|
"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 filings 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 forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.
"I knew I was different," he whispered to his own quivering fingers. "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something." "Well, you were quite right," said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. "You are a wizard." Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.
"Are you a wizard too." "Yes, I am." "Prove it," said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, "Tell the truth." Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—" "Of course I am!" "Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'"
 |  |
|
