Chatterbox: Inkwell

This is getting a bit ridiculous.

Anyone remember the thrice-cursed Tom Riddle centric HP fanfiction I've been writing and rewriting for forever? And finally managed to complete a book and a half of?

Well.

I started over again. because it was getting annoying and wrong and wasn't cohesive and didn't make any sense and none of the characterization was consistent and everything was hazy and it was just terrible whyyyyyyy.

Yes. I know. I know. It's ridiculous.

It's still very rough and I'm only 9,000 words in but this time... this time... maybe... it might work out okay. No really. I have a legit outline and two character charts and two timelines (muggle and wizard) drawn up and name lists and everything this time. And somehow, despite all this madness, I'm still enjoying writing it. what is my brain I don't even.

SO HANDS UP, WHO WANTS CHAPTER ONE VERSION FOUR?!

YAYYY!!!!!

o0O0o

The office bears the unmistakeable signs of a recent cleaning.  An ancient desk gleams under a thick layer of furniture polish. Not so much as a pencil or paper is misplaced on its smooth surface, and the cheap lamp is arranged just so in relationship to the phone and the radio. Small windows with perpetually grubby panes are marred by streaks where someone tried unsuccessfully to scrub away the grime. 

There is even a small glass vase with acceptably fresh flowers in it, sitting on an end table in a valiant but doomed attempted to brighten the space up. It fails, of course, because no matter how hard the windows were scrubbed or the rug beaten or the furniture polished, the little room is unrelentingly bleak.

This is the main office of Wool’s Orphanage, an austere but reliable home currently run by the careworn Mrs. Isabella Cole and a handful of transient assistants.

 The matron herself sits at the desk as our story begins on a bleak New Year’s Day at around noon. A vein throbs faintly in her forehead, but it is the only outward sign of her post-Christmas stress. 

Both of the chairs in front of her are occupied. On the left side is Tom Marvolo Riddle, who has just turned eleven and sits with his hands folded neatly in his lap. His childishly handsome face is a mask of perfect calm. The second visitor to the office is a middle aged gentleman dressed in a blindingly yellow suit. He calls himself Professor Penrose.

Mrs. Cole squinted at the crisp letter in her hand and at the yellowish, unstamped envelope from which it had originated. The envelope was addressed, in emerald green ink, to Mr. T. M. Riddle. Her eyes traced the first few lines of the letter for the third time.

Dear Mr. Riddle,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment... 

“Is this a joke?” Mrs. Cole asked, in a tone that indicated she would become very cross if Professor Penrose answered incorrectly. 

Professor Penrose cleared his throat. “Madam, I assure you I am entirely serious,” he said. Mrs. Cole’s deepening scowl indicated that this was, in fact, the wrong answer. Professor Penrose didn’t appear to notice.

The matron let the letter drop onto the desk. “This is absurd.”

“Please, be reasonable.” Professor Penrose smiled gently, like someone reprimanding a poorly-behaved young child.

Mrs. Cole folded her arms and glowered at him. The vein in her forehead throbbed more intensely. “Sir,” she said stiffly. “I am a reasonable woman. I tend my charges and pay my bills when they come. And I know that there is no such thing as magic. You are not a wizard, sir.”

“In fact I am,” Professor Penrose said serenely. “As is young Tom here.”

“That is absurd,” Mrs. Cole snapped.

“I assure you it is true.”

Mrs. Cole drew herself up to her full height and said, “No doubt you’re an accomplished magician. Smoke and mirrors can accomplish a lot, I’ve always said so. However, this whole idea… of a magical school, with real magic, is simply impossible.”

“Madam,” and now Professor Penrose’s voice came with a definite barb, “I am a real wizard capable of real magic.”

Mrs. Cole drew breath, clearly planning a sharp retort, but Tom decided that enough was enough and spoke up for the first time.

“Prove it.” Both Mrs. Cole and Professor Penrose stared at him, having clearly forgotten his presence temporarily. He smiled humorlessly up at the professor. “Prove you’re a wizard.”

Professor Penrose recovered first. He pulled a thin piece of wood out of his robes with a flourish. “Certainly,” he said. “What sort of a demonstration would you like?”

Tom considered for a moment, trying to balance his own curiosity with something that would provide Mrs. Cole with adequate proof. “Mrs. Cole, if the Professor turns your desk into, shall we say a dog, and back again, will you admit that he is, in fact, a wizard?”

Mrs. Cole frowned at him. “Now, Tom-”

“You won’t try to say it’s some kind of illusion or trick?” Tom prompted.

“Alright, Tom, yes,” Mrs. Cole said, looking a bit exasperated.

Tom turned back towards Professor Penrose and said, “There you have it.”

Professor Penrose, who had watched the agreement unfolding with a certain amount of amusement, said, “The desk into a dog?”

“And back again,” Tom said. “If you please.”

The professor smiled faintly. “Very well.” He flicked his wand at the desk. There was a brief flash of orange light, and something went twing.

 Following this, there was a long silence. The desk put its paws in Mrs. Cole’s lap and begged. 

Instantly Tom wanted a wand of his own, so badly that he came dangerously close to losing his composure and dropping the neutral mask he had worn thus far. Talking to snakes and hanging a rabbit were nothing compared to that. 

The desk wagged its tail.

“Er,” Mrs. Cole said.

“Finite,” Professor Penrose said. The desk became, once again, exceedingly desk-like. The lamp wobbled ever-so-slightly, but the surface remained otherwise impeccably untouched.

Tom brushed a stray hair out of his eyes, which were fixed unwaveringly on Professor Penrose’s wand. “Where,” he said, “can I get one of those?”

“I take it you’re convinced?” Professor Penrose asked. He assumed his patronizing little smile again.

“I wasn’t the one who needed convincing,” Tom replied softly, still staring at the wand. His heart was beginning to beat faster. “I’ve always been able to do things the other children can’t. Now answer my question.” He delivered the final words with ringing force, and Professor Penrose’s right hand twitched briefly upward in an unwilling salute before he forced himself to stop. Tom hid a smirk. The Voice, as Mrs. Cole liked to call it, was a trick he’d learnt when he was nine, and it had come in handy ever since.

“There is a place called Diagon Alley,” Professor Penrose said quickly. “You will be able to buy a wand there, along with your books and other equipment. Funds will, of course, be provided for you.”

Tom stared at Professor calculatingly for a long moment. “And how do I get to Diagon Alley?” he asked.

“Er,” Mrs. Cole said again, still staring at fixedly at the desk.

“I can escort you-” Professor Penrose began.

“I am perfectly capable of getting around London by myself, thank you,” Tom cut him off coldly.

Professor Penrose took a few seconds to reconfigure his internal script. Tom watched silently as bits of the professor’s face twitched, like gears being tapped back into alignment inside a clock. Clearly Professor Penrose was doing a good deal of quick thinking, and equally clearly it was not an activity he practiced often.

“Will a map be sufficient?” Professor Penrose asked weakly.

“Yes, thank you,” Tom said.

With a vague gesture of his wand, Professor Penrose conjured a flimsy little map out of the air and handed it to Tom, who examined it expressionlessly for a moment. “Is there anything else you require?” the Professor asked.

Tom folded up the map, taking great care with the creases. It gave him time to think.

He thought:

Professor Penrose reacted to the Voice exactly like the children do, and like Mrs. Cole did before she got used to it. Therefore, the Voice works on wizards as well as non-magical people. If that’s true, then it probably isn’t a common trait of wizardry, or else everyone would be able to resist it.

Therefore, it is probably indicative of something important, and whatever it is it’s making Professor Penrose very nervous.

Too nervous to tell me what it is?

“Just one thing,” Tom said, taking care to let hints of the Voice leak into his words. Each syllable slotted into place with perfect timing, with the precise tone that demanded obedience. Professor Penrose’s eye twitched.

“Yes, Mr. Riddle?” he said.

“What aren’t you telling me, Professor?” Tom asked.

“Tom, I don’t think the professor-” Mrs. Cole began.

“Ssh.” Tom’s eyes never left Professor Penrose’s still-twitching face. Mrs. Cole’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. “Well, professor?”

Professor Penrose’s eye twitched again. “Your grandfather was named Marvolo, was he not?”

“According to my mother, yes,” Tom said.

“Well, Mr. Riddle,” Professor Penrose said, clearly picking his words with great care, “Marvolo Gaunt, together with his children Morfin and Merope, were the last known members of the Noble House of Gaunt, which was thought extinct until recently. When your middle name came up on the Hogwarts registry, some genealogical experts postulated that you were a... previously unknown son.”

“Yes,” Tom said. It was more of a prompt than an affirmative, and Professor Penrose clearly took it as such.

“Judging by your intrinsic habits, and certain… characteristics, Mr. Riddle, I think it very likely that they were correct. It might be to your benefit to stop in at Gringotts bank to claim the family vault.”

Tom examined the professor. His shoulders had relaxed slightly, and his eye stopped twitching. This was the truth, then, although Tom still couldn’t be sure of the consequences thereof. That, however, could be determined later. Instead, he gave Professor Penrose one of his most charming smiles, the one that said I am an angel sent from heaven and butter would not melt in my mouth. “Thank you, professor.”

Relief flooded Professor Penrose’s face. “You’re welcome, Mr. Riddle,” he said.

“Now tell me, what exactly is a Noble House?”

Just as quickly, Professor Penrose tensed up again. “Ah, that… that’s… it’s rather complicated,” he said.

“Give me the short version, then,” Tom said.

Professor Penrose gave up. Tom saw it happen; the professor’s shoulders drooped and his face seemed to slump. “Well,” the professor said slowly, “very well. Some eight hundred years ago, ten of the most powerful wizarding families drew together a contract which established the forerunner of the modern Ministry of Magic. It became known as the Noble House Contract and it is the foundation upon which all modern laws are built. The families were the Blacks, the Gaunts, the Malfoys, the Prewetts, the Lestranges, the Whites, the Peverells, the Longbottoms, the Potters, and the Boneses. The Peverell and Gaunt names have since vanished, but the rest of them are still very much extant and hold… considerable sway over the rest of the wizarding world.”

“I see,” Tom said. He kept his face very carefully blank. It didn’t seem very complicated to him, which meant there was probably a whole slew of political intricacies that Professor Penrose didn’t want to talk about. “And even if I don’t have the Gaunt name itself-”

“The lineage is still there,” Professor Penrose said quickly. Tom frowned, irritated at the interruption, but let him continue. “As is the… influence.”

Tom nodded slowly. This sounded promising, but he wanted time to mull it over and gather more information before he made any decisions.

“I shall see you at school this September, then,” Tom said pointedly, not caring that he was being abrupt. Professor Penrose took the hint and stood up. 

“Of course,” he said hastily. “No sense in lingering, obviously. And you have everything you need, your letter and your train ticket, and- yes.” The professor held out a hand and then retracted it almost immediately, opting instead for an odd little bow. He pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and deposited it on the desk, next to the envelope and the letter. “And there are- there are your equipment funds. The gold coins are Galleons, worth about forty pounds, silver Sickles are worth seventeen Galleons and bronze Knuts are worth twenty-seven Sickles. Got that?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “Goodbye, Professor.”

Professor Penrose ran for it.

“Odd man, wasn’t he?” Mrs. Cole said as the door slammed shut behind him. “And so rude!”

Tom smiled. It was a real smile this time, and in all honesty it was rather closer to a smirk. “He was just frightened, I expect,” he said.

“Of what?” Mrs. Cole asked. Not for the first time, Tom marveled at her resilient obliviousness.

“Of whatever a Noble House is, Mrs. Cole,” Tom said. He, too, got to his feet. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have some shopping to attend to.”