Chapter 1: Promises.
"I shall leave, then."
Tom Riddle Senior's eyes met a pair of fuming, defiant little ones.
"Connie. You are barely nine years old. Where will you go?"
"Far away." The girl replied, green eyes flashing. "I will take Tom and go far away."
Her father sighed a long suffering sigh. This happened to be an argument thrown back and forth relentlessly, from the moment Constance had learned of her brother's whereabouts.
"Come here, Connie."
Clad in her small nightgown, curls undone down her back, Constance hesitantly walked towards her father. Her arms were bound in a knot as insolent as her voice, but her tiny frame was not very daunting.
The older man hoisted her and placed her on the bed, then he took her small hand in his own.
"Connie," he started, "You cannot care for Tom as you do." He stated. He knew very well, the onslaught of "ifs" and "buts" that were soon to follow, and he halted them with a commanding hand.
"I have explained to you, who Tom is, and where he came from." His voice was exhausted, "He is not family, Constance."
"He is my brother." She snapped back.
"No," her father retaliated. "He is someone who was born from dark, dark magic. Connie, we gave Tom away because he was not normal."
Constance pulled her hand out of her father's.
"You gave him away because you did not love him!"
Tom's eyes widened. This was a truthful claim, but the fire in his daughter's voice made the truth seem dirty. He gathered her struggling hand back in his.
"Of course, I do not love him. Tom is not family." He repeated, firmly. It hurt him to see her daughter's eyes tear up. He did not like crushing her childish beliefs, but he had to explain to her, the reasons and circumstances. These happened to be the few things Tom Riddle believed in.
"He…is still…my brother." Constance choked out between sobs.
Tom shook his head, the convincing proved harder than he thought.
"No, he is only your half-brother, by blood only." An annoyed edge started creeping into his voice. "We cast him out by choice."
"He is only two years old!" Her voice was now raised, "You sent a baby to live in that place!"
Tom's handsome eyes flashed back at her, "That should be none of your concern, Constance. What happens to that witch's baby, happens. You cannot, and will not interfere."
These words pointedly marked the end of the girl's accusations. Tom dropped her hand, and stalked out, not sparing another glance at his crying child.
Constance Riddle awoke early the next morning.
The lass tiptoed around her parent's silent room. She could barely contain her excitement as she pulled on her shoes hastily. She was going to see her baby brother today, whether her father liked it or not.
In another one of their screaming matches, Tom had unwittingly let slip the name of the orphanage that housed Tom Marvolo Riddle. The possibility of kidnapping and getting lost hung gloomily on her head, but she still meekly braved the dangers. After that fateful day, she snuck out as often as possible to pay little Tom visits.
People eyed the little girl as she strode purposefully down the streets. Constance was hesitant, but it surprisingly had taken only a bit of prodding and asking for her to be directed to Wool's orphanage. And then she had thoroughly memorized the path, her legs carried her there of their own will.
Constance's spine crawled as she looked up at the imposing building. To think that her baby brother was caged in there! Regardless of the hell she would get for her doings when she went back home, Constance entered the doorway, and tried her best to ignore the usual questioning gazes of the women inside.
Mrs. Cole, a plump matron with large eyes and a stiff lip watched the evidently resolute lass stroll the halls, trying her best to look fixed. She did not understand why she came week after week, looking for the sullen little boy, her mood almost cheerful.
She eventually sighed and beckoned the girl over.
"Looking for Tom?" Her voice was as devoid of warmth as her eyes. Constance nodded jerkily, a smile pulling at her lip as the matron asked her to follow.
Mrs. Cole led her down a long hallway, into a door that held something akin to a playpen. A morose woman sat in a corner, her nose in a book, and the chatter of children filled the gloom.
"Search." Mrs. Cole said simply, and then left.
Constance's eyes flitted around the corners, the walls. She knew she would find Tom huddled in some small dark space, trying to hide away. Constance walked over to a table with two feet protruding from underneath it.
She peered into the space and was greeted by a pair of thin, short arms thrown around her neck.
"Connie!" Tom breathed, as he successfully cut off her own. She wrapped her arms around his middle, her heart aching as his sharp ribs pressed against her fingers.
With some coaxing and babbling, she pulled him away, retrieving a box that Tom lunged for. Connie tried her best to smile as sadness overtook her. How could they not feed their babies enough?
She patted his soft curls as he wolfed the food down.
"How have you been?" She whispered. Tom looked up at her, and for a moment Constance wished he did not have all of his father's features.
"Good." He mumbled, clearly lying.
Constance eyed him. He was not going to tell her so she was going to make him. This was how it had always been. She had to devise a plan to get him to stop hiding his injuries and illnesses.
"Bad." She replied dourly.
"Good!" Tom insisted. She sighed.
"Tell me who did what, Tommy."
He shook his head, crying out "Good!" again.
She grabbed his arm and he winced pulling it away. Eyes wide, Constance pulled his sleeve up. Dark stripes lay on his pale skin, the result of being held harshly. The handprint did not belong to a child.
Constance grit her teeth, but said nothing. She looked at her half-brother, and her heart broke all over again.
He was only two years old.
A two year old's eyes should not look so lightless. His voice should not be so small, his gaze perpetually downcast. There was no healthy pink tint in his cheeks. He was pale. So pale, pale all over, as though only a few pints of blood resided in him.
Silently, Constance cast the now empty box aside, and pulled Tom into her arms. Like most children he did not struggle to get away, but leant against her, touch starved.
"You will go?" he mumbled in her hair. And Constance wanted to say no so badly. She wanted to tell him she will be here, she always will be. But her voice broke as did her heart as she choked out, "Yes."
Tom simply nodded. He didn't put up a restraint. He didn't ask her not to. He did not grab onto her. He never did. The awful place had sucked more than just the life out of him.
"But I will come back, Tommy." She promised. "I always do, don't I?"
He sniffled. And she realized he was crying. She held him tighter. Tom almost never cried.
"Just wait for me."
The child nodded again. "Fast." He whispered.
"As fast as I can."
Tom Riddle paced furiously in his study.
What had he not tried? From gentle wordings to threats and lashings, there seemed to be not one method effective enough to keep the girl away from the vermin child. He had only wanted to cut off all connections that he had whatsoever from the witch who had tainted his life. He could not understand why his daughter made it so difficult for him to do so.
A slight woman watched her husband wear himself out from an alarmed perch on a chair.
She jumped slightly as Tom's hand made contact with the wall.
"What do I do, Irene?"
His despair was evident in his actions and his words. His daughter was gone. He had a good idea of where she could be, but he didn't dare go. He never wanted to set eyes on that pale, sickly boy. And he was aware Constance would return.
She would come back, endure her punishments, then do it all over again.
He growled in frustration.
"Tom…" Irene started, then trailed off, not knowing what to say.
Tom dropped himself into a couch, tired and worried, but most of all, infuriated.
And that was the precise moment the couple heard their front door creak open, ever so slightly, then shut again. Tom shot out of his seat.
"Tom!" his wife cried out, racing after the man. He was radiating a murderous intent now, she had to protect her daughter.
"Constance!"
Constance stood sheepishly in the hallway.
The girl flinched, her arms wrapped around herself. She had seen her father angry, but this did not seem to compare. A shiver wound through her.
"Father…"
His eyes blazing, his self-control slipped. He struck the girl across her face. Irene shrieked.
Constance was ensconced in her mother's arms, doting fingers probing the mark reddening her cheek. Silent tears streaked down her face. She had never been hit before. A welling, prickly ball of something climbed up her throat.
Her hands were balled into fists tight enough that her nails broke her skin. Heart contracting, malignant sobs erupted from her lip. Irene stroked her hair, but the spiky emotion only seemed to multiply its thorns. Fists shaking, Constance released the bristly ball from her being.
A light shattered into darkness dangerously close to where Tom had been standing. He turned to look at her, and she took in his wide, dark eyes, all the blood had receded from his visage.
A spiteful satisfaction filled her to the brim as she caught the look on her father's face.
Horrified.
And yet Constance picked herself wearily out of her bed early one morning. She dressed and fastened her shoes, before she reached for the keys.
Her fingers closed around thin air.
She looked up startled. The hook was empty. Alarmed, she tried the handle. The door was tightly shut. Locked.
She ran around, trying each of the windows, but they did not budge.
Defeated, she slid down a wall, the startings of tears stinging her eyes.
"Constance."
He blood ran cold.
She gulped, slowly turning around, meeting her glowering father's eyes, which narrowed dangerously.
The girl felt her fists and throat swell with pressure. The force demanding, all its thorns stabbing her from the inside.
She turned on her heel and fled.
Constance lay cowering in her bed.
Her thoughts were haunted by the little, emaciated boy she had left behind.
Fast, Tom had pleaded.
Salty drops soaked her pillow. She had broken the promise that the little boy was clinging onto. She desperately hoped that the person who had inflicted those bruises on his hand was far away from him.
Far away.
It is where she wanted to take him. It is where she wanted to go herself.
Constance took to waking up early every morning. She would stand in front of the large, bolted door, dejection ringing in her ears. She would stand there until her mother would find her. Sometimes her father found her too. Those were the days she spent locked in her room, radiating something that made her books chatter in their shelves.
This became a routine before Constance realized it. She lived out her days gloomily, her half-brother in her thoughts. She wanted to see him. She wanted to tell him it was not her fault. She wanted to reassure him, but she was stuck. Her actions were monitored like a hawk's. She seemed to become a prisoner in her own house.
She realized how much her father hated Tom Marvolo Riddle. He readily hit her and confined her to keep them apart.
Months passed.
Constance was the most subdued she had been. Her Christmas came and went quietly. She went through the motions of daily life, while she missed the small boy dearly. Her parents celebrated New Year's Eve and she quietly acknowledged her brother turning three.
"Happy birthday, Tommy." She had mumbled, knowing full well that any birthday of his would be anything but happy.
The orphanage had never felt this cavernous.
Tom was used to being alone. He had learned to close himself off, hide himself, make himself small. He had lived like that ever since. He could only vaguely recall the days the young curly haired girl, green eyed, with the box of goodies used to visit him.
"Happy birthday," He said vindictively to his reflection.
At ten, Tom was just as withered as he had been when he was two. Gray skinned, dark eyes and hair standing out almost painfully on his thin, white frame. He stared balefully at his face.
At his father's face.
The mirror splintered under his gaze, then exploded.
'As fast as I can.'
What a blatant liar.
Tom shuffled over to his bed, crawling in, he drew his covers around him.
He had waited.
He waited eight years.
He had accepted that she too, was only a liar. Like everyone else. He shouldn't have let her matter, holding onto her promise for eight long years. He wanted to let go. He had grown weary of holding so tightly onto her words. He only wanted to get out of his personal hell.
Sleep started to claim the sickly boy. But he was not able to fall into a deep slumber, his body frigid, and his head hot. These damn people could not even provide proper blankets.
His teeth chattered at a set rhythm, his heart pounding, head spinning. Fever coursed through him, sending shivers rippling through his limbs. He would simply have to wait his illness out. Time seemed to be the best medicine.
Tom lay there wafting in and out of a fitful sleep, his figure gripped by tight, chilly fingers. As another shiver ripped through him, he cursed foully under his breath. Maybe this was the way he would eventually die…
And then, warmth. Blessed warmth.
The godforsaken fingers of ice released their hold on him, and he relished the warmth before registering the presence of the thick blanket weighing down on him. He bolted upright on the bed, ready to defend himself.
"Wherever did you learn such coarse language from, I wonder?"
Those green eyes, he remembered them.
His dark ones narrowed back at her.
"How did you come in?"
"This place has flimsy windows."
Tom studied her. She was taller. Her hair longer, her eyes remained the same, save for the darkness underneath them. She almost seemed as pale as him.
"What do you want?"
He watched surprise spread over her features, then she lifted a hand, and slapped her forehead lightly. Inwardly, she felt reminiscent, remembering the days when the little boy would throw himself at her, babble nonsense until she understood him. A strange pain pierced her as she watched the same boy look her over, eyes cold and calculating.
"If I would have known that this place would do this to you," she advanced, and Tom scuttled back, curling against himself as he begrudgingly let her pat his head as though he were two again. He was in no position to fight.
"Tom, I would have taken you away from here the first chance I would have gotten."
He scoffed.
"So why did you not?"
Her gaze fell, and Tom watched in astonishment as two drops fell out of her eyes.
"I am sorry." She whispered.
He did not know what she was apologizing for. For breaking her promise? For giving him false hope for eight, long years? For abandoning him here? He almost scoffed again.
"I am sorry for everything, Tommy," she clarified, observing the conflict flit across his face. "Everything."
A strained silence issued.
"Tell me you did not have a choice."
"What?"
"Tell me you did everything you could to get to me, but you did not have a choice. I might forgive you then."
Her expression softened.
"I did more than everything, Tom," she started." But there was one person who made everything so much harder."
"My father." Tom hissed.
"Our Father, Tom." Constance corrected him, sitting on his bed. "You will not believe how much he despised you…"
Tom's expression was a twisted mix of anger, resentment, and hatred. She could feel it rolling off him in waves.
"Where have you been?"
Constance heaved heavily. "Me? I have been stuck, Tom. Stuck in that awful house."
He took in her words, determining their purpose.
"How did you leave?"
My, he was quite the inquisitive child, she thought. Or perhaps he was only suspicious. That seemed like a plausible explanation.
"I ran away."
Constance wanted to hold him again, he looked so small, thin, so…dead. But she had a feeling the boy would lash out if she touched him.
"Are you leaving?"
His question was abrupt, it came out of the blue. But that was not the reason it left Constance speechless.
The familiar heartache shredded her. It was the same question. He only worded it more eloquently. For the first time, Constance's heart lifted.
"No,"
Tom's eyes shot up.
She held up a pacifying hand.
"I am not leaving, means I will come back. I have to go, eventually though."
She did not miss the flash of pain on his face.
And Constance leaned forward, very cautiously, gingerly she placed her hands on his shoulders. She wished he would fling his arms around her as he did when he was so little. But she persisted, gently easing his frame around her, his curls resting on her shoulder. He did not hold her back, as she rubbed him soothingly.
"I am still only seventeen, Tom." She explained. "Please give me some time while I build my life. I did get myself thrown out for this, you know." She lay her head on his, chuckling softly.
"Until then, Tom."
And he nodded against her shoulder, his arms finally coming to tentatively touch her own. He didn't resist. He didn't ask her not to. Her eyes flooded as she recalled how similar this situation was to the last time she left him.
It won't be the same. This time she will not leave her little brother to fend for himself.
She won't break any promises this time.
Reluctantly, she released him, and he dropped his hands immediately.
Constance then produced a battered box from the worn bag that accompanied her.
"I brought all your favorites." She declared, his expression at the sight of proper food still made her inwardly wince.
He looked up at her, her father's features, though sunken and pallor-ridden as they were, looked back at her. She cursed her father for passing down his appearances to both of his children. She prided herself on her possession of her mother's eyes. It was what set her and her father's glaring features apart.
He had something on his face that she almost dared to call a smile. Or it could have been an expression that came with raging fever.
Constance reached forward, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead and his neck. He swatted her hand away.
"Tommy. You are burning up."
"I am fine." He retorted right back.
She sighed. There were a lot of things that changed about her little brother, but he still hid his ailments. She wondered how she could get him to stop doing that,and a wave of dejavu overtook her.
She simply pulled his blankets tighter around him.
"Tommy please, let me help you." Her tone became pleading.
He looked back at her, and he was indeed smiling. She rejoiced for a moment, before she recognized the look as something her father wore when we wanted something. It wasn't a smile.
It was a warped smirk.
"On only one condition, Constance."
As much as she dearly missed the tiny voice calling out "Connie!" she didn't have the time to savor her name coming from him, urgently she asked, "What?"
"You will never…" His voice was dark, she gulped thickly.
"…ever call me Tommy again."
A/N:
The age of consent in the 1930's was actually 16, but i am keeping it 18, because well, apart from the universal age of consent, it also fits my timelines.
Bear with me. I need to get her character down, and Tom plays a big role in all this. (He is also my other favorite character, apart from Severus, of course.)
I hope this story is enjoyable so far. I didn't want to spend chapters explaining these events, so I wrote it up in one chapter. I hope it is not rushed.
Thank you for reading, and please review :)
nexumie
