Chapter 235 – Ignorant Riddle
Tom Riddle, though he would one day become a notorious Dark wizard, had once been considered nothing less than a model student at Hogwarts.
An orphan blessed with extraordinary talent and striking looks, he naturally drew the sympathy and admiration of teachers almost from the moment he entered school.
Polite, quiet, and endlessly hungry for knowledge, he left nearly everyone with a good impression.
To suggest that, in his Muggle childhood, he had been a poor student—or even disliked reading—would have drawn ridicule. Every wizard who knew him would have dismissed such an idea as nonsense.
Yet the truth was that, during his time in the orphanage, Riddle's academic performance had once been far from stellar. His attention had been fixed more on his mysterious powers than on books.
By relying on those strange abilities, he was both feared and ostracized. The orphanage matron even thought him unstable and once summoned a psychiatrist. But no orphan dared challenge him, and he never needed friends in the usual sense.
Perhaps Dumbledore did not realize this. He may have believed Riddle's flaws were cruelty, secrecy, and domineering pride—but not laziness in study.
When Dumbledore first visited Wool's Orphanage and told Mrs. Cole that Riddle had qualities Hogwarts valued, she assumed he had earned a scholarship. What she did not notice was that Riddle had not applied for any. By her account, he could have won scholarships at Muggle schools, had he tried.
When Dumbledore entered his room, Riddle was sitting with a book, the image of a studious boy.
Thus Dumbledore concluded that Riddle's issues were only of temperament—that otherwise, he was an excellent student.
But only Tom knew that his newfound diligence was not born of any love of knowledge.
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Wool's Orphanage, in London, was well-maintained compared to others of its time. Though the furniture was mismatched and old, the environment was clean, the children wore neat gray uniforms, and the facilities were orderly.
The only flaw was its bleak atmosphere. The matrons had no time for the children's emotional needs.
For Riddle, however, it was enough. Once his strange powers secured his "kingship" among the children, he had no worries left. He didn't need to think of appearances or waste energy fighting for status.
Soon, his excursions extended beyond the orphanage, into the city of London itself.
It was there he realized something vital: knowledge mattered. Good grades meant access to a university, to good work, to power over others. He might even become a civil servant, a man of authority.
So Tom began to study in earnest. He impressed Mrs. Cole, who noticed he no longer caused trouble but spent his time reading quietly.
And it was at this time that Dumbledore arrived.
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At Hogwarts, Riddle maintained the habit of reading—though magic books carried greater weight than Muggle ones. A diploma or degree meant little to him. A grimoire, by contrast, meant power.
This attitude fueled his disdain for Muggle knowledge. He never bothered with Muggle Studies, and by his third year he avoided the subject entirely.
In truth, regarding Muggle matters, Tom Riddle was nearly illiterate.
That was why Dumbledore's mention of the moon landing confused him. To Riddle, the true marvels were the magician's perfect self-transfiguration, his wandless spellcasting, and the strange stealth magic of becoming moonlight itself.
Apparition and Disillusionment he understood—but this? This was alien.
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"What is the shape of the earth?" Dumbledore asked suddenly. Riddle's ignorance about Muggles had sparked a thought: perhaps Voldemort's radical views stemmed from this lack of understanding.
This might be a new chance to change him.
"Round. I know that much," Riddle replied tersely, eyes still fixed on the magical screen showing Harry Potter.
"And why, Tom, can we stand firmly on a round earth?" Dumbledore pressed.
"I once thought on it. Later, I read the answer in a book of magic," Riddle said proudly.
"That answer is magic! The power of wizards. Long ago, we were gods. But by mixing with Muggles, our bloodlines weakened. What you see now is the result of that corruption."
He said it with perfect seriousness.
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Alexander Smith, lying on his sofa at home, nearly leapt up. Tom Riddle is really… ignorant!
No, not exactly ignorant. He had read this somewhere. Likely it was the mainstream nonsense among many pure-blood families.
But unlike Alexander, they lacked the skill of true analysis. Their conclusions could only ever be wrong.
Alexander's insight told him otherwise: wizard weakness was not from "tainted blood," but from being too powerful. Wizards had cursed their own descendants through endless conflict, turning once godlike abilities into diminished echoes.
That was the real truth.
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"Don't you know about gravity?" Alexander muttered, exasperated. "When the earth rotates, it creates centripetal force. Objects fall because of gravity, not because of 'round sky, square earth' nonsense…"
Meanwhile, Dumbledore sighed. "Tom, wizards are not weakened by uniting with Muggles. Wizards were born from Muggles."
"You may not realize this, but even in my family, every Dumbledore married a wizard or witch. And yet we are still the same as those you call 'degraded' by mingling with Muggles."
"Tom, you clearly need remedial Muggle Studies before you can ever hope to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Dumbledore gave him a long look—one Alexander thought looked suspiciously like the way you'd look at someone slow.
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(At this point, the text inserts a reference: Aunt Muriel gossiping about Dumbledore's bloodline, and Doge defending Kendra. In canon, this revealed that Albus Dumbledore was half-blood, not pure.)
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(End of Chapter)
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