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Chapter 4 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡ (edited)
The sun was setting behind the tall iron gates of the orphanage, casting long shadows on the cobblestone paths. The waning light filtered through grime-coated windows, streaks of amber and gold cutting through the dim interior.
Inside, the silence was broken only by the faint creaks of worn floorboards and the occasional murmur of voices. The orphans were doing their chores, some scrubbing the floors with threadbare rags, others dusting shelves piled high with forgotten books. The air carried the faint smell of damp stone and lye soap, a reminder of the day's endless and daily chores.
The orphanage matron stood in the middle of her small office, smoothing the front of her skirt with quick, practiced movements. Her eyes flicked toward the door where the odd man stood—a tall figure with twinkling eyes and a long auburn beard threaded with flickers of silver.
"Mr. Dumbledore," she said crisply, gesturing to a chair. Her voice carried a veneer of politeness, though it was devoid of warmth. "Please, sit. What can I do for you today?"
Dumbledore, however, remained standing, his presence commanding yet calm. His blue eyes seemed to take in everything—the dusty room, the closed ledgers on the desk, the tightly controlled expression on the matron's face. "Good evening, Matron. I hope I'm not interrupting. I've come to take the children on a brief outing, as I mentioned in my letter."
The matron's brow furrowed theatrically, her lips pressing into a thin line as though she were pondering some great inconvenience. "Ah, yes," she said at last. "The outing. Forgive me, but I still don't quite understand why this is necessary. These children have been through so much already." Her voice dipped into a note of mock concern as she folded her hands neatly on the desk. "Surely, Professor, it's best for them to stay here and focus on routine and stability, don't you agree?"
Dumbledore smiled gently, tilting his head as though considering her point. "Routine, Matron, can sometimes be a double-edged sword," he said, his voice kind yet firm. "Too much of it, and we risk stifling their spirits rather than healing them. What they need is a moment to see the world beyond these walls—if only briefly. A bit of fresh air for the soul, so to speak."
The matron leaned back in her chair, her expression hardening for the briefest of moments. She knew the truth of his words, but that didn't mean she welcomed them. A small spark of anger stirred in her chest. These children, these orphans, didn't need 'fresh air.' They had food, a roof over their heads—decent enough provisions, considering the war raging outside.
What more could they possibly want?
Her thoughts darkened further, drawn to the fire incident. Rage bubbled up, barely concealed. That cursed girl and her insufferable attitude.
Always asking questions, always meddling,always being a prat, as if she were owed something more. That wretched girl had even dared to accuse her, albeit indirectly, of selling Lucy! Lucy, who had been taken in by a family willing to pay the proper donation for the adoption papers. What else could she do? These children were a burden, and if they weren't adopted soon, what would become of them?
Ms. Cole folded her hands more tightly, trying to compose herself. She had few illusions left. The war made everything more difficult. Families were struggling to keep their own children safe; who would want the added responsibility of an orphan? The few who did come to adopt were looking for bright, eager faces—not cursed children or troublemakers.
But this Professor Dumbledore seemed intent on indulging them. "Fresh air," indeed.
'Sure, some fresh air would absolutely be good for that devil's spawn and the cursed, pathetic girl,' the matron thought bitterly, though her lips remained curved into a tight, polite smile.
If only the man knew what he was adopting. A girl who had stood silent and motionless with a vacant expression and unblinking eyes as a person almost burned to death in front of her and a boy who was the very image of defiance, rebellion, and cruelty. A boy who seemed to radiate malice, as though he were a storm barely contained within a small body.
But that wasn't her responsibility.
Oh no, it wasn't her place to warn the professor about what he was taking on. If he had second thoughts, she might lose this precious chance to rid herself of the pair of them. That would mean continuing to deal with their poison. Their presence had already started to affect the other children. They were sowing defiance in the orphans.
The girl, with her nosy questions and insolent persistence about Lucy. And Riddle, with his unnerving stare, his sharp tongue, and the way he seemed to terrorize the very air around him.
No, Ms. Cole thought firmly. Let the poor man take them, take the trouble they caused, and take the lingering discomfort they brought to this orphanage. To her. For the sake of the others, for the sake of her own peace of mind, it was time to let them go.
She straightened in her chair, schooling her face into an expression of careful neutrality. "Very well, Professor," she said at last. "Take them. A breath of fresh air, as you say, could do them some good. Do be mindful of their… unique temperaments, though."
"I assure you, Matron, I am well acquainted with 'unique temperaments,'" Dumbledore replied, his voice light ,a soft smile playing at his lips.
"They are often the brightest flames."
........
The early rays of the sun peeked through the curtains, casting a soft warmth that contrasted sharply with the biting chill of winter. The room felt damp from the lack of fresh air, the window sealed shut, as though holding the cold at bay.
I shifted on the threadbare bed, its creaks threatening to give way under me. Yet, for once, the usual emptiness that lingered in this small, suffocating space didn't claw at me. Instead, a strange flicker of excitement stirred in my chest, growing with every passing second. A rare and unfamiliar smile danced on my lips.
Today, I will catch the first glimpse of the magical world.
The wizarding world.
It felt unreal, as though the countless nights I'd spent dreaming of fantastical realms for an escape from this bleak place, had somehow spilled into reality.
In a blink, I would be stepping into another world—only this time, it wouldn't just be a dream. This world was real. And somehow, it was mine. A place I belonged to, even if I had never set a foot in it.
Today wasn't just another day.
Today was the day my life changed forever.
I swung my legs off the bed, the cold floor biting at my bare feet. The broken clock hanging crooked on the wall caught my eye. Its rusty hands marked 6 AM.
Just an hour left. An hour until he came to fetch us. I wonder how he would get us there? Diagon Alley?
I shook the thought from my mind and turned toward the small chest at the foot of my bed.
The excitement now bubbling through my veins made my movements quick and purposeful.
Flinging the lid open, I pulled out a faded sweater and tugged it over my head. It wasn't much, but it would do.
The professor didn't seem like someone who cared for appearances, and besides, the thought of stepping into a world brimming with wands, spellbooks, and cauldrons was more than enough to make me forget about my worn-out clothes.
I hurried to the cracked mirror propped against the wall. My hair stuck out in odd directions, a messy tangle that even the stiff bristles of the old comb struggled to tame. I grimaced, tying it back as best as I could. Not perfect, but better than before.
The cold nipped at my nose as I pulled on my only pair of shoes—scuffed, with one sole almost coming off. My toes curled uncomfortably, squeezed and suffocated by the tight space inside.
My toes curled, squeezed painfully in the too-small shoes. They've gotten smaller, I realized with a grimace. But there was no use—it wasn't as though I had another pair lying around. This would have to do.
I stood and stamped my feet lightly, trying to settle them into the snug confines. But the slight pinch wasn't enough to dampen the thrill buzzing in my chest.
Accepting fate, I sighed as my hands worked to tie the laces, though my mind was far away, already picturing what Diagon Alley might look like. Rows of shops bustling with wizards and witches, the air alive with magic, and the smell of parchment, potions, and…things I couldn't quite name yet.
I slung my worn satchel over my shoulder, its weight a familiar comfort. It held everything I thought I might need: a few coins, a notebook, and a pen. Did wizards even use pens, or would my little notebook seem out of place? The thought made me pause, but only for a second. There was no time to dwell.
The faint sound of the orphanage stirring reached my ears—shuffling footsteps, muffled yawns. It wouldn't be long now.
I glanced at the clock again, my heart pounding in anticipation. 6:50 am. More 10 minutes to go.
...…...
At precisely 7:00 a.m, a soft knock echoed through the silence of the orphanage halls. My heart leapt as I darted to the door, nearly tripping in my haste. When I opened it, there he stood—a tall figure cloaked in deep purple, his bread streaked with a touch of gray, especially at the temples and beard tips, giving him a dignified and scholarly look. His eyes, framed by half-moon spectacles, twinkled with a knowing warmth that seemed to see straight through me.
"Good morning," Dumbledore said, his tone both kind and matter-of-fact. "I trust you're ready?"
I nodded quickly, though my pulse was pounding. I stepped aside to let him in, but he didn't enter. Instead, he cast a glance down the dim hallway. "Might we say our farewells to the matron?"
I blinked, startled. "Oh—yes. Of course."
He glanced at my feet, and I shifted my weight uneasily, heat rising to my cheeks. Had I judged him wrongly? I'd thought he wouldn't care about appearances, yet here I was, feeling like my scuffed and uncomfortable shoes might have offended him.
He seemed to notice my growing panic and spoke gently, his tone kind rather than critical. "Those shoes do seem a bit uncomfortable, dear. They won't do you much good for stepping into the unknown like that."
I stared at him, dumbfounded, my embarrassment flaring like wildfire. Before I could stammer an apology or excuse, he lifted his wand with practiced ease.
"Let's fix that," he said warmly, and with a precise flick of his wrist, he murmured, "reparo et refingo."
A soft, golden light cascaded down from the wand, pooling around my feet. The light was warm and soothing, as if it were gently crafting something around me. When it faded, I looked down to find my shabby shoes transformed. They had become a pair of sturdy, beautifully crafted boots—practical, but elegant, made of soft leather that felt like they had been designed just for me.
I blinked, momentarily lost for words. "You didn't have to do that..."
"Nonsense," he replied, waving my concern away with a small smile. "The right shoes can make all the difference, especially when the path ahead is unknown. Comfort and confidence are the first steps to facing anything."
I felt my chest warm at his thoughtfulness, the embarrassment replaced by gratitude. "Thank you," I murmured softly, testing the fit of the boots. They were perfect.
"Of course," he said, his voice still light and reassuring. "Afterall good shoes do take you to good places ."
He extended a hand toward me, inviting me to follow. I felt a spark of excitement rather than trepidation. With someone like him guiding me, perhaps the unknown wasn't so frightening after all. But rather entering it seemed....trilling and safe
We made our way to the matron's office, where Dumbledore offered her a firm handshake and a polite smile. I stood outside, waiting. Anything was better than starting my day with a look at that wretched woman's face.
I heard him speak briefly, his voice soothing yet commanding, thanking her for her care. The matron looked pleased, but I knew it was all a façade. Her thin smile didn't reach her cold, calculating eyes, and the faint curl of her lip betrayed her true feelings. When Dumbledore mentioned my departure, she waved me off with a distracted nod, already returning to her paperwork.
After he left the office, we walked toward the exit, my eyes landed on Tom Riddle, lingering near the stairwell
His attire was sharply different from my tattered sweater and skirt and far too polished for a boy from an orphanage.
He wore a fitted black sweater with a subtle ribbed texture, its high-quality wool catching the dim light. Beneath it, a crisp white collared shirt peeked out at the neckline and cuffs, the starched fabric pristine and carefully tucked.
His trousers were a dark gray, neatly creased down the center, perfectly tailored to his lean frame. They were secured with a slim leather belt, the buckle understated but gleaming faintly, as though it had been freshly polished. His shoes—black Oxfords—looked out of place in their perfection. The leather was unscuffed, the laces taut, and they shone as though he'd spent hours preparing for this moment.
There was a quiet deliberateness to the way he dressed, a calculated effort to appear older, wealthier, more in control. It worked. He looked like he belonged to another world entirely, one where appearances mattered more than warmth or comfort.
I couldn't help but wonder where he had gotten those clothes. Had someone given them to him? Or had he taken them, seizing an opportunity in the way only Tom could? Either way, they were a statement. And, like everything about Tom, they dared you to ask questions you knew better than to voice.
"Ready?" Dumbledore asked again, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
Riddle's lips curled into a faint smile. "Always, Professor," he said smoothly, his tone laced with cold confidence.
He strode forward, his chin held high, his dark eyes meeting mine with that familiar intensity. He didn't speak, but the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was enough to send a clear message: Try to keep up.
I ignored him, turning my attention back to Dumbledore.
"We'll take the road," Dumbledore said, his voice a touch louder than necessary, as though for the benefit of any prying ears. He opened the front door, holding it for Riddle and me as we stepped into the cool morning air.
The walk down the orphanage's gravel path was uneventful, save for the tension that always seemed to follow Riddle like a shadow. He walked with deliberate precision, his shoes crunching the gravel as though each step carried some silent challenge. I kept my focus on Dumbledore, who chatted lightly about the weather and the journey ahead.
Once we were far enough from the orphanage, Dumbledore glanced around to ensure no one was watching. He led us into a narrow alleyway between two soot-stained buildings, the kind of place most people would avoid.
"Here will do nicely," he said, drawing his wand with a graceful flick.
I tensed, unsure of what to expect, but Riddle merely crossed his arms, leaning back against the brick wall with a look of casual indifference. I noticed his gaze flick to my expression, no doubt searching for some sign of fear to exploit.
I squared my shoulders and ignored him.
Dumbledore turned to us with a reassuring smile. "Side-along Apparition," he explained. "It will feel… unusual, but I assure you, it's perfectly safe."
He extended an arm toward me. I hesitated for only a moment before grasping the soft fabric of his sleeve.
"Mr Riddle?" Dumbledore prompted.
Riddle straightened and stepped forward, taking Dumbledore's other arm with an air of reluctant compliance. For a moment, we stood in a tense triangle, the only sound the distant hum of the city.
"Hold tight," Dumbledore instructed.
And then, the world fell away.
The sensation was unlike anything I'd ever experienced—like being sucked through a tiny tube, every molecule of my body compressed and stretched all at once. My ears popped, my stomach churned, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I thought I might faint.
Then, with a sudden jolt, it was over.
I stumbled slightly as my feet touched solid ground, the cobblestones beneath them uneven and cool. The air was alive with sounds and smells—warm bread, the metallic tang of cauldrons, and the distant chatter of a bustling crowd.
I looked up, and my breath caught.
We were in the middle of a cobblestone street lined with crooked, leaning buildings painted in every color imaginable. Shops spilled over with strange and wondrous wares: stacks of books with moving pictures, cauldrons of every size, broomsticks with sleek handles, and glass cases displaying tiny golden balls with fluttering wings.
Diagon Alley.
"It's… incredible," I whispered, turning in place to take it all in.
Beside me, Dumbledore smiled, his eyes sparkling. "Welcome to Diagon Alley," he said. "Your first glimpse of the wizarding world."
Riddle stood a few feet away, his expression as cool and unreadable as ever. His dark eyes moved across the street, lingering just a fraction longer than usual on the displays in the shop windows. For all his practiced indifference, there was a faint tension in his posture—a stiffness in the way he held himself, as though afraid a moment of distraction might betray him.
His gaze flicked to a golden cauldron shimmering in a shop window, and for the briefest second, I thought I saw something like fascination in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by his usual sharp, calculating stare.
"What now?" he asked, his tone clipped and bored, but his fingers curled tightly at his sides, giving him away.
"Now," Dumbledore said, unfazed, "we shop wands, books, robes, and all the essentials for your first year at Hogwarts. Come along."
With a sweep of his purple cloak, he strode forward, disappearing into the crowd. Tom followed without hesitation, his strides purposeful and precise. I lingered for a moment longer, letting the sights and sounds wash over me, before hurrying to catch up.
As I hurried to catch up, the bustling energy of Diagon Alley surrounded me like a whirlwind. I couldn't help but notice the looks. Witches and wizards turned their heads, their eyes flitting from me to Riddle and back again, their expressions a mix of curiosity, disapproval, and thinly veiled amusement.
It wasn't hard to figure out why. Compared to the vibrant robes and elegant cloaks that seemed to be the standard here, our clothes stuck out like a sore thumb. My plain dress, faded from too many washes, and scuffed shoes spoke volumes about where I'd come from. Tom, though slightly better dressed in his tailored sweater and polished shoes, didn't quite blend in either.
I adjusted my sweater self-consciously, suddenly acutely aware of how out of place we must have looked. A witch in emerald-green robes, her pointed hat tipped jauntily to one side, gave me a once-over before whispering something to her companion. I lifted my chin, refusing to let her judgment bother me, though my cheeks burned.
Riddle, of course, seemed utterly unbothered by the attention. If anything, he looked like he thrived on it. He strode confidently behind Dumbledore, his posture straight and his expression unreadable. But I could see it—the subtle twitch of his lips, the way his eyes narrowed just slightly whenever someone stared for too long. He was daring them to underestimate him, practically inviting it.
I, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to melt into the cobblestones.
Dumbledore, as if sensing my discomfort, slowed his pace slightly and glanced back over his shoulder. "Pay no mind to the looks," he said gently, his voice calm and reassuring. "The wizarding world can be rather... curious about new faces. But it is your talents, not your attire, that matter here."
I nodded, grateful for his words, though I couldn't help but glance down at my attire again. Talents or not, I'd never felt so out of place in my life.
Ahead of us, "I bet they're not staring at us," Riddle's voice was a low, teasing drawl, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "It's you they're looking at—that sense of fashion is unforgettable."
I shot him a glare, but he didn't seem to care. He turned his attention back to the shops, as though the comment had been a passing thought and not a deliberate attempt to unsettle me.
"Come along," Dumbledore said, interrupting the tension as he abruptly stopped in front of a narrow shop with peeling gold lettering: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC. "It's time to get your wands."
Dumbledore opened the door with a gentle push, and the bell above jingled softly. The shop was dimly lit, the shelves packed from floor to ceiling with slim, rectangular boxes. The air felt heavy with something ancient and powerful.
An elderly man emerged from the shadows, his silver hair wild and his piercing eyes studying us with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"Ah,greetings Professor Dumbledore," he said, his voice smooth and curious. "Two wands today?"
"Yes, indeed," Dumbledore replied with a smile, stepping aside. "For two very unique young ones."
Tom scoffed and I bleamed.
"Step forward, then," Ollivander said, his eyes glinting. "Let us see which wand will choose you."
Riddle moved first, of course. He approached the counter with that same calm, calculated confidence, but I noticed the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides. Was that… nerves?