The Half-Blood Prince

by J. K. Rowling

  ‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Dumbledore, withdrawing a fresh bottle of silver memories from inside his robes and uncorking it with a prod of his wand.

  ‘Sir,’ said Harry tentatively, ‘I met Mundungus in Hogsmeade.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I am already aware that Mundungus has been treating your inheritance with light-fingered contempt,’ said Dumbledore, frowning a little. ‘He has gone to ground since you accosted him outside the Three Broomsticks; I rather think he dreads facing me. However, rest assured that he will not be making away with any more of Sirius’s old possessions.’

  ‘That mangy old half-blood has been stealing Black heirlooms?’ said Phineas Nigellus, incensed; and he stalked out of his frame, undoubtedly to visit his portrait in number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

  ‘Professor,’ said Harry, after a short pause, ‘did Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?’

  ‘She told me of your suspicions, yes,’ said Dumbledore.

  ‘And do you –?’

  ‘I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Katie’s accident,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But what concerns me now, Harry, is our lesson.’

  Harry felt slightly resentful at this: if their lessons were so very important, why had there been such a long gap between the first and second? However, he said no more about Draco Malfoy, but watched as Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the Pensieve, and began swirling the stone basin once more between his long-fingered hands.

  ‘You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort’s beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort.’

  ‘How do you know she was in London, sir?’

  ‘Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke,’ said Dumbledore, ‘who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing.’

  He swilled the contents of the Pensieve as Harry had seen him swill them before, much as a gold prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man, revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes.

  ‘Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along … going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin’s. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, “Oh, this was Merlin’s, this was, his favourite teapot,” but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn’t seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!’

  Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory whence he had come.

  ‘He only gave her ten Galleons?’ said Harry indignantly.

  ‘Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity,’ said Dumbledore. ‘So we know that, near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo’s treasured family heirlooms.’

  ‘But she could do magic!’ said Harry impatiently. ‘She could have got food and everything for herself by magic, couldn’t she?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dumbledore, ‘perhaps she could. But it is my belief – I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right – that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life.’

  ‘She wouldn’t even stay alive for her son?’

  Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?’

  ‘No,’ said Harry quickly, ‘but she had a choice, didn’t she, not like my mother –’

  ‘Your mother had a choice, too,’ said Dumbledore gently. ‘Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother’s courage. And now, if you will stand …’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Harry asked, as Dumbledore joined him at the front of the desk.

  ‘This time,’ said Dumbledore, ‘we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry …’

  Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness again … Seconds later his feet hit firm ground, he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street.

  ‘There I am,’ said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart.

  This younger Albus Dumbledore’s long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing.

  ‘Nice suit, sir,’ said Harry, before he could stop himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.

  ‘Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?’

  ‘Oh,’ said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. ‘Um … just a mo’ … MRS COLE!’ she bellowed over her shoulder.

  Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore.

  ‘Come in, she’s on ’er way.’

  Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the front door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying towards them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind and she was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked towards Dumbledore.

  ‘… and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley’s oozing all over his sheets – chicken pox on top of everything else,’ she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Dumbledore, holding out his hand.

  Mrs Cole simply gaped.

  ‘My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today.’

  Mrs Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, ‘Oh, yes. Well – well, then – you’d better come into my room. Yes.’

  She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously.

  ‘I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future,’ said Dumbledore.

  ‘Are you family?’ asked Mrs Cole.

  ‘No, I am a teacher,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I have come to
offer Tom a place at my school.’

  ‘What school’s this, then?’

  ‘It is called Hogwarts,’ said Dumbledore.

  ‘And how come you’re interested in Tom?’

  ‘We believe he has qualities we are looking for.’

  ‘You mean he’s won a scholarship? How can he have done? He’s never been entered for one.’

  ‘Well, his name has been down for our school since birth –’

  ‘Who registered him? His parents?’

  There was no doubt that Mrs Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs Cole’s desktop.

  ‘Here,’ said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, ‘I think this will make everything clear.’

  Mrs Cole’s eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.

  ‘That seems perfectly in order,’ she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before.

  ‘Er – may I offer you a glass of gin?’ she said in an extra-refined voice.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Dumbledore, beaming.

  It soon became clear that Mrs Cole was no novice when it came to gin-drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn’t hesitate to press his advantage.

  ‘I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle’s history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Cole, helping herself to more gin. ‘I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the first. We took her in and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.’

  Mrs Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin.

  ‘Did she say anything before she died?’ asked Dumbledore. ‘Anything about the boy’s father, for instance?’

  ‘Now, as it happens, she did,’ said Mrs Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story.

  ‘I remember she said to me, “I hope he looks like his papa,” and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty – and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father – yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We wondered whether she came from a circus – and she said the boy’s surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word.

  ‘Well, we named him just as she’d said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he’s been here ever since.’

  Mrs Cole helped herself, almost absent-mindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheek-bones. Then she said, ‘He’s a funny boy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I thought he might be.’

  ‘He was a funny baby, too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was … odd.’

  ‘Odd, in what way?’ asked Dumbledore gently.

  ‘Well, he –’

  But Mrs Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass.

  ‘He’s definitely got a place at your school, you say?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Dumbledore.

  ‘And nothing I say can change that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Dumbledore.

  ‘You’ll be taking him away, whatever?’

  ‘Whatever,’ repeated Dumbledore gravely.

  She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, ‘He scares the other children.’

  ‘You mean he is a bully?’ asked Dumbledore.

  ‘I think he must be,’ said Mrs Cole, frowning slightly, ‘but it’s very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents … nasty things …’

  Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still.

  ‘Billy Stubbs’s rabbit … well, Tom said he didn’t do it and I don’t see how he could have done, but even so, it didn’t hang itself from the rafters, did it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, no,’ said Dumbledore quietly.

  ‘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 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 hiccough. 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 greyish 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, a wooden chair and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the grey 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 forwards 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.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school – your new school, if you would like to come.’

  Riddle’s reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.

  ‘You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? “Professor”, yes, of course – well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!’

  ‘I am not from the asylum,’ said Dumbledore patiently. ‘I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you –’

  ‘I’d like to see them try,’ sneered Riddle.

  ‘Hogwarts,’ Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle’s last words, ‘is a school for people with special abilities –’

  ‘I’m not mad!’

  ‘I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.’

  There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore’s, as though trying to catch one of them lying.

  ‘Magic?’ he repeated in a whisper.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Dumbledore.

  ‘It’s … it’s magic, what I can do?’

  ‘What is it that you can do?’

  ‘All sorts,’ breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. ‘I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.’

  His legs were trembling. He stumbled forwards and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.