Harry Potter 06 - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

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