1936
.
.
Tom finished his books by the first week of the new year, distracted enough by the new reading material that he'd almost forgotten to observe the insignificant date that was his ninth birthday. He'd gotten an extra egg at breakfast and a slice of butter cake at dinner (once you'd had margarine cake you quickly realised why butter cake was considered a treat), but other than that, it was a day just like any other.
He didn't count his new-ish thick woollen jumper as a real birthday gift because everyone else had gotten one, courtesy of the Ladies' Aid Society of St. John's Anglican Church in Crawley. He knew this from perusing Mrs. Cole's appointment book, and he also knew that a Mrs. Helen Granger had donated twenty-five pounds in cash "for a special Christmas supper", according to the receipt. As Tom was familiar with the distinctions between Special and merely special, he could tell that their Christmas dinner had been neither. The only difference he saw was everyone being allowed second helpings that day, and Mrs. Cole's restocked gin drawer.
Mrs. Cole's vices made Tom impatient for the day when he wasn't so young and scrawny and could get away with things like extortion and blackmail without adults laughing at him or pinching his cheeks. He was self aware enough to know that nine-year-olds lacked all semblance of physical presence that an adult would ever respect or fear. He could heighten the effect of his presence through a careful application of universe bending willpower with other children, but it was more difficult with adults for some reason.
Tom spent the rest of the year—when he wasn't making his way through the collection of donated books in the reading room—testing the limits of his abilities. It was an educational experience, on his part and the other orphans', and he was pleased that they'd been taught well enough to remember that The Rules applied to everyone except Tom Riddle, and going to the matron would result in nothing but scolding and corporal punishment for telling stories.
Because how would Tom have made Clem Gilford slip in the shower when he'd been brushing his teeth in the boys' loo with three other people there too? Tom was such a good boy; he'd received the local academic achievement award every year since he'd begun primary school. This year he'd even shaken the mayor's hand during the annual Empire Day assembly. (It wasn't very nice; the mayor had clammy palms and stale tobacco on his breath.)
Tom was a certified Good Boy.
It was with the intent to maintain this reputation that he encountered Mrs. Helen and Miss Hermione Granger again that December.
They arrived in the same motorcar, splashing through a wet and windy winter drizzle. They brought boxes of clothes and bedding, jars of fruit preserves and homemade biscuits made by church ladies. Mrs. Helen wore a shearling car coat and driving gloves of fine kidskin lined in rabbit fur, and Hermione had on a navy blue wool coat with shiny brass buttons and thick white stockings under her Mary Janes.
Hermione caught his eye as soon as Mrs. Cole was distracted, and made her way over to him.
Tom lifted his brow, watching the agitated way she wrung her hands and smoothed the wrinkles out of her coat.
"I-I'm sorry," she said, swallowing harshly and struggling to meet his calm gaze. "I called you rude, said you weren't a nice person... which I thought you weren't for the longest time. But I reflected about it, and, well, did some research, and it was unfair of me to judge you like that. Nor was it my place to do so. I want to apologise for my behaviour from before."
It was the most eloquent apology Tom had ever heard in his life. Although to be fair, most of the apologies directed at him came in the form of blubbering half-sentences, punctuated with tears. He would have enjoyed them more if they hadn't been so... unsanitary.
"Research," said Tom blankly. "Is this about your idea of common decency?"
"No!" said Hermione. "I mean—yes? I do think we should be civil to one another, but I changed my mind for other reasons."
"Well, go on."
"I researched the living conditions of orphans in Great Britain," she began, "historical to present day. And how rapid industrialisation shifted the country's economic structure from farming, with urban migration patterns due to—"
Tom cut her off, his voice cold. "Are you reciting an essay?"
"Um," Hermione said, chewing her lip and not looking at him. "Don't you want to hear the rest?"
"No. I can read it for myself."
Hermione fiddled with the brass buttons of her coat. Tom folded his arms, an unflattering impression of the girl already solidifying in his mind. A well-meaning do-gooder, with an unshakeable belief in the inherent good of the human spirit. Someone whose personal experience of hardship went no further than going without red meat on Fridays.
"I just... I think you're different," Hermione said in a quiet voice. "Like I am. Not necessarily more grown up, or more clever. More... something. The other children at school wouldn't know what I was talking about, even if they cared. But you do—you understand, I mean. You're not afraid of big words."
Tom cocked an eyebrow. "It's called being better than everyone else, if that's what you're trying to say. That and the invention of steam engines is directly responsible for my being an orphan."
"You've read about it too!" Hermione beamed, sounding as if she'd skipped over what he'd said and clung onto only what she could comprehend, the historical trivia. She dragged over a carton of books. "I brought some books on the subject today, for you. And some military histories—you seemed interested in those last time. Here, look, Crimea in Retrospect, Chemical Warfare Tactics of Ypres, Skirmishes of the Second Boer War. I can tell you how hard it is to find good history books that aren't so horribly biased; they say history's written by the winners, so the only balanced ones are about British defeats or written by foreigners."
As tempted as he was by the thought of building his own library, a personal collection, Tom knew that nice things didn't come for free.
"Why do you care?" he demanded. "What's your interest in me?"
He willed his voice to carry an echo of his power, for the universe to give his lungs the reach and resonance of an orator in an amphitheatre, so that anyone in earshot would follow their natural urge to not only listen, but to obey. To cower before him.
Tell the truth.
His felt as if his blood were humming in his veins, his eardrums rattling from the pressure, his whole body tingling with power.
Hermione didn't cower. She swayed on her feet for a moment, blinking as the echoes of his will dissipated, before she planted them firmly on the ground and stared at him.
"What was that?" she asked, her expression suddenly thoughtful. "That was a very queer thing; have you any voice training? I've heard opera singers could shatter wineglasses with the right note, some sort of trick with sonic frequencies. But it takes years to learn and you're only nine or ten, your lungs aren't fully—Oh! I've seemed to have lost the point." Her eyes regained focus, and she faced him again. "I saw your name in the newspaper. You go to St. Mary's at Nine Elms, don't you? They posted your marks in the school notices section, and you were ranked top of our year in the Greater London Boroughs for the '35 to '36 school year. 'T.M. Riddle', that's you, isn't it?"
Tom made a face. Did this girl just come over to ask about his school records? "Are you here because you can't believe a random orphan got a good mark, so you wanted to see how he did it?"
"No!" Hermione cried. "I've never met anyone who got better marks than me. My parents had me tested a few months ago, and I'm in the top percentile for my age. Which means that you'd be up there too!" She gave him a wobbly smile. "I thought we could be friends."
"Wouldn't your parents be worried about you having friends in this place?" Tom asked, doubt colouring his voice.
He didn't know how parents worked, especially those of the social set who patronised (in every sense of the word) orphans. He assumed they were interested in sheltering their offspring from unsavoury influences, of which Wool's was rife. Mrs. Cole was an alcoholic embezzler. Most of the children in her charge were bastards and thieves, and every one of them who'd learned how to write could fill a sheet of paper, back and front and tiny script, with all the rude words and dirty street slang they knew. And used regularly.
"My parents are worried that I don't have any friends at all," said Hermione. "They said I spent all my time reading books instead of making friends, and they won't buy me any new books until I can prove I can socialise with people my age. I know we don't have anything in common, but we both like books, so I thought we could read them and talk about it. I imagine that's what friends do. Well, what I'd do if I had friends."
"I wouldn't know," Tom shrugged. "I try to limit my contact with everyone here. But I suppose we could be friends, if..."
"Yes?"
"How much money have you got?"
"I have to pay to be friends?" said Hermione, white-faced and appalled.
"You said you needed proof of friendship," Tom quickly pointed out. "I'll need to buy postage stamps and envelopes so you can show your parents letters from a friend. I promise I'll only write nice things in them. And you'll send me a parcel now and then; I prefer chocolate over boiled sweets, the orange chocolate bars if you can get them. Don't bother buying me anything with nuts."
"Is that all?" asked Hermione, getting over her shock. Tom could tell she was running his demands over in her mind.
"We could agree on a ratio of letters to gifts," suggested Tom. "And a delivery schedule. One letter a fortnight, one parcel for every four letters? I'll write you two pages, double-sided, at a minimum, but there's hardly anything at Wool's worth writing about, so it'll mostly be about school things and books."
"I suppose that'll do," Hermione mused, already perking up at the mention of books. "It's still rather mercenary of you to sell your friendship."
"Don't think of it as a sale. You can't put a price on a human being, of course," Tom said, giving her his charming Good Boy smile. "Think of it as a maintenance fee, or an investment."
Besides, he thought, it's not like you could actually afford to buy me.
"Well, alright," Hermione assented. She reached into her pocket and drew out a small velvet coin purse. "Let's see how much I have in here..."
In the end, Hermione gave him everything she had in her purse. Sixteen shillings and sixpence, the most money he'd ever had in his life. It was a small fortune by orphanage standards, where individual pennies were jealously guarded by anyone who had them. Three ha'pence was the value of a postage stamp to someone who lived as close to London as Hermione did; five or six pence was the price of a handful of pick and mix sweets, or a whole bar of chocolate. A shilling would buy a book brand new, or two to three second-hand novels from a booth at the Saturday vegetable market.
Tom did his best to hide the gleam of greed in his eyes.
Hermione pushed the small pile of coins over to Tom. "Don't tell my parents about this. And don't mention it in the letters, they might try to read the first couple to make sure it's not a trick."
"Of course not," said Tom, rolling his eyes. "I'm good at keeping secrets. I hope you won't have any trouble with keeping them yourself."
Hermione frowned. "I don't like keeping secrets from my parents. I've never had to keep secrets from them before."
"You said earlier we hadn't anything in common, but now we do," said Tom. "We have a secret 'friendship' now. Nothing keeps people closer than shared secrets. And it's not like you don't get anything out of it. You're the one who wanted your parents to think you're normal."
"We'll be friends as long as you keep to your word," Hermione said. She held out her hand.
Tom eyed the hand, and the pile of coins on the table. He shook her hand, which to his relief, wasn't sticky. Her skin was warm and dry; her nails were short and well trimmed, and there was a blue smear of ink along the inside of her thumb, a pen grip callus at the third joint of her middle finger.
"Agreed," Tom said, letting go of her hand, sweeping the coins out of sight and into his trouser pocket. He continued on imperiously, "Now show me what other books you brought today. And if I see anything by Dickens, I'll be very, very disappointed in you."
