll have to buy most of it second-hand.”

Tom’s heart was pounding painfully by now. “How do I get there?”

“I can escort you—” Penrose began.

His heart sank. “You’re coming with me?” Tom asked.

“Of course, if you—”

“I don’t need you,” said Tom coldly. “I go round London on my own all the time. How do I get there?”

For a few, painful seconds, Tom worried that Penrose would insist on accompanying him. Bits of the professor’s face twitched occasionally. “Will a map be sufficient?” Penrose asked at last.

“Yes,” Tom muttered. He was eleven, not a baby.

Penrose pulled out his wand again to conjure a piece of paper out of thin air. He also retrieved a thick envelope from a second pocket and handed it over. “Your list of equipment,” he explained, when Tom looked at it blankly.

Tom set the envelope aside for the moment and turned his attention to the map. “I haven’t got any money,” he said. 

“Ah, yes.” Penrose began to rummage around in his pockets again, this time producing a drawstring leather bag. “There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who need assistance to buy books and robes,” he said, handing it over. Tom loosened the drawstrings to examine its contents.

It was filled with gold and silver coins. Tom pulled one out, turning it over in his fingers. It was very heavy. On one side there was a picture of a man with a long beard and a pointy hat; the other side had a dragon.

“That,” said Penrose, “is a Galleon. It’s worth seventeen Sickles, those are the silver ones, and one Sickle is worth twenty-nine Knuts, which are the square bronze ones you’ll find at the bottom.” Tom nodded without looking up from his examination of the coins. When Penrose cleared his throat anxiously, though, Tom tore his gaze away from the money. “Now, when you reach the Leaky Cauldron,” he said, gesturing towards the map, “ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name—”

Tom grimaced. Something else had just occurred to him. “Was my father a wizard?” he asked. “He was called Tom Riddle, too. They’ve told me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Penrose said, looking away. “’Riddle’ isn’t a wizarding family that I know of…”

There was more to that sentence, Tom could tell. “But…?” he prompted.

Penrose kept his gaze trained firmly on the window. “Your middle name is Marvolo, correct?”

“Yes. After my grandfather,” Tom said. “Was he a wizard, then?” 

Penrose took a deep breath. “Well,” he said, “Marvolo Gaunt was one of the last members of the Noble House of Gaunt, which is thought to have gone extinct with the his death and that of his children, Morfin and Merope.”

Tom squeezed the money bag so hard that his knuckles began to throb. “Yes?”

“Merope’s death was never officially recognized, however,” Penrose said slowly. “She disappeared shortly after her father and brother were imprisoned in Azkaban—our prison—for Muggle bating.”

“Muggles?”

“Non-magical folk.”

“Oh,” said Tom. “So—when did this happen? Was it enough time for me to have…?” He trailed off, looking up at Penrose eagerly.

“It was twelve years ago,” Penrose said, shrugging. “I think it’s possible. The goblins have ways of checking, if you would like. You’ll find them in the bank, Gringotts.”

“In Diagon Alley?”

“Yes. It’s the largest building on the street, white marble. You can’t miss it.”

“And what’s a Noble House?”

Penrose stiffened. He swallowed noisily, then cleared his throat and said, “Well, eight hundred years ago, eight of the most powerful wizarding families created a magical contract upon which the Ministry of Magic was founded. It’s known today as the Noble House Contract. These families were the Peverells, the Blacks, the Potters, the Longbottoms, the Sharrows, the Gamps, the Whites, and the Gaunts.” He licked his lips nervously before he continued, “The Peverell, Sharrow, and Gaunt lines have since died out, but the rest still hold a great deal of power in the wizarding world.”

Tom considered this for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts and not doing a very good job because he had about a hundred questions and more kept occurring to him every second. “But if I’m a Gaunt on my mother’s side—”

“If the lineage is there, you’re legally part of the family. The Head, in this case, since there’s no one else.” Tom frowned, annoyed by the interruption. “I’m afraid I’m not really the one to ask about all this,” Penrose admitted. “I usually deal with Muggle-born students, who don’t generally…” He squirmed in his seat, grimacing. “That is, I—”

Tempting though it was to let Penrose squirm for a while, Tom decided to take pity on him. “So—when I’ve got all my stuff, when do I go to Hogwarts? And how?”

Looking relieved, Penrose said, “All the details are on the second piece of parchment in that envelope. You will leave from King’s Cross Station on the first of September—you’ll be in the first year of students to take the train. Very exciting. There is a ticket in there, too, you’ll find.”

Tom nodded. Penrose got to his feet and held out his hand. In the finality of the moment, Tom panicked a little and blurted out, “I can speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?”

Penrose hesitated in the doorway. “It’s… unusual,” he said, “but it is a talent for which the Gaunts were well known.”

For a moment they stared at each other, Penrose frowning a bit and Tom quivering with excitement.

“Good-bye, Tom,” Penrose said at last. “I shall see you at Hogwarts.”

He left, letting the door swing shut behind him. Tom stared after him for a moment; he half expected the door to open and for Penrose to walk back in and say it had all been a terrible mistake. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Tom went to the wardrobe and pulled on his coat. He grabbed the envelope and money bag and shoved them into his pockets, then ran out of the orphanage with the map clutched in one hand.

Tom ran all the way to the Leaky Cauldron. By the time he got there, he had a massive stitch in his side and for a while all he could do was lean against the dingy wall and try to catch his breath.

As soon as he could, he straightened up and pushed open the door of the pub. His hands were shaking again. Tom the barman turned out to be a hunchbacked wizard with three of his teeth missing, but he smiled when Tom asked to be shown to Diagon Alley and led him into a tiny courtyard. Greyish slush was piled in the corners, sprinkled with broken glass.

The barman pulled out his wand (Tom experienced a flash of jealousy) and tapped a brick on the far wall three times. 

The brick shuddered and twisted like a sponge being wrung out. Before Tom’s eyes, a tiny hole appeared in its center and grew. A second later, he was standing in front of a massive archway. Beyond it was a cobbled street that twisted back and forth several times before finally curving out of sight.

“And there you are,” the barman said, clapping Tom on the shoulder. Tom was too stunned to care. “Next time you want to come through, it’s the brick fourth from the left and third down. Tap it three times with your wand.”

The words “your wand” snapped Tom out of his daze, and he tried to pull himself together. He squared his shoulders and walked into the wizarding world.