Work Text:
In the bustling streets of 1930s London, Tom Riddle, a mere five-year-old (but he puffed his chest and kept his scowl to look older) was toddling along the rocky pavement.
It was a Sunday, Tom was supposed to walk back home from church. But it was a day when the city seemed to exhale all the pent-up energy of the week, everything seemed so much more exciting, Tom couldn’t resist. Clad in a navy blue sailor suit and a matching hat, Tom tried to blend into the crowd, his young eyes wide, cheeks cold from the autumn air.
The streets were alive with the clamour of vendors and the chatter of passersby. He observed everything keenly, noting the details with an intense furrow under his little hat.
People gathered around red tabletops, adults were browsing the shops, while the children were grouped in small circles. Tom stood on his tiptoes, trying to catch a better glimpse, they were playing with colourful marbles, it looked like good fun.
Having a marble for himself sounded like a grand idea!
When one strayed close to his feet he didn’t hesitate to pick it up.
“Hey! That’s mine!” An older bossy girl with pigtails came storming and snatched the pink marble from his hand.
Tom would have pushed her back but the girl was taller and she had an ugly scrunch on her face, he hissed and ran to another circle of children.
This time, boldly snatching one marble rolling on the ground. It was yellow and shone like a small son, Tom loved how heavy it felt in his hand.
“Hey! What are you playing at!” Another boy roughly pushed him unto the ground making his bum hurt!
Tom’s hands were shaking, but he kept one outstretched, “I want the marble!”
One of the boys stuck his tongue out. “Well you can’t have it! It’s mine!” The other children laughed and closed their circle Ensuring Little Tom was barricaded off.
Tom huffed under his hat, his blood boiling, he closed his eyes and pressed his fists together, wishing and wishing.
Sometimes when he wished things hard enough, they happened. Because he was special and deserved good things. If no one gave it to him, Tom learnt he had to take it for himself, or wish it, will it to existence.
Something heavy fell into his hand and he opened both his little fists to find two large white marbles materialising-as if by magic- in his palm.
Little Tom smiled in satisfaction, he rushed to the group of huddled children, showing off his new better marbles, “I have my own marbles now! I want to play!” But none of the children were letting him in.
There was a familiar pain, like the slice of the butter knife, but in Tom’s chest. He wasn’t bleeding, but it hurt all the same. He felt it whenever someone ignored him or when Mrs Cole would close his bedroom door without dinner or a when a set of new parents met him and still refused to take him home.
It made his skin hot and his eyes sting and his breathing laboured…and how he wanted things to burn… to tear things apart…
“It’s okay.” a boy suddenly said beside him, wearing the oddest garment he had ever seen. Large blue pants that sagged around his slim waist and large mustard long sleeved shirts. He had shaggy black hair that looked unkempt and unwashed for Sunday. Green eyes round like coins. Tom blinked at the boy, unsure who or why he was there.
“I’ll play with you.” the boy offers, eying his large marbles.
Tom narrowed his eyes, he held the marbles closer to his chest. “These are mine.”
“I know.” the boy said.
“Do you have marbles of your own?”
The boy opened the palm of his empty hands. “Seems not.”
“Well how are you going to play if you dont have one?”
The strange boy eyed Tom’s marble. “You have two, give me one and we'll play together.”
“You can’t take my marbles!” Tom retorted.
“I wouldn’t take them, just borrowing so we could play– don’t you want to play?”
Tom eyed the group of cheering children with confused yearning, he stared at his perfect marbles. With great difficulty, conceded and handed the strange boy one marble. “But if you take it I’ll cut your hand off.” Tom warned.
“Okay.” the boy said simply.
“Do you know how to play?” Tom asked, trying to draw a circle on the ground with his shoe, mimicking the others.
The strange boy shrugged. “It cant be that hard, with a pretty marble?”
“How can we play if you dont know how to play?” its irrevlvant that Tom doesnt know either.
The strange boy didn't seem perturbed. “We could make our own rules and play a different game!”
They decided their game would be to hit each other’s marbles and later try to spin the marble within the circle. Tom was reluctant to follow the strange boy’s suggestion, but he couldn't deny, it was fun to watch the marble go and Tom was good at the game, he won as much as he lost.
“My name’s Harry by the way.”
“Tom.” he replied simply. He had been so engrossed in his game he turned around and realised the crowd had dispersed. His stomach was also beginning to hurt.
“I need to go.” Tom decided suddenly, trying to bury his panic. He snatched and pocketted the two marbles and dashed back at the larger road. He remembered passing by the few shopes but he doesnt remember which corner or turn he should take.
“Are you in need of some assistance, their lad?” A gruff old man asked.
He was dressed in shabby clothing with missing tooth in his grin. The matrons would warn the children about them. “Strange men kidnap little boys to be locked up and force them to work hard labour.”
Tom stepped back and ran as fast as he could, trying to hide in the crowd. He sniffed the air.
He lingered near a bakery, eyes closed for a moment, savouring the scent, the warmth of the oven's heat brushing against his face.
His stomach growled.
“Are you hungry?”
Tom jumped in surprise. And surely enough, there was Harry, standing beside him, in the same ghastly garments.
“Were did you come from?”
“I can run fast too.” Harry says smugly. “Besides you left so abruptly, just as I was winning!”
“Shouldn’t you go back to your mother?” Tom asked not too kindly.
The boy’s face fell. “I dont have a mother– I have Aunt Petunia, but well, she’s not– she doesn’t look for me.” Harry searches the crowd, “I bet she doesnt even know I am here.”
“Where is your house?” Tom asked before he could help himself.
Harry shrugged. “Far away from here.”
Tom’s stomach growls again.
Tom eyed the loaves of bread displayed behind the window again. He needed that bread, and he was willing to do whatever it took to get it.
Tom took a deep breath, focusing intently on the loaf of bread. He wished with all his might. Come to me. To his amazement the loaf of bread seemingly detached itself from the display and floated gently into Tom's waiting hands.
“You just– but Tom, you can’t steal!” Harry admonished, eying the bread closely.
"But I'm hungry," he protested, his voice barely above a whisper. "Nobody's going to miss just one loaf."
Harry frowned, but Tom heard another low grumble and Harry’s cheeks blushed red.
Without a word, Tom broke the bread in half, the crust crackling softly under his fingers. Hesitantly, because he had never done this before, he handed one half to Harry, who accepted it with a grateful, if confused, smile. They sat down on the dusty pavement, enjoying their small meal.
*
They chatted a bit. Harry spent a lot of his days out doors, and he described his house and the chores he sometimes had to do.
“Your house sounds like mine.” Tom admitted bitterly. “All the chores and nothing to do inside.”
Maybe it was the cold, but the two boys began to huddle closer, shoulder’s touching.
“Why do you dress funny?” Tom asked.
Harry shrugged. “It’s all I got to wear.”
A shadow loomed over them. Tom froze, recognising him as the man from before, and this time he took a glance at Tom and then quickly at the crowd.
“You aren’t alone are ye lad?” His voice sounded suspiciously eager.
A surge of fear gripped Tom, his heart pounding in his chest. Before the man could touch him, Harry swiped his feet and sent a cloud of dirt flying into the man's eyes. The man staggered back, cursing. Harry grabbed Tom’s hand, “Run!”
They ran as fast as their legs could carry them, weaving through the crowded streets.
Panting and laughing with the thrill of their escape, they decided to walk along the pavement, Tom recognised it and begrudgingly thought it was time he found his way back to the orphanage.
It was at least better then the stray hands of strange men.
But he wished he didn’t have to go back, he was having so much fun in London. With Harry, especially.
Wherever Harry came from, it seemed no better than the orphanage. Tom recalled the white marbles in his pockets and thought, what harm would it be to have one more treasure to keep? It would be a nice excuse as to why he was late too. The orphanage could starve them and punish them, but they were obligated to give them a place to stay.
“Why don’t you follow me?”
Harry hesitated.
“It isn’t much,” Tom conceded, personally he hated the orphanage, “but we can keep playing with my marbles?”
Harry contemplated, “You think I can?”
“I said you can!” Tom said confidently.
“Where would I sleep?”
“You can share my bed for tonight.” Tom offered and there was a foreign warm feeling in his chest, he was eager to keep it. It felt nice. He liked letting Harry play with his marbles. Liked sharing his bread. Sharing things with Harry was fun.
Harry’s face broke into a smile, “Okay.” he said slowly. They walked with a lighter step, coming up with more ideas to play. Tom would have to teach Harry some manners of course, but for the first time in a while he was eager to return to the orphanage.
The matron was waiting by the door. A dark scowl on her face.
Tom was ready with an excuse. “You won’t let a new boy go hungry, I was helping him find home but he doesn’t have one, he has to stay here.”
The matron looked at him, puzzled. "What nonsense are you talking about?" she asked sharply.
Tom turned around, expecting…
But Harry was gone.
Where did Harry go? Why had he disappeared? Tom ran back outside, the streets were long and empty.
“Harry?” Tom called out, dejected and confused.
“Tom Riddle you come back here right now or there shant be breakfast for you either!”
Reluctant, but fearing more reprimand, Tom did as he was told. He trudged to his room with heavy steps, his mind in a daze shock.
He sat on his thin cot and stared out the window of his dreary room. From his pocket, he pulled out two white marbles. Gripping it so hard, his hands hurt.
They were real. Harry was real.
He was sure of it.
“I’ll find you.”