The Orphanage

At the end of class, after assigning a rather weighty essay, Professor Grapplestone waited for the students to gather their things. As they began to file out, she called Snape's name and handed him a tightly rolled parchment.

Snape unrolled it as he walked. The handwriting was unmistakable—elegant, long, and slightly slanted.

Dear Severus,

If you are free this evening, please come to my office at seven o'clock.

Yours faithfully,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. I do not like Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

"He doesn't like Bertie Bott's Beans?" Abraxas read over his shoulder, his face twisted in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Best you never find out, darling," Snape muttered, ignoring Abraxas's protest as he tucked the parchment away.

That evening, Snape made his way down familiar corridors toward the Headmaster's office.

"Ah yes, of course I recognize him," came a low rumble from the two stone gargoyles flanking the entrance.

"He's the one who always talks back," added the other, chuckling.

"We've been petrified and split apart for centuries," groaned the first.

Snape exchanged a few dry pleasantries with the stone sentinels before ascending the moving spiral staircase behind them.

At the door, he rapped softly.

"Come in," Dumbledore's cheerful voice called instantly, as though he had been waiting all evening.

"Good evening, Professor," Snape greeted, stepping inside. "You asked to see me?"

"Good evening, Severus. Do sit," Dumbledore gestured to a chair, smiling gently. "How has your first week back been?"

"Well enough, sir," Snape said shortly. "Are we leaving tonight?"

"Not yet," Dumbledore replied, shaking his head. "There is some groundwork to lay before we depart."

"You've made a wise choice this time, Dumbledore," drawled a voice from a portrait on the wall.

A silver-and-green robed wizard, with a pointed beard and eyes full of cunning, had stirred from his slumber.

"We Slytherins are always necessary to clean up the mess, aren't we?"

"Phineas," Dumbledore acknowledged. "Slytherin has always been an essential part of Hogwarts."

"You're the one who earned unanimous 'praise' from all four Houses, aren't you?" Snape asked, raising an eyebrow. He gave particular emphasis to the word praise.

"Oh, my dear boy," Phineas said proudly, entirely missing the sarcasm, "A Slytherin youth with wit—how refreshing."

"You're right, Phineas," Dumbledore said, turning back to Snape. "I've asked you here because you already know that Lord Voldemort was once Tom Riddle—and that he used Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem as one of his Horcruxes. Now it's time you learned more."

Dumbledore paused, the air still for a moment.

"Last term, your research into magical history led you to deduce Tom's true identity. That insight prompted me to revisit his past. I made inquiries of my own."

"I visited Borgin and Burkes," Dumbledore continued, "and had a rather friendly conversation with Caractacus Burke."

"Friendly enough to land him in St Mungo's?" Snape said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Ah, that was an accident. You know Burke—cooperation isn't exactly his forte."

Dumbledore stood and moved past Snape toward a low cabinet against the far wall. Its shelves were filled with ancient, dust-covered tomes and mysterious trinkets.

He opened the cabinet door and drew out a shallow stone basin, etched with intricate runes around the rim.

It was the Pensieve—Snape recognized it at once, having seen it once before with Slughorn.

Dumbledore placed it gently on the desk.

"We're not viewing Burke's memory, are we?" Snape asked.

"No," Dumbledore said, shaking his head. "This time, it's mine. You first, Severus."

Snape leaned forward. The Pensieve's surface was cold, swirling, and inviting. He plunged his face into it—and was falling.

The darkness whirled, until his feet struck solid ground.

He opened his eyes to find himself standing with Dumbledore on a busy old London street.

In front of them, a younger version of Dumbledore—dressed impeccably in plum velvet—was crossing the road.

They followed him as he approached a squat, grim-looking building with a sign mounted above the door: Wool's Orphanage.

Inside the rusting iron gates lay a barren courtyard, and behind that, a square, dreary block of a building surrounded by high fences.

"This is where Tom lived as a boy?" Snape asked.

The young Dumbledore was speaking with a scruffy woman in a stained apron—presumably Mrs. Cole.

"Yes," Dumbledore said with a faraway look. "Let's follow."

Mrs. Cole, visibly anxious, led them into a room that was half sitting area, half office—bleak, mismatched furniture and peeling wallpaper making it feel more like a waiting room in a poorhouse.

"You visited him yourself?" Snape asked, already suspecting the answer. "How does this help us find the Horcruxes?"

"Patience, Severus," Dumbledore said, nodding toward Mrs. Cole.

She was nursing a glass of gin and recounting an old tale with a blank but oddly intense expression.

"I remember it perfectly," she said, her voice slightly slurred. "It was New Year's Eve. Snow everywhere. Cold enough to kill you…"

"That girl… she couldn't have been much older than I was. She stumbled up the steps, barely made it to the door. Less than an hour later, she gave birth. Another hour… and she was gone."

Mrs. Cole paused to sip her gin again. A flush had crept over her cheeks.

"No one ever came for the boy. No Tom, no Marvolo, no Riddle. No family at all."

Her words trailed off as she absentmindedly refilled her glass to the brim.

"What was his mother's name?" Snape asked.

"Her name was Merope Gaunt," Dumbledore said softly. "Or Merope Riddle, depending on how you look at it. Come, Severus. Let's go meet eleven-year-old Tom."