Disclaimer: o we all know how this goes. I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own Tom Riddle. I am a fangirl who simply wondered what would happen if Tom got dragged up North to stay with a muggle family. If you wonder the same, then go ahead and carry on reading

Chapter seven: Rosa

Rosa shuffled unsteadily down the hallway, eyes stilled blurred with sleep and half-forgotten dreams. She was not a morning person. She never had been, and with the recent prescription of sleeping pills she'd found herself uniformly waking up with a splitting headache. But since the day her eldest was born, Rosa had forced herself out of bed to make sure her children were up and dressed by a sensible hour. It showed dedication. And no one could accuse Rosa Grey of not being a dedicated mother. Every morning she was here. With children like hers, she needed to be. Cecile was up early enough but Robert would lie in for hour if she let him.

Now slightly more awake, Rosa realised she could her a voice coming from Robert's room. It didn't sound like him. It was a calm, strangely melodious voice brushed with a harsh London accent that the owner couldn't seem to shake.

'I'm done, Grace. I can't think of anything else.'

'But it was so clever,' a second, female voice squeaked. 'And so creepy,' she added, sounded utterly delighted. 'I shan't be able to sleep tonight – you'll have to tell me more stories!'

Tom didn't respond – all Rosa heard was Grace's light little laugh – and she took the opportunity to enter.

The room was a mess. Tom really was just like Robert; he dressed smartly, treating anything outside his room with meticulous care – but when it came to his own room…if she wasn't afraid of being accuse of bad taste, Rosa would have said it looked like a bomb had gone off. Clothes and papers were strewn everywhere, fat, flickering candles pooling wax onto a precarious pile of books. It seemed impossible that so much mess could have come from one small suitcase, but Rosa had no time to consider that. She found herself rather distracted by the small, pink child perched on the end of Tom's bed and the bandages that swathed her hands.

'I was playing with the iron,' Grace blurted out as soon as she caught Rosa looking. 'Tom was cheering me up with some stories.'

'How kind of him. Get back to your room,' Rosa added curtly, smirking as the girl scuttled out of sight. 'Tom I want you up and dressed with the hour and I want this room spotless. I will not be tolerating such a slovenly attitude when you are living in this house.'

'Madam, I can assure you now –'

Rosa wasn't paying attention; her eyes were on a large, expensive–looking book that had fallen out from under Tom's bed. It was a beautiful thing, with gilt-edged pages and gold scrolls on the spine. There was even a smooth disc of amber glittering in the cracked leather cover. No East End orphan could afford such a thing. He must have stolen it.

'Don't be silly,' said Rosa kindly, feeling a smile stretch its way across her mouth. 'You pop off to the girls' room and go back to sleep – I expect after a night like that you'll still be quite tired. I'll tidy up. Go on now,' she added as Tom frowned, opening his mouth to protest. 'Don't worry, I'll wake you up with something to eat in an hour or so, and I'll talk to Grace about leaving you alone.'

She barley waited until the door was closed before bending down to pull out the book. It wasn't the only one – there were half a dozen large, leather bound books, some titled, some nameless, all tucked neatly out of sight under Tom's bed. All were old and all looked valuable – one of the spines was set with a great, glowing green stone that could only be an emerald. No wonder Tom had tried to hide them. Now certain in her mind that the boy had stolen them, Rosa gently opened the first book.

The pages were yellow and brittle with age, but the ink looked almost wet, as if the words had been written only seconds ago. The text itself had to be ancient: most of it was Latin but there were many sections written in a strange, rune-like language that Rosa couldn't begin to understand.

Infuriated that an orphan was apparently better educated than her, she focussed on the pictures. There was a fine vignette of a young woman that appeared to have been drawn straight onto the page by its author. It was as clear and as detailed as a photograph, utterly perfect; so perfect, that seemed to come alive before her eyes. Rosa watched her sobbing, screaming as blood fell like beads of sweat from her pores, trickling down her face. The grotesquely intricate picture was ruined however, by a single word scrawled across the woman's face in large, green letters: MESSY.

Slightly nauseated, Rosa moved onto the next book, this time in old English, giving a detailed history of an old Scottish family called the Slytherins and their sordid ideas on race. One word kept coming up, leaping off the page as if it was written in a different colour. Magic.

The next few books were the same, the word magic appearing on every page (or magik, depending on the age of the book). Each one was teeming with horrific spells and illustrations to match.

Rosa gently picked up the last bejewelled book with trembling hands, surprised at how light it was. The emeralds on the cover winked at her, daring her to enter. When she did she was surprised to see it had been hollowed out: inside lay two small bottles of brightly coloured liquid, a velvet pouch of fat gold coins, several sheets of notes and a long, thin, well polished stick.

Rosa could make neither heads nor tails of the notes, nor could she identify the coins, but pocketed the money and picked up the pile of book with a mind to lock them up where they couldn't affect an impressionable young boy.

She nearly dropped them when she found Tom standing fully dressed in the corridor.

'Those aren't yours!' he hissed, eyes flashing dangerously. It was amazing really, thought Rosa as she clung to the pile of books. One second he'd be standing there, the spitting image of her son, and the next you'd be closer in comparing the pale, gaunt young man to a snake. But as terrifying as the transition was, Rosa knew she had the upper hand. You'll do anything for these, won't you child? You want them back that badly. You'd even stay here, with Cecile and I, if it came to it.

'Maybe. But they aren't yours, either. So I'll be keeping them.'

Once again, the brown eyes were practically glowing with anger. And they did glow, odd, reddish light dancing across them like the sunrise glancing off the broken photo frames. He really was a handsome boy. And so much like Robert, bar a few personality flaws. But that could be remedied. She could have her son back at last.

'What are you going to do with them?'

'This will be your punishment,' said Rosa, deciding on the spot, 'for scaring Cecile – wide eyes will get you nowhere, Tom, I know you did it. From what I've seen of you so far, forcing you to remain indoors won't have much of an impact. Instead I want you to remain in the company of your fellows, and I want to see you sending a lot more time outdoors. Oh, and of course I'll be getting rid of this little lot.'

'Just give me one,' said Tom, desperation merging with the anger in his tones. He seemed to being forcing himself to calm down, attempting to dress himself in the cool, clever façade she'd seen up till now. 'The one with –'

'The one with the jewels? No. You're too old for fairytales Tom, especially ones as depraved as these. Some of those drawings were disgusting! I can see where you get your imagination from, with your head full of gothic horror stories.'

Apparently that was one step too far. For split second Tom stood frozen, the sunlight catching crimson in his eyes – then he reared up like a snake and hit the older woman hard around the face. 'You read them! If you knew what was – you don't even deserve to touch them –'

Tom was cut off abruptly as Rosa backhanded him: he moved quickly forward but she was faster, hitting him again, harder. He stumbled back into the wall – that was why the glass in the photographs behind him cracked, Rosa told herself calmly before addressing the boy.

'That's enough! I am not getting into a fistfight with a common little brat like you. There's no more to say on the matter. I know what you want Tom,' she added coolly, watching with detached amusement as the boy nursed his jaw, shaking not with fear but with anger. 'But I won't send you away. It's going to take more than a slap and a dead snake to make me do that.'

'I'm sure I can think of something.'

'Oh, I'm sure you could. But I wouldn't try it if I were you.' Rosa pulled herself up to her full, rather considerable height. 'I didn't think it was possible a child to be overindulged in an orphanage, but you're obviously not used to people hitting you back.' She sighed with convincing regret, only her self-satisfied smile giving her away. 'If I catch you up to anything else, or if you lay another finger on me, or anyone else, I'll throw those books of yours in the fireplace. And I'll toss in your little magic wand as well – my word is final, Tom,' she added firmly, correctly interpreting the boy's sudden movement towards the books. 'We have a whole library in this house – I suggest you find something more suitable to read.'