The Thing About Parrots

AN:

Oni: Hello all! I'm very well aware that this is not Come Togther, or any of my other fics.

Tom: This is, in fact, a story that is being written for National Novel Writing Month Of 2018.

Oni: As such, my focus will be entirely on this crackfic which will be posted as soon as the chapters finish. No editing or betaing. There will probably be plotholes galore but this is just me having fun as I attempt to chug out 50,000 in a month. As such, please enjoy what is probably going to be a strange ride.

Tom: Oni does not own the Harry Potter franchise.

Oni: Aaaaand ONWARDS!

This story begins with a boy.

Well, not exactly. This story actually begins with a parrot. Sort of. It begins with parrots in general... sort of.

Okay, so here's the thing about parrots. It's not just their pretty feathers that make parrots such beloved pets to so many people. Everybody admits that these little guys are brighter than any bird's got the right to be, with their puzzle solving skills and their 'Polly want a cracker's.

But see, that's the thing.

A parrot will only say 'Polly want a cracker' if 'Polly want a cracker' was repeated in front of them over and over and over again. Ad nauseam. Only then will the parrot think 'Oh I guess they want me to do that' and then repeat it in their high pitched, twittering voice that only a bird can have. While imitation through repetition is something seen in other members of the animal kingdom, the parrot's wordplay isn't just gained from treats and classical conditioning. It's something that they pick up on their own, and it is entirely up to the parrot on whether or not they want to mimic the repetition.

There was once a joke about a group of friends. One of them bought a parrot as a pet and they all began to argue about what they would teach the parrot to say first. One of their friends, Larry, kept offering up suggestions about what it should say, only to be shot down with a vehement 'No, Larry!' every time. This kept going on for quite a while until they were interrupted by a new voice. The parrot's, actually. Can you guess what it said?

"No, Larry!"

Of course.

Through repetition of the friends' cries, the parrot chose to pick up what they had been shouting near it. Even if that wasn't the intended purpose of their words, it certainly was the product. And parrots could be such cheeky little bastards in what they choose to pick up, aren't they? Then they'll in turn twitter and croak out whatever it was their little birdy minds decided would be a good thing to replicate. This ranges from the "Polly want a cracker" to "Hello" to profuse swear words that are only spoken by the damn thing in front of the esteemed guests and your stuffy Aunt Bernadette.

Let's label this phenomenon The Parrot Effect, just for this story. Now, you're probably wondering why I've just told you this little thing about parrots, or why this is even relevant to a story that's obviously not going to be about a parrot whatsoever. So let me start back to the beginning.

This story begins with a boy.

This boy's life began much like the much famed Oliver Twist. His mother had stumbled into the orphanage late at night on the evening cusping the new year, heavy with her burden of new life. The drunken nurses cared for her as she delivered her cursed son into the world, and the nameless woman cradled the newborn in her arms. She had smiled, whispered the name of her progeny (which the nurses actually had enough sobriety to write down) and died just a few hours later, living just long enough to watch her son open his eyes (her eyes, he had her eyes in perfect condition, she hoped it was the only thing he would inherit from her).

It was the first moment that Tom Marvolo Riddle remembered, and one that he would cherish all the days of his life. The love his mother gave him in those precious few hours, the warmth of her body, her shaking and hoarse voice, her smiling face and exotropic dark eyes (his eyes too, he would look into his eyes in the mirror and pretend they were her eyes looking back at him, though he hadn't yet managed to make them look in opposite directions like she could) fueled him enough to survive the loveless nature of the poverty-stricken Wool's orphanage.

You're probably still wondering why I mentioned the parrot either. Just a little longer, okay?

Little Tom was much like most other very young children, full of youthful innocence and curious to a fault. In a loving family his curiosity and intelligence would have been nurtured, his budding genius praised and rewarded. But such was the unfortunate fact of life that not only was he an Oliver Twist and thus cursed to Dicken's level of bad luck, but he also inherited his mother's magic and abilities. Specifically, the one that let him talk to snakes.

Innocent little Tom didn't understand why talking to snakes was such a bad thing. They weren't always the best conversationalists but they always paid their rent for sharing his room and bed by eating the rats in the relative vicinity. They also allowed him to teach them little tricks and slither-dance routines to the sound of the street piano, making the child giggle as they weaves around his body in tune to the music. The other inhabitants of the orphanage, however, thought quite differently on the subject of Tommy and his snake-talking, freakish ways.

Devil's Spawn, they would call him, Trouble-maker. Terror. Ne'er do well. Cretin. Hooligan. Freak. Outcast. Over and over and over.

If it wasn't the children it was the caretakers and Mrs. Cole. If it wasn't them it was the overly religious prospective parents that happened upon him convincing a snake to jive to the chipped gramophone in the common playroom. If it wasn't the grownups that came and went from the orphanage, it was Father Hale and his clergy. Every day, Tom Riddle heard himself called that, though he hadn't really done anything wrong and had always been polite, respectful, and friendly (just like all the children were taught by Mrs. Cole).

Sound familiar?

Remember the parrot?

One night while little Tommy was laying in his threadbare bed, crying over the recent death of another one of his snake-friends which was crushed underfoot by one of the grown ups that refused to adopt him after finding him playing with the serpent using a ripped cat-toy, he had an epiphany. What if everyone called him those things because they wanted him to behave like that? Why else would they say such things about him?

Besides, some of the things he was called and the feats could perform could allow him to join a circus. His mother had worked in the circus. Mrs. Cole had told him so (and she wasn't lying, because he was really, really good at knowing when people lied). She was probably a wonderful acrobat that could flip in midair and ride upside-down on elephant trunks like some of the ones that came to London before the war threats. They were always very pretty and called him a sweet little boy and that made Tom very happy.

It's why he tried very very very hard to be just like her so that maybe one day he could run away and join the circus and have amazing adventures with all of his snake friends. Maybe he would even find his grandfather, Marvolo (another circus person, Mrs. Cole had said so). The bumps and bruises and scratches were all worth it if he could be an acrobat one day. Tom the Flying Snake Charmer, he'd be called. They might even love him.

(A tiny part of his sanity had probably cracked under sheer pressure of what he had to endure at the orphanage, but that's not important yet.)

Circus freaks didn't have to worry about being called freaks, because that's where they belonged - and that's what so many people spat at him. And if everyone kept calling Tom things that he wasn't, perhaps they wanted him to follow that route. If he behaved in the way that they said he did... why then he would be doing exactly as they asked!

So Tom Riddle decided to test out this theory by snapping the neck of Billy Stubbs' rabbit. It wasn't white and it wasn't wearing a waistcoat or a pocket watch so he wasn't worried about it being the kind of rabbit that actually talked like his snakes did or wanting to lead him into a hole in the ground that could be the entrance to Wonderland. That and Billy had been the one to kill Alice the grass snake in the first place.

Still, he had shook the rodent's panicked form and listened closely just to be sure there wasn't any squeaking of "You're late! You're late!". One could never know until they tried, after all, and on the off chance that Billy did have the White Rabbit, Tom wasn't going to risk the chance of killing his chance to meet the Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter. Once he figured that it was just a regular old rabbit, the snake talking orphan put the writhing thing out of its misery, leaving it hanging from the rafters for Stubbs to see.

They (that is, Billy, Mrs. Cole and the other caretakers of the orphanage) had screamed at him and punished him despite there being no evidence of Tom actually doing the deed but as always he was blamed anyway. It was an interesting sensation, being punished for something he actually did (not that anyone else knew for sure), a kind of satisfaction. Like he finally earned the names they called him.

So Tom Riddle decided to do it more. A lot more.

The little orphan boy wrought terror and chaos upon the grey orphanage that had done him so much wrong, and it was exhilarating. Cabinets closed behind on unsuspecting victims, apples grew moldy within seconds of picking them up, and tableware mysteriously started to move on their own when no one was looking. Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop had chased Tom down into a cave, not knowing that it was a set-up to begin with. Animating those old fake skeletons had been easy, as had convincing his snakes to writhe and slither around the empty skulls. All it took otherwise was a menacing voice, which was simple to fabricate with his skills as a mimic. Their screams alerted the police, but by the time the adults got there, the scene appeared to be children having some mindless fun. Tom had cackled manically, even after he was locked in his small room without dinner as punishment.

Who knew that stealing, pranking, and being an overall creepy, insane menace was this fun?

Surely not Tom until he had done so himself. The empty stomach was worth it, because he was filled with adrenaline. Though such things were even better when he got away with it, when he managed to convince the matrons without a doubt that it wasn't him (even when it was). Getting a deserving punishment was better than when it was unwarranted, but by far the best option was not getting punished at all.

On a cold morning that was too early to have many people up yet, the children at Wool's Orphanage could be seen playing outside. Some of them, anyway. Most of the younger children stayed in their beds, but the older children had been woken up for chores. With his hands deep in his pockets little Tom Riddle, at the prime age of seven, strolled through the orphanage and smiled creepily at anyone getting too close. He stayed near the front courtyard, sitting on one of the two rickety swings that Wool's sparse playground had until he knew that the caretakers weren't looking. Hopping off and snorting as a brave child scuttled to the vacated spot, the young menace casually strolled off of orphanage grounds. In the hustle and bustle of the London streets, it was easy for one shabbily dressed child to disappear into the crowd. Ducking into an abandoned alley, Tom picked up a lone grass snake that appeared to be waiting for him. Oscar hissed the news he managed to pick up (complained about the goings on), which comprised of the foot traffic and sounds and smells that the boy translated somewhat into meaningful information.

Oscar, named after the famed charlatan of the Emerald City because of his similarly colored scales, was by far one of the crankiest serpents Tom has ever come across. He complained about most everything and could give an elephant a run for its money (or peanuts, he supposed) with the amount that he remembered, especially the things that ticked him off. Apparently dealing with him was difficult, even for the neighborhood snakes. They couldn't stand (figuratively, considering none of them had legs) the grousing serpent, and dealing with Oscar was something of a feat.

Tom didn't mind much though. Oscar was one of the few snakes that taught him (unwittingly, mind you) an arsenal of swear words that almost outweighed the small orphan's English inventory - and coming from the dingy streets and dirty alleyways of London, that was saying quite a lot. Not that Tom used any of those words, mind you, unless he really felt the need to, but there was no harm in knowing them.

Having gotten what he needed, Tom bade the grumbling serpent farewell, watching as the green scaled snake slithered back into the shadows of the alleyway. Once the creature was safely out of sight, little Tom Riddle weaved his way through the crowd. The country had truly fallen on hard times, and from within the cries of hunger and poverty of the Great Depression came the quiet whispers of war. The London streets showed this well, especially on this cold autumn morning. Such things made rag-dressed children such as Tom a common sight, indistinguishable from the children that had families that no one questioned his presence. He kept his eyes to the ground, dark, shrewd eyes searching in the grimy ground for anything of value. Coins, torn notes, small objects that can be repurposed. All these things were snapped up by deft fingers by the tiny orphan as he made his way to his destination.

The bell above the door jingled as he entered one of his favorite places in the world. Or, well, favorite place in London, but seeing as he never left the city such a statement meant the same thing. Delicious scents wafted into his nose as Tom relished in the warmth and brightness of the bakery. Wide, dark brown eyes took in the sights and smells of the mouthwatering array of pies, cakes, tarts, donuts, and pastries.

Behind the counter, the kindly woman (aptly named Mrs. Rosewood) that ran the shop smiled down at him. Tom could easily see the pity in her eyes as she took in his thin form and worn clothes. Deciding to use that to his advantage (as he always did), he gave Mrs. Rosewood his best 'poor hungry orphan' look as he held up the amount for a single pastry. The lady simply tutted at him as she took the coins from his hand. Moments later had a happy dark haired child sitting on a chair munching down on a wonderfully hot jelly donut with a second one warming his side in a paper bag in his pocket.

Thankfully this bakery was on Charing Cross, quite a ways away from Wool's Orphanage. Because of this his reputation of being a menace didn't reach this place. All the bakery and Mrs. Rosewood ever saw was Tommy the hungry beggar child. Sometimes they would give him extra morsels like today in exchange for him helping around the back. They mostly paid him in failed batches (the items that turned out too wrong to be sold) or pastries baked the day before, but Tom didn't mind. It allowed him time away from the orphanage as well as gave him a warm place to eat his spoils.

Despite the fact that he was paid in rejections for a day's hard work, Tom had learned that he quite liked working at the bakery. There was something rather fascinating about how the dough rose in the ovens, though dusting, filling, and decorating the pastries had become his favorite job. His skills hands were something that Mrs. Rosewood made good use of, giving him the tedious work so that she could take a breather once in a while. And Tom, being such a good child, only made mistakes on one or two (of the more misshapen one's so he couldn't be blamed) and those mistakes would be his to take as payment for the day.

Today he had been rewarded with an extra 'good' pastry, seeing as he had paid for the first. It looks like Mrs. Rosewood was getting good business then. Which was odd, considering that she seemed to always get good business despite there being a lack of money to but such things.

But that's not here nor there. After all, what does a part time barely paid job a small boy has at a bakery have anything to do with the bigger picture of the story?

It probably doesn't.

...definitely not.

Living in the repurposed storage cupboard at the end of the hall had its perks. For one it was a large cupboard, big enough to house a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. For another, he didn't need to share a room with anyone. This was good for a number of reasons, but the main one was that no roommates meant that there was no one to snitch on him any time he used his abilities or talked to snakes, which he did most of the time when he was holed up in there. When he wasn't, however, Tom Riddle read the battered books he managed to nick from the bins. Sometimes he would even walk all the way to the local library if he couldn't find something he hadn't already read (and if the other kids made too much of a fuss about him hogging all the books).

Funnily enough the library was also on Charing Cross, and it never seemed to have many people inside. It was also dark and smelled of leather, ink, and something that wasn't paper. The place didn't even use lightbulbs, instead using white wax candles that Tom though wasn't very practical considering that books were flammable. They had the most interesting books, though, bound together in old leather covers and the paper-that-was-not-paper was slightly frayed at the edges.

The librarian was an odd man that seemed to be at least a century old, his beady eyes almost buried in the wrinkles of his face. He was initially shocked and gruff with Tom when the orphan had first entered, muttering about him being muddled and something about the wards of the library. This Tom had found especially odd, considering he had seen no children or really anyone that looked to be a ward of the library (if that was even a thing...), but had ignored the muttering because it was the polite thing to do. Plus the man had mentioned that the wards were nocturnal (right?), so perhaps the kids only came out at night for some odd reason. Maybe they were light sensitive? That would explain the low brightness of the candles, at least.

Tom had felt the sneering glare of the man as he looked through the selection of books until he had found an interesting one buried beneath some other tomes (including one that he swore was crawling in the corner of his eye, but it was always stationary when he looked at it) that had a metal snake on the cover. Now, as someone who deeply loved snakes (as he could speak with them and they provided some lovely company), it was obvious that little Tom Riddle would choose this book to read, settling in a back corner (shouldn't a library have more...chairs? He hadn't seen any around...) to read to his heart's content until his small, battered pocket watch (which he found on the street and fixed with his interesting abilities) had told him that if he wanted to get back before curfew he should begin to leave. Looking sorrowfully at the book, Tom had walked up to the gruff man and held up the book, asking to check it out.

Initially the librarian had laughed in his face, and for some reason asked what the name of the book was. Tom had blinked once, bewildered. Did a librarian not know the name of his own book? Still he dutifully read the title of the book, which was written in a loopy silver script that read 'Serpentatum Incantio' and had been a marvelous story about a man named Salazar that traveled across the United Kingdom with a couple of friends (both human and serpent), casting magic spells and learning how to create spells using the language of serpents (it was surprisingly well written and oddly realistic for a fairy tail book, but Tom wasn't complaining). Immediately the librarian had lost all color in his face, and in a strange bout of kindness, had told Tom he could keep the book.

Tom's smile had been so wide he was punished for being 'up to something' when he returned to Wool's.

After that the librarian (who was named Mr. Burke and admitted that the place was not in fact a library, but a book store) was oddly cordial to him, even if he asked odd questions and had the young orphan read aloud strange pieces of writing. In return Tom could 'check out' books (and even keep some) to his heart's desire. After a few days of perusing the selection, Tom was convinced that the reason why there was never any people (other than the odd shifty patron that initially looked at the little boy almost hungrily before Mr. Burke shouted at them) was because this was an occult bookstore. It only made Tom love the place more because the occult was for the strange and unusual, and those things were also the things one needed to be to join the circus.

And Tom still dreamed of acrobats flipping through the air, of giant elephants and large crowds cheering. He dreamed of an old man that had dark wayward eyes named Marvolo who coaxed snakes perform feats alongside a young boy, relishing in the memory of a woman that linked them together.

Even so, perhaps this odd library doesn't have anything to do with the larger workings of the story. After all, we all know a shady place or two that we may or may not frequent on an infrequent basis. That's just life. Maybe it's not an odd bookstore/library. Maybe it's that nice Italian joint that might be a front for the Mafia, but you still go there because their calzones are to die for. You would valiantly ignore the firearms under their shirts and aprons because really, the prices are dirt cheap and the guns might just be for show for all you know, and no I don't know anything Mr. Officer, I had no idea there was a dead body in the dumpster, I was only here for the pizza!

Still, maybe there is something relevant about this not-library to the grand scheme of this story.

Like the door at the back of the bookstore.

Tom almost didn't see it if it wasn't for the draft that made the pages of not-paper flutter slightly. It was painted black and was designed in such a way that it blended in with the rest of the wall. Even so, now that he had noticed it, it was impossible to miss. Curiosity, ever prevalent in young boys no matter how genius (actually scratch that, especially if they're a young genius with a wayward understanding of the world), washed over Tom as he neared the ridiculously ornate silver handle. A kind of invisible electricity tingled at his finger tips, welcoming, beckoning...

"Squawk!" came a loud noise on his right.

The orphan quickly retracted his hand away, his head snapping to the source of the sound. It was a parrot sitting in a rusted cage, flapping its wings fervently at the young boy in agitation. Tom's eyes were wide as the rather large bird squawked at him again, this time speaking words.

"No Mudbloods! No Mudbloods!"

Now, up until this point Tom had no idea that birds could talk, so he couldn't be faulted for focusing more on the fact that the parrot was speaking rather than the words themselves. Even so the repetition of the phrase was oddly echoing in his mind, even when Mr. Burke shouted at his bird which seemed to flap its wings harder, shouting its phrase louder.

Admittedly spooked, Tom backed away from the door and its feathered guardian. Once he stepped away the bird quieted down and tucked its head back into its body in a resting pose. The small child put a bookcase worth of distance between him and the parrot, peering in alarm at the now silent thing that had shouted the odd phrase at him. Another patron sneered at Tom as he walked past, the bird silent as he opened and closed the door, the other side appearing to be another section of the shop.

A little put out by the fact that he had been snubbed by a bird and deciding to leave that mystery for another day, he bade the apologizing shop owner a farewell and began his long trek back to the orphanage. Within his head, the odd word that the parrot used rang out at him.

Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood.

Confusion lined the pale face of the young boy, dark eyes searching for something unseen from within. It was definitely a derogatory phrase, that he could pick out immediately. Saying that someone had mud in their blood was not a nice thing to do the last time he checked, but what did such a name mean? As far as he knew, Tom bled the same crimson red as the next bloke. No brown to dictate any mud running through his veins. Was this 'mudblood' name the reason why Mr. Burke used to sneer at him so? Why he still did when his back was turned and thought Tom didn't notice?

At first Tom had though it was because of his ragged appearance, but then again the entire shop, including the owner and its infrequent patrons, were all shabby as well. Then he thought it was his age, but if the store had nocturnal wards, then obviously age was not the issue. That left whatever this 'mudblood' thing was. If the other shabby dressed patrons could pass through the door, but not him, then the issue laid with Tom and Tom alone and whatever this 'mudblood' thing was. And this 'mudblood' thing, something important enough to Mr. Burke and the patrons to repeat to the point where the damn avian picked it up, was one of those attributes that Tom had. It felt almost reminiscent of the rest of the names he had been called.

Obviously the bird had a rather limited intelligence and had picked up enough to put words to certain people or attributes, and had used that knowledge to speak up whenever a 'mudblood' approached. It couldn't have generated the word on its own, so it had to have heard the phrase from its owner over and over again until something clicked.

Because that's the thing about parrots. They like to repeat what they hear.

AN:

Oni: And that's all for now, folks!

Tom: If you so happen to enjoy this mess, please Follow, Favourite, And Review. And if you have any crazy suggestions on what Tom Riddle should encounter or do, please do so.

Oni: And I will see you next time (which will probably be in a few days), My Pretties!