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Chapter 2 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡ (edited)
The heavy wooden door creaked as Tom pushed it open, revealing Ms. Cole's office bathed in the golden afternoon light. I hesitated at the threshold, my heart pounding against my ribcage, then stepped in after him.
The room loomed before me, just as stark and uninviting as I remembered. Dark wood panels absorbed the waning sunlight, while shelves sagged under the weight of forgotten, dust-laden tomes. The scent of mildew and aged parchment lingered, clinging to the air like an unwelcome guest.
I noticed the carpet had been replaced—the one I had set aflame not too long ago. Somehow, that wretched woman had found the means to replace the carpet—another testament to her priorities. While we orphans dealt with frayed bedding and threadbare clothes, she surrounded herself with petty luxuries that mocked our existence.
As I take in my surroundings, I can't help but notice the reminder.
The new set carpet was a reminder of what I had done—of what I had felt so clearly that day. The same twisted satisfaction churned in my stomach at the thought of her being consumed by those relentless flames, burned away until nothing remained.
I almost cracked a sick smile before it hit me.
I shouldn't feel satisfaction at the idea of someone being reduced to ashes.
My lips curled downward, the expression on my face surely betraying the thoughts I couldn't put into words. Astonishment rippled through me, directed inward—how could I even think like this?
Had the orphanage finally gotten to me? Or was I just too worn out by the effort of staying sane in a place that gnawed at your mind every single day?
Behind the large, imposing desk sat the matron, her thin lips stretched into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. That smile, plastered on her face like a mask, told me everything I needed to know: we had a guest.
Beside her sat a man, humble in appearance yet radiating quiet authority. His auburn hair, threaded with gray, and his long beard gave him an air of wisdom, while half-moon spectacles perched neatly on his crooked nose. There was a calmness about him, oddly out of place in this gloomy orphanage. His sharp blue eyes twinkled with a peculiar warmth—an almost mischievous glimmer that both intrigued and unsettled me.
It wasn't until the matron spoke that I realized who he was.
"Mr. Dumbledore, this is Tom Riddle," she said, her voice clipped and formal.
She eyed Tom with disdain, then let her wary gaze sweep over me. A shiver ran down my spine, my lungs felt tight and suffocating under the weight of her stare.
I focused on the wooden floor, finding the cracks in it suddenly very interesting.
"And…her. The girl. ," her voice chipped, dismissive. As quickly as I felt her eyes on me, they flicked away, as though I was an object not worth noticing.
It was clear she hadn't forgiven—or forgotten—that day. The day I set the carpet ablaze and watched her flounder amidst the flames. I hadn't hidden my lack of concern then, and the disdain in her gaze told me she hadn't hidden her grudge now.
Not that I cared if I was on her bad side.
I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself not to react. Ms. Cole had never cared for Tom, but at least she'd acknowledged him by name.
At least he was being acknowledged... Unlike someone.
That someone happened to be me.
This came no surprise to me
She looked at Tom Riddle with a mixture of suspicion, disdain and disgust,as if he were something dangerous waiting to happen. But it worked in his favor.
He got what he wanted.
He was feared.
Though he didn't even receive decent treatment like the rest of us—no extra food,no special attention—just cold indifference, he always found a way to get what he needed.
When I first stepped into this... hell, I was scared and timid. But even then, my eyes were drawn to the boy with the blank expression. He had been the boy with the impenetrable mask, his expression perpetually unreadable. Even as an eight-year-old, he had possessed an unnatural ability to conceal his thoughts, leaving a 7 year old and navie me endlessly fascinated.
It was something even adults struggled with, yet the boy with those inky black eyes had mastered it at such a young age. I remember thinking how much doll-like he looked with his emotionless expression.
His mysterious and eerie presence pulled me in.
Despite the whispered tales Ms. Cole spun about him—how he hadn't cried as a newborn, how his oddness was more sinister than childlike—I had found myself inexplicably drawn to him, like a moth circling the flame.
At first, he was guarded—his words clipped, his gaze carefully avoiding mine.
But I kept trying anyway.
There were moments—brief, fleeting, yet enough to kindle hope. Like the first time he smiled when I joked about the gruel being better suited for patching walls as I scraped it off my bowl. "Careful there," he murmured, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of a smile, "you might not even get the privilege of eating this edible glue if they hear you." That was also the first time, I caught a trace of humor in his voice.
Or that cold night when I couldn't sleep, and he spoke into the darkness, confessing how silence was the only thing that didn't demand anything from him. I didn't respond—there didn't seem to be words that fit—but somehow, the quiet between us became less heavy and more comforting
There were other moments, too: when he taught me to fix the fence after I fumbled, his hands steadying mine without a hint of frustration, or the day he stepped between me and a group of older kids, his sharp tone scattering them like leaves. When I asked why he'd done it, his only answer was, "Didn't like the odds".
Those memories—small, yet precious moments—meant more to me than he'd ever know.
These small glimpses—of humanity, of connection—convinced me I was beginning to befriend him.
Foolish, wasn't it?
It was Tom Riddle we were talking about.
Now, to me, he wasn't Tom—he was Riddle. Using his first name felt too personal, too familiar, and he was neither of those things to me anymore. Riddle created distance, a reminder that he was a stranger, someone I didn't truly know or prehaps shouldn't.
By the time we were 10, he had stopped acknowledging my existence entirely—and it hurt more than I ever expected. I should have taken the hint when he stopped sitting with me at meals, replaced his usual judgmental glances with cold indifference, ignored my questions about his odd behavior, and walked past me as if I weren't even there.
In response, I withdrew from everyone altogether. I took the hints, though far too late. But in the end, I stopped.
Stopped trying to forge connections.
They all unraveled before they could even take root, leaving behind only a quiet ache I learned to bury. Bonds formed in this place were meaningless—mere transactions, not friendships.
Not just because I was hurt by how everyone seemed to distance themselves, but because I thought it was the natural result of every friendship—if that's what it had even been.
I had tried, once or twice, to forge connections. But they unraveled before they could take root, leaving behind a quiet ache that I learned to bury. Bonds formed in this place were fleeting—transactions, not friendships
It was then that I made my choice: to fade into the background, to become a wallflower. I would be a shadow—a nonexisting presence no one could harm
But that changed when Lucy came into my life with her bubbly personality.
Truth be told, I kind of liked being a wallflower. But that was before I had a taste of having a true companion—Lucy.
With Lucy, it had been different. Against all odds, we had..just clicked—her unyielding brightness a balm to my guarded heart. At first, I waited, tense and wary, for the inevitable moment she would leave me. But she hadn't. Until a few days ago.
I don't blame her. She didn't exactly leave.
Lucy hadn't left of her own accord;
circumstances had stolen her away. Still, the hollowness her absence carved into my chest felt no less raw for knowing it wasn't her choice
And gods I understand how having no choices feel like.
Days and weeks had passed, but it still hurt so bloody much.
I had thought it was nothing time couldn't fix. But now I know—that was just another misconception.
Because it didn't. It couldn't.
Time doesn't ease the ache; it only makes you accustomed to it.
Some things just can't be changed...
This hollowness in my heart Isn't gonna be filled in anytime soon.
I steal a glance at the boy beside me.
He had to be the most critical boy I'd ever known or met.
Riddle never seemed bothered by the cold indifference, the label of being the most troublesome child in the orphanage
But I knew better. I assumed, mentally, he was broken—a broken shell who resorted to being feared rather than loved.
A boy told he was abnormal, tormented for his strange gifts from the start.
A boy who was unwanted.
But who would tell him that the wallflower standing on the sidelines, now beside him, always had her eyes on him? Waiting with each breath for him to let his guard down and let her in.
That was the sort of miracle the wallflower knew would never come to be.
Even now, as the matron introduced him, I noticed how Riddle's hands were clasped behind his back, his posture unnervingly calm, his face unreadable.
My eyes always seemed to find a way to linger on him. Always observing, always trying to solve the enigma named tom riddle.
"Ah, Tom Riddle," Mr. Dumbledore said, his voice gentle yet curious. His eyes lingered on Tom for a moment before shifting to me. A flutter of nervousness crept up my spine as his gaze settled on me.
But unlike the usual cold stares I was so used to, this one was warm, understanding, making me feel noticed for the first time in ages.
"Mr. Dumbledore has expressed interest in adopting both of you," the matron continued, her tone mechanical, as if the words were difficult for her to say.
Her eyes flicked over Riddle briefly, still filled with that air of mistrust. But when they landed on me, it was as if she didn't care at all.
And I could careless really.
The feeling was mutual
If there were things I'd learned in all my years here about approaching or befriending someone, it were these:
Get too close, and you'll get hurt.
Don't get close, and you'll be lonely.
Get too attached, and you'll be broken when they leave.
Don't get attached, and you'll be labeled as cold and emotionless.
Ultimately, there was no escaping the harsh realities of the world. So, the best option was to be a nobody.
Being invisible didn't bring any bad consequences, aside from the quiet ache in your heart.
There wasn't much harm in people not knowing you existed.
But Lucy had known. And now that I'd grown attached to her, I was left broken when she was gone.
I never fancied attention. There was nothing worthy of it in me. Not that I was insecure—it was simply the truth.
So, when Ms. Cole said I was getting adopted along with Tom Riddle, I couldn't help but hope this wasn't a dream.
That I was finally wanted by someone.
That I'd been wrong to think I wasn't good enough. Maybe there was more to my life than just being a wallflower.
...I hated to admit it, but sometimes I was tired of being nobody.
I wasn't greedy, never one to want more than I had. But in that moment, I realized I might be the greediest.
All my buried wishes.
All my buried dreams.
All my buried hopes.
They all surged to the surface, drowning me. And I—my traitorous heart—let it bloom in my chest with a feeling of giddy anticipation. Suddenly, my heart felt lighter, as if it had been weighed down by tons until now.
Mr. Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his voice soft and reassuring. "I've requested to speak with both of you alone. There are some important things you need to know."
He gave a knowing glance at Ms. Cole, a subtle smile on his kind face.
The matron's smile faltered, but she quickly recovered. "Of course, Mr. Dumbledore. I'll leave you to it." With one last lingering look at Riddle, she stood up and left the room, leaving us alone with the man.
As soon as the door closed, the atmosphere shifted. The oppressive weight of the matron's presence lifted, and I could breathe a little easier. But that didn't stop the anxiety bubbling up inside me. The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating.
My heart pounded loudly in anticipation.
If Riddle felt the same, he hid it perfectly behind his usual stoic mask.
Dumbledore waited a moment, as if ensuring she was truly gone, before turning his full attention back to us. His eyes were kind yet penetrating, as if he could see right through us.
"I'm sure you both have questions," he said gently. "I'm here to answer them as best I can."
Riddle's eyes narrowed slightly, his mind clearly working through the situation. He was the first to speak, his voice steady but laced with suspicion. "Why would you want to adopt us? There are many kids here worth more than us."
Dumbledore smiled faintly, as though expecting the question. "Whether someone is 'worth more' or not is impossible to determine, Tom. Everyone is special in their own way, including you both," he replied. "The truth is, I'm not adopting you, per se. It was said to avoid suspicion."
Riddle's obsidian eyes met his clear blue ones.
He didn't speak, but the question was clear in his gaze: 'what do you mean by suspicion?'
Dumbledore continued, "To put it simply, you both have a rare potential—a special talent."
He paused, his eyes studying our faces. Mine probably showed a mixture of awe and disbelief. But of the boy beside me? I couldn't tell. His expression was masked, as always, though the gleam in his eyes gave him away.
Seconds passed like hours.
Reaching into his pocket, Dumbledore pulled out a long, slender object—a wand. He held it loosely, almost casually, but with an air that made it clear this was no ordinary object.
"This," he said slowly, "is a wand. A tool used by those who possess a certain talent... what we call magic."
My heart skipped a beat. Magic?
Was he joking? Surely he knew such things only existed in fairy tales...in fictions but the steady, unwavering tone of his voice, as if he hadn't just spouted something so bloody bizarre, made me question myself.
Riddle's gaze sharpened, his posture straightening ever so slightly. "Magic?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying a weight of intense curiosity.
Dumbledore nodded, his eyes twinkling. "Yes, Tom. Magic is real, and both of you have the potential to wield it."
I felt a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me—disbelief, excitement, fear. My mind raced, trying to reconcile the impossible with the reality before me.
"How can you be certain?" Tom asked, his tone measured. "How do you know we have magic flowing within us?"
Dumbledore's gaze settled on him. "The Ministry of Magic detected a strong essence of magic within this orphanage," he explained. "They were alerted just days ago by a certain incident."
His eyes flicked briefly toward me, a knowing look passing between us.
"Further investigation revealed that traces of magic existed here far before that incident, particularly tied to you, young man. I think we all know what those incidents might be."
Riddle's expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a spark of recognition.
"And why now?" Riddle pressed, his voice steady. "Why come for us only after all these years?"
"Timing is crucial," Dumbledore replied gently. "It's now time for your Hogwarts invitation. We couldn't come earlier, as the Ministry wasn't sure about the magical signals. We must be careful not to alert Muggles-the non Magic ones unnecessarily. It's important to let Muggles and wizards live without interference from one another. As a wise wizard once said, 'Let our worlds coexist without the temptation to collide.'"
I stood there, my heart pounding in my chest, the word magic echoing in my mind. It was absurd, wasn't it? Witches were burnt at the stake in the past, and even though it was the 1930s, preciously 1939, there was still a risk.
Afterall People were narrow-minded.
The very idea of magic was something from stories. But now, with all the evidence before me—Mr Dumbledore whose supposedly a wizard himself, the calm explanations—I couldn't even sneer at the absurdity.
I glanced nervously at Riddle. His face remained cold and composed, as if this was exactly what he had expected.
My eyes widen sightly. I relish a breath I didn't think I was holding in, it feels as if piles of weight has been dropped on me.
My eyes widen slightly as the realization hits me like a thunderclap. I gasp softly, unaware I had been holding my breath, the air rushing in sharp and cold. It feels as though a crushing weight has descended upon me
Oh. Oh... Oh. How foolish of me.
Of course, he had. He'd always known there was something different about him. About us.
Could this—whatever this special talent was—be the reason he distanced himself from me all those years? Or had he just noticed? Some days ago?
A small part of me hoped this assumption was true. It was better than facing the harsh reality.
Better than accepting that my existence was ignored because I was worthless. Unworthy of conversation, of friendship, of—
I forced myself to stop. Instead, I tried to think of—
The ocean.
Waves crashing over one another.
It's raining.
Peace.
Blank. Blank.Blank
Dumbledore raised his wand, pulling me out of my daze. Grateful for the distraction, I focused on him instead of those thoughts. Now, only one question filled my mind: what was he going to with that -what- wand?
With a casual flick of his wand, an old, weathered book lifted effortlessly from the shelf, its pages fluttering like a bird testing its wings. My breath hitched, disbelief warring with awe as the book glided into Dumbledore's waiting hand.
The book settled gracefully into Dumbledore's hand, and the weight of reality shifted beneath me. In that moment, the walls of the mundane world cracked open, and something extraordinary spilled through
That was it. The moment everything shifted. The moment the impossible became undeniable. Magic became undeniable
"This is impossible," I whispered, barely audible.
"On the contrary," Dumbledore said kindly, his gaze soft but firm. "It's very much possible. And it's real."
A myriad of thoughts swirled in my mind. If magic was real, then maybe all those whispered prayers in the dead of night weren't in vain. Maybe miracles did happen.
Riddle's voice cut through my thoughts. "What is this Hogwarts and ministry you mentioned?" he asked, his tone firm yet laced with an eagerness that mirrored my own.
His onyx eyes gleamed, Dumbledore's blue ones calculated.
"You are quite the interrogator ,aren't you Mr Riddle?" Mr Dumbledore chuckled softly.
Riddle didn't reply but merely looked straight back at him, waiting for his answer
As if on cue, Mr Dumbledore continued,
"To answer your question,the ministry of magic is much like the governing parties the muggles have,you'll know about it indetails after you've settled down in our world. Well it'll be your world from now on. And Hogwarts is a school for witches and wizards," Dumbledore explained. "It's a place where you can learn to control and harness your magical abilities."
"Before I continue, let me fully introduce myself, I am Albus Dumbledore, the deputy headmaster of hogwarts. Now that we are finished with the introduction, go on with your questions" he said with a kind smile.
"Why would we need to control it?" Riddle questioned, his voice carrying a subtle edge.
"Because magic is a powerful force," Dumbledore replied calmly. "Without proper guidance, it can be dangerous—to yourselves and to others."
Onyx eyes flickered, perhaps recalling his own incidents. I wondered what haunted him. The thought that he might have felt as lost and confused as I did now made my heart ache, just a little.
I found my voice, though it was shaky. "So... you're saying we're witches and wizards?"
Dumbledore nodded with a gentle smile. "Yes. And Hogwarts is where you belong."
A wave of relief washed over me. A place where I belonged? The idea was both thrilling and terrifying.
Riddle tilted his head slightly. "If we have this... magic, why were we left here? Why didn't anyone come for us sooner?"
Dumbledore's expression grew somber. "The magical and non-magical worlds—what we call the Muggle world—are separate. It's crucial to maintain that separation for the safety of both worlds. We monitor for signs of magic, but sometimes it's difficult to detect until certain events occur."
He glanced knowingly at me. "The incident with the fire alerted the Ministry. Further investigation revealed ongoing magical activity tied to both of you."
I swallowed hard, the memory of the fire burning fresh in my mind. So that was it. My uncontrolled emotions had led to this moment, revealing the magic within me.
Inky coloured gaze hardened,gleaming underneath the dim lighting. "If we go to this school, what then?"
"Then you will learn to master your abilities," Dumbledore said. "You'll meet others like yourselves, form friendships, and discover a world full of wonder."
Friendships? The word struck a chord. Could I really hope for that again? Again?
The young boy was silent for a moment, then asked, "And if we choose not to go?"
"That is your choice," Dumbledore acknowledged. "But know this: your magic won't simply disappear. Without training, it may manifest unpredictably—and that could be dangerous."
I could see Riddle weighing his options. For me, the decision was clear.
"I want to go," I said softly, surprising even myself.
Dumbledore's smile deepened. "I'm glad to hear that."
Masked black eyes glanced briefly at me before turning back to Dumbledore. "Very well. I'll attend your school."
"Excellent," Dumbledore said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "I'll make the necessary arrangements. In the meantime, here are your letters." He handed each of us an envelope, thick and heavy, with elegant handwriting across the front.
I held mine gingerly, as if it might vanish. My name—written so carefully—felt… special.
I felt special. And for the first time in a long while, I smiled. A genuine smile.
"This letter contains all the information you'll need," Dumbledore continued. "We'll assist with acquiring your supplies and answer any further questions you might have."
I nodded, still speechless as emotions swirled within me.
The boy slipped his letter into his pocket without so much as a glance. "Is that all?"
"For now, yes," Dumbledore replied. "I look forward to seeing you both at Hogwarts. As today is October 29th, you'll need to gather your materials quickly. We'll leave for Hogwarts on September 1st."
As he stood to leave, he paused, looking at us with a fond seriousness. "Remember, this is a new beginning. Embrace it. This is your way home."
With that, he gave a slight nod and made his way to the door. Just before exiting, he turned back. "Oh, and one more thing—do try to be kind to one another. You'll find friendship can be a powerful ally. And maybe refrain from using your magic for the time being. Underaged wizards and witches aren't quite permitted to use it while they're with muggles or in their habitants"
Then he was gone, leaving Riddle and me standing in the silence.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "I suppose we should get ready," I murmured, mostly to myself.
Riddle didn't reply, already heading toward the door. But as he passed, he paused ever so slightly.
"Don't get your hopes up. People are predictable," Tom said softly, his voice devoid of emotion. "They disappoint you when you least expect it. Best not to expect anything at all."
Disappointment? People?
Before I could respond, he was gone.
I stood there, clutching the letter to my chest. Despite his words, despite the uncertainty, a small spark of hope flickered inside me.
Appreciate the advice, Riddle but no thank you
Hope is the lifeline I cling to, delicate yet unyielding. It teeters between the surreal and the tangible, always just within reach but never fully grasped. Still, it drives me forward—my anchor in a storm I refuse to succumb to.
And hope is what led to this day.
That day, the impossible unfolded before me, defying every doubt I'd clung to. It was the day everything shifted—the day miracles proved themselves real.
That even for someone like me, miracles doesn't shy away.