“But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it.

“But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then—"Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping

a little over her chin this time, “on the summer outing—we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside—well, Amy Benson and Dennis

Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but

something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things...”

She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady.

“I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him.”

“You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?” said Dumbledore. “He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer.”

“Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker,” said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see that

she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. “I suppose you'd like to see him?”

“Very much,” said Dumbledore, rising too.

She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Harry saw, were all

wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up.

“Here we are,” said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.

“Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you—well, I'll let him do it.”

Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron

bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.

There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. Merope had got her dying wish: he was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired,

and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence.

“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand.

The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital

patient and visitor.

“I am Professor Dumbledore.”

“'Professor'?” repeated Riddle. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?”

He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.

“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

“I don't believe you,” said Riddle. “She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!”

He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had

widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if

anything, warier still.