Eric Whalley scowled as he spooned a mouthful of a cabbage stew supper into his hungry mouth. He sat at the boy's table, next to Billy Stubbs, who was covered in scabs that made Eric wince inwardly when he looked at them. It had been nearly five months since the scabs had formed, and they never really had faded away. But Eric knew why.
It was all because of Tom – Tom Riddle. The orphan boy had always been different, the odd one out. He had been a loner at the orphanage for the most part, but he wasn't afraid to fight the other orphans. Strange things had happened. Once, on the orphanage playground, Tom had been sitting on the swings, and some of the boys had attempted to push him out of them, only to find themselves lying on the ground, flailing about, clutching at their necks – choking on nothing. Eric didn't quite have any proof for blaming Tom; it was developed mainly on his gut.
But Tom had left. No one had bothered to disclose where he had gone, but Eric didn't really care. If he was really honest with himself, Eric was just a tiny bit afraid of Tom Riddle, and what he had done to some of the orphans over the years. That was why he had been so hard on the boy – sort of as a way to push him away from him, to say that Eric was off-limits. Obviously, that hadn't worked. There was so much Eric didn't know about Tom Riddle.
All Eric knew was that he would send letters, though never delivered through any post system, and they would end up in the hands of an almost-twelve-year-old orphan girl with a freckled face, hazel eyes, and long, ginger hair that he knew as Elizabeth Warren. Eric didn't know Elizabeth personally. She was too quiet, and, most of the time, she had kept to herself. Even now, he saw, looking up from his supper, she sat at the girls' table, completely isolated from everyone else, eating her dish while staring off into space as if contemplating something important.
Somehow, though, she had befriended the boy that no one else dared to, and now whenever Eric looked at her, it felt as though he were looking at the boy who had ruined his life. He wasn't scared of Elizabeth, though. He hated her with all of his being. And all he was waiting for was a chance.
~0~
Tom had not visited the orphanage for Christmas like he said that he was going to. He wrote hastily to Elizabeth the week before Christmas break to tell her that he was pinned down with studies; semester exams were coming up, and he needed to study. He had explained that he would have to study during the entire break in order to get a good score on the tests. Tom wouldn't be able to spend much – or any – time with Elizabeth, and he said he wanted to wait until summertime, so he could spend the most time with her.
Elizabeth had been disappointed, but she also felt flattered that Tom cared this much about spending time with her. A strange thought came to her head: One year previously, she wouldn't have cared. In fact, she would have enjoyed if Tom had stayed as far away from the orphanage as he possibly could.
But now was a different story. She longed to see her friend again. Only a handful more months until summertime would come. Then, it would just be her, Tom, and a good time.
She had noticed something strange, though, during classes at the orphanage, and at meals. Eric Whalley and Billy Stubbs seemed to be paying her more attention. They would shoot her threatening glances, not unlike the ones she used to receive from Tom. Elizabeth understood why they might have a grudge, but why would they take it out on her?
Sighing, Elizabeth shut her notebook, and absentmindedly nibbled at the end of her pencil's eraser, clutching her legs to her stomach. The last thing she felt like doing was more schoolwork. An icy, February breeze rippled through the air, and crept through the cracks of her closed window, into Elizabeth skin. She shivered, her teeth chattering together.
Even though she wore a thick overcoat and tights, Elizabeth still felt cold. Her eyes drifted slightly to her bedside table, a drawer open, stuffed with all of her letter from Tom. She read them sometimes when she was bored, even though she had already read them several times before.
Elizabeth hadn't heard from Tom since Christmas, but she tried not to blame him for writing to her. After all, he probably did have a lot of studying to do. Elizabeth wondered what sort of things he was learning. Perhaps he could share some of them with her when he came back.
She leant over and reached into the drawer, pulling out a few of the letters, running her hands over them lovingly. Elizabeth did not read the words scribbled down on them to her, just the writing that told her that the letters were from Tom.
Another chill ran up her spine, and Elizabeth took a sharp intake of air into her lungs. She couldn't feel her hands. Placing the letters carefully in the empty drawer, Elizabeth left her room, and trudged down the stairs to the front room of the orphanage.
She was pleased to see that a fire had been lit, blazing brightly and beautifully, several of the other orphans had gathered around it, talking amongst themselves quietly. Some of them held mugs of hot chocolate, which they sipped, giving them chocolate mustaches on their upper lips. Martha was downstairs, talking with some of the girls.
Elizabeth smiled as she seated herself behind some of the others. Even though she sat in the back, the warmth of the fire seemed to consume her, wrapping her up kindly.
She stared into the flames, letting her eyes cross a little, causing her vision to blur. Elizabeth could hear Martha laughing at something one of the girls said. As her mind relaxed, it drifted, taking her far, far, away, to a memory from early December . . .
Elizabeth could only use one word to describe her feelings: Ecstatic.
Christmas was just around the corner, and she was certain that Tom would be back. Out of all the things she had heard from him about Hogwarts, that had stuck out the most: Christmas vacation could be taken off to spend time at home.
She had forgotten about it until she had received a letter from Tom a week previously: 'Christmas is coming soon, and my dormmates keep talking about when they'll leave for home.' Elizabeth had written back almost immediately, and had planned to purchase him something on the weekend after, as she could leave the orphanage then.
Breakfast was quickly consumed on that Saturday morning. Elizabeth then pulled on a pair of thick, itchy, woolen socks, a large overcoat, and a woolen scarf for warmth, and headed out.
She had not been certain where exactly she was heading to, or what she would be getting Tom in the first place, but she tried to contemplate it as she trudged along the cobbled London street.
What exactly did she know about Tom?
He liked being alone, and he didn't like the other orphans. He was quiet, intelligent, and opinionated. Elizabeth guessed that he wouldn't want a toy like some of the other orphans would. Besides, she didn't quite think Tom was immature enough to play with such things in the first place.
Suddenly, she stopped, an idea having hit her as she stared into the frosted-plated window in front of her – that of a bookshop. As Elizabeth peered inside, a hazy memory played inside her head. She had been upstairs in her room, and had seen Tom down below, writing something. It was a long shot, but she entered into the shop.
A counter stood at one edge of the room, books surrounding it. Every wall was packed with books. A few tables with chairs for sitting were placed neatly about the place, and in the far corner, a winding staircase led upwards, into a flat, Elizabeth guessed.
Behind the counter sat an old man, who wore thick glasses that kept falling down his face, and he had to keep pushing them back up. A stack of leather books of every color sat next to him. He held one in his hand, and he was scratching something into it with a gold pen.
Elizabeth walked closer curiously. He hadn't looked up at her, but he said, "Hello, miss."
"Hello," she replied, leaning against the desk. "What are those?"
The corner of the old man's mouth twitched into a half smile. "Personalized diaries for Christmas. Only two pence each."
Elizabeth eyed the stack of books as she set her money on the counter. She reached for the black one, and set it before the old man. He threw the one in his hands to the ground, and looked up at Elizabeth. His eyes were strikingly blue.
"What should I write?"
Elizabeth bit her lip. "Tom Marvolo Riddle," she stated slowly. The man quickly began his work. He turned the diary over in his hands, and began etching the word into the leather with the utmost care.
"So who's Tom?" the old man asked cheerily.
Elizabeth swallowed. "Just a friend." What an understatement. "I didn't know what else to get him."
The old man nodded like he had heard that answer – or excuse, whichever you preferred – a great number of times. He capped the pen again, and handed the diary to Elizabeth to inspection. His work was flawless; it looked almost printed. Obviously, he had been doing this for a while.
"It'll need some time to dry; just wrap it in some cloth."
Elizabeth put the diary inside of her overcoat and nodded. "Thank you," she said hurriedly, nodding to the old man.
He smiled, the wrinkles in his face vanishing as he did. A realization came to Elizabeth. Perhaps he had gained his wrinkles from smiling. She liked that idea, and hoped that her wrinkles would form from that instead.
"Merry Christmas, miss," he waved to her as she exited the shop, and began to hurry back to the orphanage.
Instead of wrapping it up in cloth like the shopkeeper had suggested, Elizabeth had just left the diary on Tom's bed with a note saying who it was from, even though that much was obvious.
And there it would stay until Christmas.
Or so Elizabeth had hoped.
Elizabeth sniffed as she drew herself out of the flashback, the fire coming back into focus. She was fully warm now, and uncomfortably so. Some of the orphans were staring at her. She realized that she had been crying a little.
Her face burning the same color as her hair, Elizabeth retreated upstairs to her room, and sank against the wall, her head throbbing, and her heart overflowing.
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