"If the Romans had been obliged to learn Latin, they would never have found time to conquer the world."
— Heinrich Heine
1939, Wimple Street, London
The old city was buzzing and bustling like a disturbed beehive, the anticipation of war heavy in the air, and the whole of London's atmosphere even gloomier than usual—even on that fine, warm summer evening when it all started.
However, the old Professor's residence somehow seemed invincible to the overall unease, still being a citadel of Tradition and Order—a sort of refuge, if you will.
That, of course, didn't mean that the venerable Professor was now much more hospitable than, say, thirty years before. In spite of his lovely and intelligent wife's efforts to make their house a regular "salon" or at least a place from which people wouldn't flee after five minutes from entering it, he still preferred the company of books and tape-recorders, to that of living human beings (with the only exception for his lady).
That evening was originally NOT meant to be an exception to the rule, however.
Yes, that particular evening was quite pleasant and calm—at least indoors—and there was new material to be studied, and thoughts of a hot cup of tea and delicious raspberry tarts just made by his lady were all the old English gentleman could think about at the moment he heard a loud knock at the door.
"Who the deuce could be tapping at this hour, Eliza? I'm positively not expecting anyone tonight!"
"Language, darling! I'm coming down!"
"If that's again one of those impertinent reporters, throw him out! Or, rather, tell him I'll do it myself if they don't stop bothering me!"
"My love, I guess hardly any reporter in all London is not aware of the welcome you usually bestow upon them!"
When the mistress of the house opened the doors, she was rather puzzled to see an uninvited visitor. He was by no means an impertinent newsmaker, nor a nosy neighbor, but a tall, unknown, dark-haired boy, whose blue eyes were now gazing at her in a rather creepy way.
To be more exact, the stranger was no longer a boy, as he looked about thirteen or slightly less, though his gaze was that of a grown-up's. He was decently dressed, though after glancing at him Eliza thought at once that the visitor's background was closer to her own than to her husband's. However, the boy's posture (to Eliza, he still was a mere boy) was oddly solemn and somewhat arrogant, and therefore didn't match at all with his clothes.
Fortunately, Eliza had never been an easily intimidated person (or else how could she possibly have lived so long with her husband?) so instead of having shivers down her spine, or at least the decency of showing any signs of uneasiness, she stepped forward and gave the stranger a warm, welcoming smile.
"Hello, my dear! Do you have an appointment with Professor Higgins?"
The boy stiffened, and put up his chin in defiance.
"No, I haven't, but I wish to see him."
"That's rich, lad! Are you sure the Professor wishes to see you?"
"He will, if he learns of what I have to propose."
A random person would suspect nothing, but Eliza's trained ear quickly spotted a barely distinct London accent.
Her native accent.
God, had she been that ambitious when entering the same house for the first time all those years ago? Or that self-assured?
Maybe yes and maybe no…
But that hungry longing coming straightly from the depths of the soul—yes, she recognized it immediately.
Another candidate for lordship, to be sure.
"Well, Jack; you must be either too bold or too stupid, if you enter the Professor's house with this high-and-mighty manner of yours!"
The blue eyes became livid, but when they met her green ones, the anger in them came to a halt.
"I won't be called stupid by the likes of you!"
"And I won't be frightened away by the likes of you, Jack! This attitude won't get you anywhere, mark my words! You want to take lessons from my husband, don't you? So behave yourself and mind your manners. By the way, Wool's or Riverside's?" With that phrase Eliza's stern expression changed into both a merry and conspirative one.
The young visitor was evidently caught off guard, perhaps for the second time of his life.
"Wool's," he answered with a blank face. "And I'm not Jack. My name is Tom Riddle," he added somewhat morosely.
"All right, Tom, do come in, then!" And Eliza took his hand (at which act the strange boy flinched but said nothing) and led him to her husband's study