Tom Wasn't Easy

Mrs. Cole rose to her feet with surprising steadiness for someone who had downed more than half a bottle of gin. Her steps were sure, her gait unaffected. She led Snape and the two Dumbledores out of the office and up the stone stairs, all the while barking orders at her assistants and scolding the children who passed by.

The orphans all wore the same grey, belted uniforms—neat, clean, and strictly maintained. They appeared well cared for, but there was something hollow in their eyes, something missing—the spark of childhood.

"It's not a terrible place," Snape murmured, shrugging slightly, "but I wouldn't call it a good one, either."

"Quite right, Severus," Dumbledore replied. "There's a heaviness here… an air of repression."

"If you were going to take Tom to Hogwarts anyway," Snape asked, his voice laced with quiet frustration, "why didn't you just let him grow up there?"

"No one's ever done that," Dumbledore replied with regret. "Hogwarts has its traditions. Young witches and wizards only come when the time is right."

"Orphans always seem doomed to grow up in misfortune," Snape muttered, his thoughts involuntarily drifting to Number Four, Privet Drive—and a certain cupboard beneath the stairs.

Mrs. Cole brought them to a stop at the top of the third-floor landing, turning down the first corridor and halting outside the nearest door. Without ceremony, she knocked twice and pushed it open.

Snape and the two versions of Dumbledore stepped into the sparse room. Behind them, Mrs. Cole quietly closed the door.

A handsome, dark-haired boy sat on a grey blanket on the floor, long legs stretched out in front of him, a book in hand.

"He's good-looking," Snape said under his breath, "but there's something sharp about him. He looks dangerous."

Tom was glaring up at the younger Dumbledore, eyes wide and full of mistrust, suspicion flaring like a drawn blade. "I don't believe you," he barked. "She wants to have me examined, doesn't she? Be honest!"

In response—either to impress, intimidate, or both—young Dumbledore calmly reached into the inner pocket of his velvet coat, withdrew his wand, and gave it a lazy flick toward the battered wardrobe in the corner.

The wardrobe burst into flames.

Under Dumbledore's direction, Tom reluctantly opened the scorched doors. From a cardboard box he dumped its contents onto his bed: a spinning top, a silver thimble, a dull harmonica—all ordinary objects. But Dumbledore knew they were trophies.

"At Hogwarts, we won't just teach you how to use magic," Dumbledore told him. "We'll teach you how to control it. The Ministry does not take kindly to those who break the law… Once you enter our world, Tom, you're bound by our rules."

"I don't need you," Tom spat. "I'm used to doing things on my own."

"The Leaky Cauldron," Dumbledore said simply, "ask for the barkeep. His name's Tom, too."

"I can talk to snakes," Tom added with a twisted sort of pride.

"Goodbye, Tom. We'll see you at Hogwarts."

Moments later, Snape and the elder Dumbledore were swept once more through the swirling dark of memory and dropped gently back into the headmaster's office.

"Professor," Snape said, settling into the chair opposite Dumbledore's desk, his tone dry, "Voldemort despises the name 'Tom' so much, it's a miracle the Leaky Cauldron's barkeep is still breathing."

"You're quite observant, Severus," Dumbledore replied with the faintest twitch of his lips. "But that's not tonight's point. We must focus on what we can learn from the memory."

"Fair enough," Snape sat straighter. "So… was arson your teaching method of choice?"

"I regret it deeply, Severus," Dumbledore said with a heavy sigh. "I was young—and too enamored with power."

"When did you stop trusting in it?" Snape pressed. "Was it after 1945?"

"I seem to recall that the Chocolate Frog cards say you defeated Grindelwald that year. And I doubt that could've been done without some belief in power."

Dumbledore stared at him for a long moment, eyes unreadable.

Snape continued, undeterred. "Do you think, Professor… if Tom had been raised by his parents—or even a kind wizarding family—would he still have become what he did?"

"I don't know," Dumbledore said quietly. "No one can say what might have been."

"I can't help but feel… some discontent," Snape muttered. "The way the magical world treats its young—especially those with no guidance—is too crude.

"Children with magical potential can hurt others by accident—or themselves. Or worse, provoke retaliation from Muggles. It's been this way for centuries. Isn't there a better solution?"

Dumbledore's long beard quivered slightly as he drew in a deep breath, working to calm himself.

Behind Snape, Fawkes let out a soft, lilting trill, then fluttered down to Dumbledore's shoulder, gently nuzzling his temple.

Snape noticed that the light in Dumbledore's brilliant blue eyes had dimmed.

"Severus," Dumbledore said at last, his voice soft but edged, "are you trying to help me defeat Voldemort—or help him defeat me?"

Snape blinked, caught off guard. "What are you suggesting? Of course I'm on your side! I don't know what gave you any other impression."

Dumbledore let the moment pass without further comment. "I trust you now see how important this memory is."

"Yes, sir," Snape replied, sitting up straighter. "Tom enjoyed collecting trophies. That box—everything in it was taken from others, through threats or force. Perhaps we can assume he applies the same logic to choosing objects for his Horcruxes?"

"I agree," Dumbledore nodded. "But based on the diadem, we can conclude he doesn't select just any object. He has a… standard. A desire for symbolic containers."

"It's unfortunate I couldn't obtain Mr. Burke's full memory," Dumbledore added, lifting his wand to his temple and drawing a single long thread of shimmering silver.

"But even fragments can be valuable."