A/N: Apologies that this has taken so long. It appears that my beta has abandoned me, but my girlfriend has elected to help me out with my stories, which she now gets first crack at. I also owe the bulk of the time away from this for not being particularly able to come up with much to write for this, and more able to work on other projects. I will be, however, resuming work on this now, and so I invite ye to read this and my other fics, because there is a multitude of stuff for you to read in the interim between chapters.

Year Two: Marvolo and the Mother’s Secret

Chapter 16: Summer Muggle

Being away from Hogwarts was far worse for Marvolo than he had ever imagined it would be. He could not perform magic, he was not at home in the strictly-run orphanage, and worst of all, here he was Tom Riddle and he could not escape it.

No magic, no freedom, and his name all together put the boy in a rather dreary mood. This, coupled with the Muggle’s war that the matrons and other orphans feared so much, was enough for him to wish summer over almost the moment it began.

Normally, Marvolo could petition Mrs. Cole for his usual privilege of roaming around London. However, no orphan was allowed to leave the orphanage anymore, owing to the dangers presented by this war. Indeed, it had come as quite a surprise when Mrs. Cole had been at the station waiting for Marvolo. The war did not yet touch British soil, and still the Muggles’ every action was driven by fear. He had to wonder whether this war was completely the work of the Muggles.

One night, near the end of summer, Marvolo sat on his bed, much as he had done just a year previously when Professor Dumbledore had told him he was a wizard. He was reading through the letter he had received a few weeks prior, detailing the new books he would need to purchase. There was also a pouch, containing the galleons needed to purchase said books, with some extra to replenish ink, quill, and ingredients supplies.

It was about midnight during a late August night that Marvolo had retired to his room early and took the opportunity to leave the orphanage. He had put on a great show of being in a nasty, hateful, antisocial mood not unlike his usual demeanour during his time at the orphanage, and the others knew that it was not smart to bother Tom Riddle while he was in one of his moods. This had bought him the time and space needed to prepare his things for the journey he would make this night.

After building a mildly convincing facsimile of himself and cursing the Hogwarts policy of no magic during the summer holidays as he did so, he secured his money pouch and pocketed his wand and the booklist. He had looked up the law in his history book – self defence was a legitimate reason to use underage magic over the holidays and he intended to be prepared should he need it. Carefully opening the window so that he could leave, he descended to the ground, leaving the window open by just a crack. Marvolo was on his way to central London.

He spent most of the trip at a brisk walk, though he did choose to run a portion of the distance, cutting his travel time. The longer he was away from the orphanage, Marvolo reasoned, the greater his risk of exposure. He slowed to a casual walk near Vauxhall Court road, home to several stores he had admired in his younger years. Upon his arrival at the Leaky Cauldron, however, all fond thoughts in regard to Muggle London were forgotten. He stepped inside and wordlessly made his way past the bartender on his way to the hidden entrance to Diagon Alley.

Taking his wand out with a flourish, he tapped the correct bricks and watched the archway reveal itself. As unimpressed as he had been the first time he had seen this, when he had simply followed an elderly warlock through the portal, Marvolo entered Diagon Alley for the second time. He made his way toward the bookstore, forcing his eyes from the tempting view of Gringotts. Someday, in a future that seemed too distant to be fair, Marvolo knew he would have something precious to store in the bank. Then, and only then he thought, would he feel as if he truly and fully belonged in the wizarding world.

Many shops were closing for the night, but Flourish and Blotts was open regardless of the hour. Entering the shop, Marvolo sauntered over to the shelves and began to examine the books. Some of them looked to be interesting, such as Notable Magical Discoveries of the Nineteenth Century and Teachings of a Snake: the Biography of Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black.

Others were less accommodating of good taste. A series of cookbooks and do-it-yourself pest control manuals bored Marvolo enough to recall his purpose – the procurement of his next year’s textbooks. Not allowing himself to be distracted by such petty trivialities as these books again, he found the spellbooks section of the store. He immediately took down the first copy of The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 2) from its place on the shelf. He thumbed through it for a few moments before remembering that he already had a copy. Then, just a moment later, he found the section devoted to Defence Against the Dark Arts and picked up the lone remaining copy of Jinxes for the Jinxed.

Marvolo paid for his book, leaving him with roughly seven Galleons and a dozen Sickles left in his needy students’ funds. He decided against buying any new potions supplies this summer, as it would cost too much and his supply kit was not particularly lacking yet. Instead of leaving Diagon Alley immediately, he decided it would be best to take a walk around and think a little while he was still around magic.

He walked by the old wandshop, looking into the dark and lifeless windows. It was closed for the night, but Marvolo walked up to the door anyway. He held his unlit wand up like a beacon, then lowered it to consider without having any idea why he felt compelled to do any of this. He examined the wand for a minute or two, tracing along the grain of the wood with his fingers and admiring the craftsmanship. When he looked up, intending to leave, he stood stock still, unable to move. The wandmaker stood in the doorway, looking down at the boy with a curious expression on his face.

“Ah, young Marvolo. I was not expecting to see you back at my shop so soon after purchasing your wand. Yew and phoenix feather, thirteen-and-a-half inches long, is it not?” The old man inquired, fixing his gaze upon the young lad.

“Yes, sir, it is. Why did you call me by that name, sir? With all due respect, Mr. Ollivander, my name is Tom,” Marvolo replied, holding up his wand in a nonthreatening manner. He held it more as if he was offering it for the wandmaker’s examination, unsure of what to do in the face of this man who knew to call him Marvolo. It had taken all his inner strength to keep from spitting when he said his previous name to the old man.

“It is your middle name, is it not? Some people much prefer their middle name to their given name, and you seem to me like you would be one of those people. Ah, yes, I do know this wand well,” the old man said, fondly caressing the shaft of wood and examining it closely. “It is an immensely powerful wand; a unique combination of mine that I always knew would choose one who would do great things. It appears that you clean it regularly and take excellent care of it.”

“Yes, I do, sir. There is not much else to do with it during the summer months, after all.”

“Indeed, it is difficult to live the summer of a Muggle with such magic literally at your fingertips. Take your wand back, now. I bid you a good night, Marvolo,” Ollivander replied as he retreated into the shop, returning the wand to its master.

“And good night to you, too, old man,” Marvolo muttered as he turned to walk away from the shop and toward the brick archway that would lead him back to Muggle London.