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Nearing its closing hour, Godric’s Hollow Library has emptied out.
Orange twilight peeks in through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the front of the facade. The entire space is cast into a glowing, ethereal vibe. It’s Harry’s favorite time of day.
There is a stack of children’s books about a dozen high on a small round table in the library atrium. He gathers them up in his arms with a smile, a bit mirthful, and brings them back to the book return cart near the librarian’s desk out front. Kids from the local elementary school visit often after the school day ends, and Harry is happy to show them the latest and greatest – even if shelving isn’t his favorite thing to do afterward. He hums as he finishes sorting the return cart. He’s just started back on the small mountain of emails that he’s put off for too long when he hears a polite cough on the other side of the front desk.
He looks up and sees nothing. Then he looks down.
A single dark brown cowlick springs up over the edge. Harry sits up straighter.
He finds a boy, ten years old at best, with a small notebook and what must be a very nice calligraphy pen clutched tightly in his left hand. His cheekbones jut sharply, face slightly gaunt. Underfed. Harry’s heart softens.
“Hello there,” he says gently. “Are you looking for your parents?”
The boy shakes his head, brown curls flopping wildly. Adorable.
Harry smiles. “Then how can I help you?”
“There is a book on the shelf that I cannot reach. The usual ladder is nowhere to be found.”
Harry blinks. That’s all the boy says. It is not a request; it is a statement. He knows to not take it personally – children can be rude without meaning to.
“Alright, my friend,” Harry says, keeping his tone even. “If you show me where it is, I can help you get it down.”
The boy pivots sharply on his heel and strides away without any hesitation. Harry pushes up from his chair, leaving it spinning loosely behind as he follows this odd child. Past the children’s books, past the many stacks of fiction, and past the usual textbooks and manuals to arrive, at last, in the section for science texts. The ones intended for graduate level studies.
Harry tries not to let his concern show on his face. He knows that kids prefer to be treated like adults and questioning this precocious child would be going against the spirit of joy, which he works hard to cultivate at his little library.
The boy raises his arm up and up and up, all the way to the top shelf where the advanced chemistry textbooks sit – at a particularly thick and dusty volume.
“That one,” the boy says.
Harry reads the title more closely.
“Perchlorate compounds and their component applications.” He glances back at the boy. “That's the one you want?”
“Yes,” the boy says shortly.
When Harry doesn’t move, the boy blows a puff of frustrated air. It knocks his curl up out of his eyes for a brief moment before it flips back down. His expression is decidedly put upon. Like Harry is an idiot for asking.
“I suppose our government services are in further disrepair than even Father had indicated.”
Harry's jaw ticks, taken aback by the matter-of-fact tone.
This small child is very much mean on purpose. He can only imagine what his Father (as it clearly must be capitalized) is like if this is the type of manners that he’s been learning at home.
“Right,” Harry says flatly.
He reaches up onto his toes – he’s not very tall either, but he’s an adult, at least tall enough for this – to retrieve the volume as requested. It’s quite hefty. He arches a brow as he hands it over. It’s heavy enough that the boy receives it with a soft oof.
Harry watches with bemusement as the boy rights himself with a dignified toss of his head. Then the boy begins walking away, only to stop short, halfway down the row. He wheels back around.
“Thank you," he says stiffly. As if it is a pleasantry that he’s been forced to memorize and held tightly in his mind to dispense at the appropriate times.
Probably because it is. Harry’s seen plenty of parents reminding their kids of as much. He sweeps his gaze around the stacks. There’s not another soul around. It’s almost 9pm on a weekday evening; well past dinner time and closer to bedtime for kids.
“It’s my pleasure,” he replies. “I’m Harry. Nice to meet you. What's your name, young man?”
“I am not meant to share my name with strangers,” the boy says tartly.
“And you’re meant to wander around the library alone instead?” Harry asks, amused.
“I’m not alone. My driver is waiting outside.”
Ah. Of course.
“Well,” Harry says, “if you would like to check this book out, then I’ll get you all settled back at the front desk.”
“I have more books that I will need to check out,” the boy says. “They are at my research table by the windows. I will need a cart.”
Harry frowns. “A cart,” he echoes dubiously.
“Yes. I believe the checkout limit is twenty books for an adult patron. That is correct, is it not?”
“It is,” Harry says slowly.
He does not say that this boy is clearly not an adult patron.
“Wonderful. Then I shall need a cart.”
Dutifully, Harry fetches one of the empty carts from the back and then finds the boy at his ‘research table.’ It’s piled high. A quick examination shows there are several more volumes on chemical reactions, botanical guides with an emphasis on dangerous plants, and an eclectic variety of other advanced materials on topics that are well beyond the boy’s intended age bracket.
“So,” Harry says casually, “what kind of project are you working on?”
“Murdering my stepmother.”
Harry feels woozy. He’s not sure he heard that right.
The boy continues coolly. “I am aware that Father will be greatly upset with me when I succeed. But he also tells me that proactive strategy is far more admirable than waiting for your opponents to come to you.”
“And why must you kill your stepmother?” Harry asks.
The boy tilts his head. “Because if I do not, she will kill me first.”
The obviously is implied.
“I see,” Harry says.
He does not see. He thinks he should call Children’s Services. Something is clearly broken beyond repair in this boy's home.
Sometimes children are prone to exaggeration, such as that one time when a young Amelia had said, similarly, fully sincerely, that her parents were trying to kill her. Harry had panicked briefly until it had turned out that Amelia’s terribly apologetic parents were, in fact, trying to add mildly more fiber to her otherwise entirely crisp-based diet.
He regards the boy before him. Dressed with impeccably tailored clothes, standing with perfect posture, and wearing a faint pout that mimes aristocracy all too well.
He distinctly gets the sense that the boy is not exaggerating.
And that Children’s Services would be easily paid off even if they were to find anything.
The stubborn part of him that refuses to admit defeat roars to life. It’s trouble. It’s also just the kind of person he is. Even if every other adult has failed this kid, Harry won’t. He can protect him. He’ll figure out a way. He smooths his furrowed brow and pastes on a soothing smile.
“Well, then, Mr. I-won’t-share-my-name-with-strangers, I suppose we ought to do something about that.”
“Yes,” the boy says. “I would like to not die. I am far too young for that. Dying is for people who are old. Like you.”
Harry’s mouth quirks. Very rude.
When the boy hands over his library card and Harry scans it, the profile that pops up on the screen is for Tom Marcellus Riddle. 45 years old judging by the date of birth. He glances back at the boy.
The boy that is wearing a determined face which suggests he knows exactly what Harry had just seen and what Harry must be thinking.
“Where is your library card?” Harry asks. “This is for Tom Riddle.”
“I am Tom Riddle.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Tom Marvolo Riddle,” he says, far more snootily than he has any right to at his age.
“So then what happened to your card?”
“My stepmother stole it.”
“And so you stole your Father’s instead.”
“I borrowed it,” Tom says defensively. At Harry’s bland stare, he pouts harder. “It’s hardly a crime when he doesn’t need it. He never comes with me when he’s home, and he’s not even home, and he won’t be anytime soon.” He pauses to let out a quick huff. Then he continues, more subdued. “Not for another three weeks. There are pressing matters in the Caribbean that demand his time.”
The words pour out as if they have been sitting heavily on his mind and have been waiting for somebody to complain to. Someone sympathetic and willing to listen, which, if Harry’s honest, is a lot of what his job is.
“Are there often pressing matters?” he asks.
And perhaps they both know that what he’s really asking is if Tom misses his Father.
Tom twitches. “Yes,” he says quietly.
Harry finishes scanning the stack of books and slides the stolen library card across the desk.
“Would you like help bringing the cart to your car?”
“No need. I can handle the cart myself.”
The cart, which is at least as tall as the boy. For someone so pathological about lording over his ‘lessers,’ he seems entirely unwilling to ask for help. To show any sign of weakness. That’s alright. Harry can do it for him.
“Please,” Harry says quickly.
Tom watches him suspiciously.
“This is precisely what our decaying government services pay me so handsomely for,” Harry adds.
The boy’s face contorts strangely before a small laugh bubbles out, surprisingly bright – like a breath of spring.
“Yes, I do suppose with the amount that my family contributes to the government, you may as well be on our payroll.”
Then he strolls away without a care in the world. Like a little prince.
“Happy to be at your service,” Harry mutters under his breath.
But somehow, in the course of just this small interaction, in just these few minutes, he finds that he’s grown fond of this tiny, insolent child. And he’s very concerned. Obviously.
At this tender age, Tom is already too clever by half with too sharp of a tongue. Harry is certain he will grow into a terrifying adult. But for the moment, Harry looks down to his side and finds only a lonely child. One that had come to the library by himself with the sole intent of killing one of his guardians. Of the twenty books allocated to adults, he had not picked a single one for fun. Perhaps because he felt that he could not.
The library doors open with an automatic swoosh, and the cart clatters against the pavement. A black Bentley idles by the curb, screaming old money in its stately silence. A neatly dressed gentleman exits the driver’s side to open the door to the back. He pointedly does not greet Harry or Tom, or say anything at all for that matter.
Harry loads the books into the backseat with a scowl. It bothers him, and he’s not even the one that has to live with it every day. When he finishes, Tom settles in and cracks open one of his new books (Munitions of the Second World War), face stony.
“Hey,” Harry says, hand on the door.
Tom glances up.
“If you need more help, I’ll be on shift again tomorrow.”
Tom eyes him warily. “Help,” he repeats, toneless.
“I can’t imagine you would like to get caught,” Harry answers innocently.
“Are you threatening me?” His voice is chilly. Murderous intent in a wee little body.
The contrast can only be described as cute. Harry can’t take him seriously at all, and he laughs, entirely unintimidated.
“I just offered to help, you daft child.”
Tom bristles. “I am not daft.” His eyes skitter over the pile of books. “But I suppose some help would be nice. I recall that librarians often have degrees in research?”
Harry nods, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “They do.”
“Where from.”
“Cambridge.”
A very prestigious diploma Harry doesn’t like to advertise. James Potter had been a fourth generation legacy and it’d been enough to get Harry in as a fifth, along with a football scholarship, despite his middling marks. They’d been very disappointed to see Harry pursue a Masters in Library and Information Studies.
“Acceptable.” Tom sniffs. “Why are you in this backwater with a credential like that?”
“I grew up here. Hated it. Family expectations were a bit too suffocating.”
Tom’s brow pinches. “Then…”
“I spent a lot of time hiding away here. In this very library. I think of it like home,” Harry explains.
“That’s ridiculous. A library can’t be a home.”
Tom’s cheekbones really are a touch too well-defined. Harry resolves to feed him a proper, home-cooked meal, come hell or high water.
“How about this? Come back tomorrow. I’ll prove you wrong.”
“You think highly of yourself,” Tom says, chin lifted haughtily. “I am never wrong.”
Harry smiles. “See you tomorrow, Tom.”
He finally shuts the door, and the Bentley rolls off into the distance. He goes back inside, wraps up his emails, and locks up the library. Once home, he makes dinner. Ground beef and potatoes, cheap and easy fare, but flavored with a bit of cumin for a nice kick. Not too shabby, in Harry’s opinion.
It is only when he’s re-seasoning his pan, after placing two leftover portions into his fridge for tomorrow, that he realizes what all the texts that Tom had been looking at add up to.
He hustles to his aged laptop and looks up the Riddles. Their main estate is in Little Hangleton, but they have a winter cabin just uptown, on a large hill. Very flammable.
He calls in a possible bomb threat.