Chapter 238: In Diagon Alley
"Who do you think that is?"
"Dumbledore!"
"Is that his child next to him?"
"Who's the mother? Professor McGonagall?"
"I think it's Professor Sprout!"
"No, it must be Madam Hooch!"
"Don't be ridiculous. Look at how handsome that boy is. Only the charming Madam Rosmerta could have given birth to him."
"That's true. Dumbledore always goes to the Three Broomsticks whenever he has time. Oak-matured mead is his favorite!"
Diagon Alley was particularly lively at this time. Although it was still early for the start of term, the regulars from the Leaky Cauldron had spilled into the street. Not far away, an old man and a young man walked side by side — attracting whispers wherever they went.
Among the idlers, Dedalus Diggle's opinion carried the most weight. After all, he was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Naturally, the handsome boy with black hair had to be the child of Dumbledore and Madam Rosmerta!
And if not a son, then… perhaps a lover?
Surely not — everyone knew Rita Skeeter's slander about Dumbledore's "orientation" was nonsense.
Still, in the minds of the Leaky Cauldron regulars — men who prided themselves on seeing through appearances — this seemed perfectly reasonable.
Especially since Diggle's drinking companion today was Dean Thomas, son of Hadwin Jones, who had also fallen in love with a Muggle woman. Subconsciously, many wondered — perhaps Dumbledore, too, had a hidden child somewhere in the Muggle world?
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"Dumbledore, that fellow in purple — is he your servant? Or should I say, your follower?" Tom Riddle murmured as they walked down the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley. People instinctively gave them space.
After all, Dumbledore was not only the Headmaster of Hogwarts, but the most influential wizard alive. Almost everyone in Diagon Alley had once been his student. Few dared to greet him in public.
"What's wrong, Tom? You can't stand being stared at? That's not like you," Dumbledore replied lightly.
The purpose of this little outing was deliberate: to draw out any lurking Death Eaters. Ideally, even Voldemort would hear of it.
"No, I just think we should get on with it — straight to Ollivander's. If we stroll about much longer, the Daily Prophet will probably run with a headline: 'Dumbledore's New Lover? — Harry Potter Cast Aside.'"
Riddle's eyes flickered; in his peripheral vision, a glint of platinum-blonde hair flashed in the sunlight.
"Oh, Tom, so you've read those articles too? Surely you don't believe them," Dumbledore chuckled. He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken so casually to Riddle. Perhaps… never.
"I'm simply curious about Harry Potter. Fortunately, my… predecessor, Quirrell, kept an impressive collection of reports about him."
"And I admit," Riddle added with a faint smile, "I'm waiting to see what sort of story the Prophet will spin about me. Rita Skeeter is quite an amusing witch."
That smile — sharp cheekbones and a fleeting dimple — sent another ripple of whispers through the crowd. Some swore it was the smile of a son recognizing his father.
"No, I think you've missed the latest development. The Daily Prophet was recently acquired… by Sirius Black. By your logic, Tom, he'd be my follower," Dumbledore replied cheerfully.
Riddle's brow furrowed.
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The two reached a shabby little shop at the end of the street. Above its weathered door, letters gleamed faintly in gold:
Ollivander: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The bell jingled as they entered.
"Ah — Albus Dumbledore! The greatest wizard!" Garrick Ollivander rose from his chair, pale eyes gleaming like moons. "Are you here for your wand? My father never revealed its full construction to me, even on his deathbed. Do you need it examined?"
"No, Garrick, you've mistaken your customer," Dumbledore said, stepping aside.
Behind him, Tom Riddle stood before the faded purple cushion in the display window, fingertips brushing the glass. His gaze lingered on the solitary wand resting there, just as it had fifty-five years ago.
"Ah… I see," Ollivander muttered, disappointed, before turning to the young man. In the dim light, he could not yet make out the sharp perfection of Riddle's features. "Sir, do you require a new wand? Or perhaps a repair? You seem familiar… I could swear you've been here before."
"I need a wand," Riddle said politely, his voice calm and distant — exactly as it had been all those years ago.
Ollivander froze. The tape measure slipped from his trembling fingers.
"It's… it's you!"
"Dumbledore — what is the meaning of this?"
Fear warred with awe in the old wandmaker's face. The wand chooses the wizard, yes — but Ollivander had once crafted the wand that chose the darkest wizard of the age. That fact filled him with a twisted pride… and an even greater dread.
Yet now, confronted with Tom Riddle himself, his skilled hands shook uncontrollably.
"Hello," Riddle said softly, extending a pale, elegant hand. "My name is Tom Riddle. Have we met before, sir?"
Ollivander drew in a shaky breath, forcing his composure back into place.
"No need, young man. Perhaps I was mistaken."
He glanced briefly at Dumbledore, then quickly away. When his eyes returned, the mask of the meticulous wandmaker was firmly in place.
He began measuring as though nothing had happened: shoulder to fingertip, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knees to armpits, circumference of the head…
Business as usual.
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