Rays of sunlight reflected off of little Rachel Berry's new dress as she waltzed proudly arm-in-arm with her fathers towards her first ever concert on a stage in the city. Even at age eleven, Rachel understood clearly the recognition and importance that accompanied a solo vocal performance in New York, and the bright,unwavering smile that she wore on the crowded streets that day could have set fire to the entire city. Caught up in the midst of her glimmering excitement, she paid no notice to the tiny, colorful clusters of wildflowers that seemed to be blooming in her wake.
Upon catching sight of the moderately sized venue that Rachel was to be singing in, the abnormally tiny girl tore away from her fathers' grips and darted to the front of the building. Her fathers felt their hearts swell with pride at the sight of their only daughter beaming up at her own name on the flashing marquee above the ticket booth. Hiram, the more observant of the two, began to question his sanity as he watched the marquee grow noticeably brighter as Rachel gazed at it. His partner, Leroy, on the other hand appeared to notice nothing, so Hiram shrugged it off as a subtle trick that his mind was playing on him.
"Rachel, are you ready to go in?" Leroy called to the girl, who eagerly nodded and reached out once more for her fathers' hands.
As the trio glided through the foyer of the theatre, Rachel hummed quietly to herself while admiring the decor on the walls. Surrounding her were framed, glossy posters and collages of some her her biggest inspirations—Barbra Streisand and Patti Lu Pone to name a few. Some of the posters looked a bit worn, while some were very clearly mint condition. Many even had plaques and ribbons beneath them, signifying some kind of special honor. She couldn't help but wonder if there would be a photo of her on those walls one day, and maybe she would get a plaque as well.
On the South side of the room were more posters scattered around an exceedingly vivid painting of Dolly Parton. Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel caught sight of some odd movement. Was that painting winking at her?
Blinking, Rachel shoved the hallucination from her thoughts and followed her fathers into the green room. Before she had the chance to gape in awe at the splendid arrangement of makeup mirrors, shadows, rouges, and brushes that had been laid out for her, Rachel was whisked away into a hallway by some professional-looking people clad in black. The unfamiliar crew quickly led her by the hand through the backstage doors and onto a tiled, circular stage that vaguely reminded Rachel of the moon.
"Miss Berry, we're going to have you do a little sound check for us. The only people in the audience right now are your dads, and I want you to sing loud enough for them to hear you, okay? We're just going to run through the first number in your set, which is "Funny Girl". Just go stand on the little 'x' in the middle and wait for the booth to give you the signal to start." One of the female crew members rambled quickly, barely giving Rachel time to process her instructions.
Without waiting for a sign of confirmation, the woman gave Rachel a small push towards the center of the stage and sped off behind the curtains muttering strange commands into a tiny walkie-talkie. Rachel quickly scoured the stage tiles for the 'x' and found her place just as dozens of blinding lights illuminated the stage all at once, leaving her rubbing her eyes furiously and silently praying that the sudden onslaught of brightness was a technical error.
"Okay, we are ready to start the sound check." Somebody from the booth shouted as the opening chords for the song began to reverberate flawlessly throughout the theatre.
Rachel forced her eyes open and felt around in the air in front of her for the mic stand. She imagined that she looked quite odd flailing around blindly on the stage like that, but her vision was temporarily marred by the excruciating lights. She had to rely on her sense of touch for the moment. By the time Rachel was able to locate the microphone, her cue to begin singing was fast approaching. She frantically positioned the mic an acceptable distance from her mouth and took a deep breath before beginning to sing the song that she had been perfecting for years.
As she sang, her vision cleared, revealing a mahogany auditorium lined wall-to-wall with hundreds of puffy seats. In the very center sat her fathers, who were looking on in amazement as their young daughter belted out the chorus to "Funny Girl" with more emotional depth and force than most fully-grown performers were capable of. By the final verse of the song, Rachel felt tears budding in the corners of her eyes. She was so accustomed to succumbing to tears during solos that it felt like routine for her, but she could practically feel the pitiful stares boring into the back of her head from the crew members backstage. People who watched her become emotional when singing typically immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was upset, which would lead to a classic Rachel Berry storm-out. She just really disliked being interrupted and misunderstood.
Before she knew it, Rachel was effortlessly breathing out the last note of the song and gazing out into the audience to gauge her dads' reactions. As expected, they had risen on their feet and were clapping wildly, grinning proudly from ear-to-ear. Rachel began to giggle as she tried to give an overly professional curtsy and ended up tripping slightly, falling off of her mark on the stage. Recovering herself as quickly as possible, she looked out upon the rows of empty seats, trying to imagine a fully packed house. In the midst of the endless rows of deep brown, Rachel could have sworn she saw a flash of light grey. Training her eyes on that spot, she gasped as the grey mass suddenly flew from the seats to the stage, landing just inches from her feet.
Was that an... owl?
Meanwhile, in the tiniest of orphanages across the Atlantic Ocean, Tom Riddle sat pressed against the foggy window in his room, looking out into the yard where dozens of children were occupying themselves with a poorly organized game of tag. He refused to join the measly little children no matter how often his caretaker, Madame Fitch begged him to. Silly child's play was beneath him. He would much rather spend his time attempting to lure snakes to his window.
On this particular afternoon, Tom's focus was trained on a small garden snake slithering about near the wilted cabbage patch. Every time he whispered for the hissing creature to come to him, it would slither a bit closer before becoming distracted by the other children, who didn't pay it any mind. At some point, the snake finally found its way to the glass of Tom's window and was looking at the boy curiously. Tom smirked before sliding the panel open just enough for the snake to glide inside.
"Do you like it better in here?" Tom asked softly, stroking the snake's head.
The snake leaned into Tom's gentle touch and nodded in consent. Tom didn't flinch when the snake responded to his words, as he had gotten over the shock of being able to speak to snakes long ago when he had encountered an entire group of them in the garden and told them all to destroy the crops, which they happily obliged to do. Ever since, Tom had been fascinated with his odd connection with the snakes. He spoke to every single one he laid eyes on and never failed to receive a reply. They seemed to be drawn to him, as if he was one of their own kind.
"Maybe we should trade places." He whispered before turning his attention back onto the children outside.
"You can go wherever you want to, and I'm stuck in this ruddy old place."
Tom turned so that his back was against the cold window and scanned the all too familiar walls and floorboards of his room. Very few spots on the walls were devoid of a mysterious green mold, and those that were had been covered with tiny, bland paintings of flower pots, which Tom had long since vandalized with some spare ink and a quill that he had stolen from Madame Fitch's office. The floors were clear with the exception of a few scattered objects that Tom had taken from the other children. He took pride in having the ability to steal their things. He felt powerful; superior.
Setting the snake aside for a moment, Tom bent down and lifted one of the objects from the floor. It was a hideous cloth doll that he had torn from the grasp of one of the girls his age. The doll was so tattered and discolored that it may as well have been a rag, but the girl had held onto it dearly anyway. Tom had almost cackled with delight when he saw the dejected expression plastered on the girl's dirt-smeared face after he had stolen the nasty old thing, but he hadn't wanted to attract the attention of the nannies.
Outside, a few trickles of rain began to tap on Tom's window, swiftly becoming several drops before developing into a complete downpour. He watched as the sopping wet children began to squeal and cover their heads with their hands as they darted inside. He laughed at their fear of being touched by the silky hands of the rain. If he had been outside when the water had begun to fall, he would have spread his arms wide at his sides and basked in the feeling of the rain soaking through his clothing and enveloping his body. Rain was one of the few things that he looked up to. It reminded him of power. Rain possessed the ability to drive people away, flood entire cities, and freeze into a peculiar substance that can lock people into their homes for weeks. Tom couldn't help but be envious of all of that power.
Amongst the shrill sounds of children shrieking in the corridor outside of Tom's room was the unmistakeable wail of Madame Fitch shouting for the corridor to be cleared. Tom, curious as to the urgency in her wavering voice, stood up and crossed the floor to the door, pressing his ear firmly to the hardwood.
"Children, off to your beds! Quickly now! We have a visitor!" She shrieked desperately.
Tom gasped and did a double take, nearly smacking his head on the door in the process. There were rarely visitors at Wool's Orphanage. It was nestled deep within a silent alley, and nobody ever paid it any attention. The Head Mistress of the place was far too poor to take out even the simplest of ads in the paper, so very few people had even heard of the place, let alone held any desire to visit.
Working quickly, Tom gathered all of his stolen things around his room and tossed them into his wardrobe, which was empty with the exception of a hole-ridden robe and a worn pair of socks. After slamming the wardrobe doors closed, he reached for the snake and tossed it lightly out the window and into the pouring rain, whispering a brief goodbye as he did so. Taking a deep breath, he returned to his spot by the window sill and sat with his elbows on his knees, waiting for the hallway to clear so that his caretaker could let the visitor in. Tom normally didn't worry about clearing his room of evidence of his obsession with snakes and thievery, but what if the visitor was another doctor?
Over the past few months, Madame Fitch had been sending in doctor after doctor to examine Tom's 'unusual behavior'. Tom, of course, wasn't going to allow himself to be taken into any type of institution. He gave every doctor his best 'normal little boy' appearance and played the whole thing off as if Madame Fitch was making everything up in an effort to get Tom out of her sight. The doctors would then wish Tom the best of luck and show themselves out, too disgusted with the woman to allow her to walk with them. It was always perfect so long as Tom was able to keep up the act.
After what felt like hours of waiting, Tom heard heavy sets of footsteps outside of his door. He sucked in a deep breath and watched as the door creaked open at a painfully slow rate, revealing Madame Fitch and an oddly clothed old man, who looked as if he hadn't cleaned his stringy hair in months. Tom scowled to himself, sure that this man was just another doctor looking to inspect his sanity.
"Tom, I am Albus Dumbledore."