Chapter Text
Tom Riddle looked out over the sodden gray streets of London flying past the window of the cab. Tourists ran for shelter from the heavy storm, clutching packages and scurrying around like so many meaningless ants building a shelter only to have it trodden underfoot and destroyed. Shadowy green raindrops spattered the glass in front of him, and he longed to curse them away. If only he were seventeen already. The thin stick of wood that was his wand beckoned to him from inside the beat up trunk beside him, but Tom made no move to reach for it. He knew there would forever be a dark blot next to his common muggle name if he were convicted of performing magic outside of school before the age of seventeen. Especially if Albus Dumbledore, the old coot, had anything to say about it.
Wheels ground to a halt as the cab pulled up in front of a tall and dreary building, dragging the young man away from his ponderings. To most people the building was a shabby-but-clean orphanage made of hard lines and hard knocks for those unfortunate enough to end up staying within its walls. For Tom, it was a prison that he was confined to for the next three months.
He gathered his battered trunk and towed it behind him, shoving as little money as possible over to the heavy-set driver before climbing out of the cab and watching it drive away. The tires splashed muddy water onto his trousers. Tom scowled and turned away, the sickly yellow light of the lamp posts reflecting off of his dark hair, already hanging wetly down his forehead and the back of his neck. He glanced back at the retreating cab, and his handsome face took on a cold and calculating look. Someday… But this was not the time, nor the place for such musings. Tom squared his shoulders, turned on his heel, and walked into the orphanage with his chin up and his mood black as the storm.
Mrs. Cole, the matron, opened the door for him and scowled.
“You come back like the plague, you do.” Her sharp features were emphasized in the evening shadows. She had never liked him. “Well, come in. No use standing out there in the rain and getting soaked.”
“I’ll be returning to my old room,” he said coldly. “After this summer you will not be seeing me again.”
She gave him a hard once-over. “No skin off my nose as long as you look legal. Once you’re gone it’ll free up a bit more space. Be safe though, got it? You don’t want to get caught out there before you’re eighteen.” A bit of concern may have been hinted in her voice, but not near enough for her to try to keep him in this hole.
Tom gave a stiff nod and continued on his way, a shabby maid scuttling past like a rat as he strode forward. What filth.
Almost nothing had changed since his previous summer here. Mrs. Cole was still in charge, ruling with one iron fist and clutching a bottle of brandy in the other. Hard and thin little boys still stayed in rooms with hard and thin little beds. Plain, patched-up little girls still wore plain, patched-up little dresses. All of their lives were pitiful and meaningless here, spent trying to claw their way to the top of the totem pole in a dump, and everyone learned quickly that you learned to be tricky and cunning or you paid for your ignorance. So dirty. So worthless. I will show them what real power looks like.
Tom made his way up several rickety staircases until he came to his own room, plain and bare. The shadows danced sinisterly on the gray walls when he opened the door, but Tom paid them no heed. He had conquered far more than shadows. Instead, he let the lamp flicker on and set down his trunk with a thump. The room was not dusty--no doubt someone of lesser rank than he had claimed it while he had been gone. They would be punished.
With absolutely no desire to leave his room and associate with the muggles, Tom was left with little to do but unpack his trunk. His few articles of clothing went into the empty wardrobe, along with several books that Tom carefully placed on the top shelf. His school books, quills, and homework went onto the desk--one of the few that was supposed to be available for all. Tom had quietly snuck it in here one night last summer, and no one dared refute his ownership of it. Finally, he took out his wand. Thirteen inches, yew and phoenix feather, it was his only true companion. It alone could not betray him, because he controlled it utterly. If only the muggles would realize that they were worth less, even, than this, they might yet learn some respect for him. Tom pocketed it. He had already taken a step on the path to immortality, and once he came of age in the winter he would never be under anyone’s authority ever again. Just a few more months.
***
The girl had long dark hair and light eyes shadowed with sadness. Many might have called her beautiful had she not looked so morose and road-weary. As it was, people turned away from her red-rimmed eyes and tearstained cheeks and tried to ignore her rumpled clothes and the carpetbag she carried. Clutched in the girl’s hands was a single book--a journal.
Seemingly in contrast with the girl’s melancholy state, the cover of the journal had been decorated with bright, abstract designs and colors. A name had been printed near the top in careful calligraphy. Lucy Pevensie.
The sad girl had not yet brought herself to open the journal. She knew that her little sister would never write in it again.