Tom lay on his bed, watching his ugly grey ceiling as he twirled his wand. Though the grey curtains shut out the afternoon sun, it was still suffocatingly hot in his room. After nearly a year in Scotland, Tom found the London summer smothering—he was uncomfortable breathing. Was it always this hot? His battered brown trunk lay on the floor—what was the point of unpacking so quickly, when he had two months of nothing to do?

He'd wipe his forehead with his pillowcase every few minutes, but his sweat condensed at such a feverish rate that he felt like melting ice. He was rarely sweaty at Hogwarts, and he hated the scent of his perspiration—sickly and animal.

He desperately wished he could cast a cooling charm, or transfigure his wardrobe into a big, blue block of ice, but he wasn't allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts—Slughorn had kindly informed him of this prohibition, and on the last day of school, Dumbledore personally warned him before he embarked on the Hogwarts Express.

The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery was passed in 1875, by former Minister of Magic Faris Spavin. Spavin died in 1903; if he were still alive, Tom would've made it a goal to find him and toss him into a volcano.

Perhaps he should've gone with Mary; her home had ceiling fans. Mrs. Annett considered herself a progressive in all things, so their Salisbury mansion was furnished with all sorts of electronics, and simple, decoratively geometric furniture—a style supposedly known as Art Deco, according to Mary. However, as soon as Tom duly considered the elder Annetts, hatred overcame him. He would not grovel at the feet of the Muggles who had stolen Mary from him; not for a ceiling fan, not even to spend summer with Mary herself.

His bed was terribly uncomfortable. The mattress was small, and it felt as though it was stuffed with metal wire. It was intolerable that a descendant of Salazar Slytherin should sleep on the same sort of bed as a London guttersnipe, but Tom knew whining was pointless—the world was unjust, yes, but Tom knew that one day, he would carve a place becoming of his heritage and power—then, the world would become beautifully unjust.

Nonetheless, he missed the Slytherin dormitories; there, his mattress was comfortably large and perfectly soft, and his blankets were richly green and smooth to touch, rather than grey and covered in dust. Thus, Tom stood up, unlocked his trunk, and began to unpack, for there was nothing else to do.

A week had passed since he returned to London, and nothing changed for the better. It was only getting hotter, and Tom had to restrain himself from drawing his wand and transfiguring everything and everyone into snow.

"The Krauts are going to blow us up," said little Dennis Bishop, a hint of excitement in his tone, "We're too close to the ports; Hitler would be blind to miss us."

"No — if anything, Hitler's going to increase our lot," came Bertie Carter's grim tone, "Bombs kill people, and more dead parents means more orphans. It's just maths."

Tom finished his watery porridge. He still had a chunk of bread, a hunk of brown that misleadingly looked edible; it was chewy like leather, and it tasted like nothing. He fiddled with it in his hand.

Someone tapped his arm.

Tom turned his head, finding Elsie Jenkins, a small, dark-haired girl who had only become an orphan and joined Wool's sometime during Tom's school year. She looked up at him with large, dark eyes, then at the chunk of bread in his hands, and then back at him. She reminded him a little bit of Mary, in the way a worm might remind someone of a snake.

"Fine," Tom gave her the chunk of bread, "Have it with porridge. It's too dry otherwise."

Elsie smiled and rapidly nodded her head. Her smile was like Mary's, too; small, fragile lips spread into a wide, dimpled grin, without revealing any of her teeth.

She wasn't the only new orphan of the past year; there was also a teenager, Isaac Booth, a tanned boy with an oval head, who sat with Billy Stubbs and his friends. Booth was looking at Tom with an analysing expression on his face. If there were no Statute of Secrecy, Tom would have broken his nose.

As lunch came to an end and Tom planned to return to his room, Elsie tapped his arm again.

"What now?"

"I want to show you something!" Her voice was high and full of childish excitement.

Tom tilted his head at her, and made a solemn expression—she better not waste his time.

Elsie stood up and leaned her small head into Tom's ear, and whispered, "It's a secret."

"Follow me!"

Tom did as the small girl instructed. As they walked, the top of Elsie's head barely reached Tom's chest; she had to make two steps for every one of his. To his surprise, they went through the laundry room, and out a door that lead to a small, secluded courtyard, from which they entered an empty wing of the building, and out another door into the entrance courtyard—it was one of the paths Tom used to escape the orphanage, years ago.

"Where are we going, Elsie?"

"It's a secret!"

They went down the street, and crossed into a narrow alleyway between two large, run-down houses with overgrown lawns full of long, straw-like dead grass. The alleyway led to another street, but Elsie stopped halfway, and Tom watched the windows of the houses, trying to glimpse whether or not they were inhabited. Then, Elsie made a silly sound—

"Meow."

"What?"

Something purred—a small, ugly kitten with scruffy ginger skin appeared behind them. It looked eagerly at Elsie; the two were clearly acquainted.

"It looks dirty."

Elsie ignored Tom's comment, and she retrieved something from her small gray jacket. Two things, actually: a dusty grey-white saucer for a teacup, and a glass bottle of milk—their weekly ration, a meagre half-pint.

Tom watched disapprovingly as she poured the milk into the saucer; her weekly milk ration gone, just like that—the foolish girl was compromising the strength of her bones, and for what, a stray kitten?

"Kittie! I don't know your name," Elsie complained, "Why won't you tell me? Why won't it tell me, Tom?"

"I'm not sure cats can talk, Elsie," Tom said thoughtfully, "Maybe to each other, but not to us."

The girl placed the saucer on the floor, and the ugly kitten approached it, lapping at it eagerly. Tom saw the white ribbon tied on its front right leg; Elsie had worn it in her hair a few days ago, but now it belonged to the cat, clearly as a courtesy of the small girl—something silly and pointless, something Mary could've done.

Tom took his battered trunk from under his bed, unlocked it, and moved all his books to his bedside. There were his spellbooks and textbooks for classes, the books he borrowed from the library, and, of course, Thane's gift—In Virtute Tenebrae. His books became both his refuge and his anguish; they brought him closer to magic, but being forbidden from trying any of the spells and rituals detailed within them was greatly frustrating at times, if not outright infuriating.

For the past few days, Tom's temper had become very sour, like milk under the sun. Tom frequently became infuriated by everything; the Statute of Secrecy, Mary's betrayal, the London heat and the sleepless nights it entailed, oatmeal porridge and the sour taste it left in his throat, and the other orphans, who were loud and abounding like fleas on a sick dog. The orphanage was hot, filthy, and crowded. It was a miracle that Tom hadn't gotten sick. Perhaps, like a rat, he had learned to endure such unworthy conditions.

He had buried his wand at the very bottom of his trunk, under his shoulder bag, uniform, and cauldron. If he kept it within reach, Tom was sure he would break the Statute of Secrecy; he wanted to transfigure everything into ice or snow, and he wanted to curse everyone, at all times.

It was the hottest day yet since he'd returned to London; he was trying to read a chapter on a Hungarian necromancer in The Rise and Fall and Rise and Fall and Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, but none of the words registered in his mind. The porridge in his stomach gurgled in protest, and the heat hugging his face made him at once sleepy and annoyed.

He considered reading In Virtute Tenebrae instead, as he knew it would command his attention even in the worst of circumstances, but he'd made a habit of reading it at night, when it was cool and comfortable. Furthermore, In Virtute Tenebrae itself contained a passage instructing the reader to peruse it at night, because persuadability of the spirit was at its highest during midnight, when the moon was directly overhead.

Placing The Rise and Fall and Rise and Fall and Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts back onto his bedside stool, Tom sighed in annoyance.

He would've tried to find a loophole around the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, if it wasn't for Dumbledore's suspicious attitude towards him, and for how Strangehouse had stalked him through Mary's mind for the better part of six months. Even if the Ministry of Magic didn't enforce its Decrees, he knew his transfiguration Professor and the sanctimonious sixth-year Hufflepuff would.

Strangehouse was a short-sighted, self-righteous idiot; Tom knew the Decree regarding 'Underage Sorcery' was in tandem with the Statute of Secrecy; pureblood children were implicitly permitted to use wands at home. Even if Tom had gone to Salisbury with Mary, he wouldn't have been able to do magic—it was like forbidding a tiger from eating meat. He wanted to curse Mary for her insolence with Strangehouse, but he had already hurt her, using Legilimency. He hated seeing her helpless, and he had made her helpless.

Deciding he didn't want to think badly of Mary, Tom lay on his bed and closed his eyes. He was thankful that Strangehouse allowed Mary in his mind, as now, he had perfectly clear images of everyone Strangehouse cared for. He imagined stripping Strangehouse's mother of her clothes, and carving her stomach open like a pie—Strangehouse would scream, seeing his mother's bloody organs fall out of her stomach like vomit out of a mouth; his freckled face would contort into an impossible shape, and Tom would laugh. He imagined Strangehouse becoming a full-fledged Auror; he'd be so proud, but on the first day of his job, Tom would find him, and gouge his eyes out with the flagrante curse, cut off his limbs, and swap his arms with his legs.

Even if Tom didn't have magic, he still had his imagination—his oldest friend at Wool's, second only to magic and Mary.

A few days later, Tom received his first letter from Mary. It was delivered by a muggle postman, and given to Ms. Cole; Mary had no delivery owl.

The date on it indicated that it was written five days earlier; Salisbury wasn't that far from London—why was the Royal Mail so slow?

Instead of parchment and inked quill, Mary's letter was composed with paper and pen. Her script was elegant, but still girlish—a good balance.

Dear Tom,

It's not too late to join me in Salisbury. I'm sorry for what I did with Cassian, but I know that you miss me. I miss you as well.

Tom frowned, suppressing an urge to tear the paper to shreds. He read on; Mary posited a long and rather unnecessary argument about how her parents would be glad to have him, and how he ought not blame them for their abduction of her. She should've known that he'd already made up his mind.

At the time, Mother and Father were struck by grief. After all, as you know, their daughter by blood had just died. Her name was Mary, too…

He held the paper with both his hands, pressing it close to his face as though it would bring him closer to Mary. The wide loops and brushes of her cursive script told him to go to Salisbury, but he resisted the temptation—the thought of her parents remained infuriating, and the bitter aftertaste of her betrayal to Strangehouse was still disgustingly fresh in Tom's mouth. Nonetheless, he read on.

She had met with one of her friends from Junior School, a girl named Dorothy, and foolishly decided to show her a chocolate frog. Of course, it prompted the stupid muggle girl to run away—had she forgotten Tom's memories? Muggles feared what they didn't understand. I broke the Statute of Secrecy, and it cost me a friend and a frog, Mary wrote; Tom knew it was a habit of hers to deal with serious upsets by talking about them in a lighthearted and playfully distant way.

Mirabel's hosting a get-together for all us first-year (well, second-year now, I suppose, but I digress) Hufflepuffs at the end of the month. I'm sure that she would extend an invite to you, if I asked. What do you think, Tom?

Mirabel Abbott was a pureblood; Tom would be able to do magic at her house. The offer was much more alluring than the invitation to Salisbury, but the idea that he had to depend on a spoiled, frivolous pureblood Hufflepuff girl's goodwill merely to do magic, his birthright, was appalling. He would see Mary again in a month and a half anyway. He read on.

Lastly, I have enclosed some money in this envelope. I hope you purchase yourself something nice.

Tom brusquely put the letter aside and picked up the envelope it came enclosed in; there was a folded tissue—taking it out and opening it, he found seven pink £50 notes. He quickly shoved them into his pocket, as though he didn't want anyone else to see. It was charity; money given out of pity, but also a token of goodwill.

He was worth more than 350 pounds; and 350 pounds was nothing to Mary. If she thought she could buy him, she was wrong; he would not write back to her.

The next few days passed in a blur. Tom spent as much of his time as possible in his bedroom. He never opened his curtains; his bedroom remained as dark as a dungeon. His hair became permanently sticky and mangled from sweat; his arms were constantly itching from his awful grey blanket, which he needed at night, and he scratched at them with such fury that his forearms were marked with long, red scars clawed by his own nails, which of course, remained uncut.

He never brushed his teeth nor showered. He was becoming filthy, he knew, but after growing comfortable with the Slytherin dormitory's bathroom, merely being in any of the orphanage's shared bathrooms was humiliating. They were small and dark, and they stank.

Tom only left his room during lunch; he would have his meal with the other orphans, and on some days, he would stroll to nearby markets to purchase one of two things—yorkshire sausages, and blood pudding. Although he hadn't written Mary back, the 350 pounds she'd sent were being put to good use; after all, he needed energy to read. Reading was the only thing he was doing, and he was doing very much of it.

In Virtute Tenebrae, The Rise and Fall and Rise and Fall and Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Compendium of the Magical Elements all sat open on his desk; the words on them glowed in the dark.

Initially, Tom read the three books separately, but as he progressed through them, something emerged from them—an idea, a narrative… the story of magic unravelling, at once decaying from ancient greatness and rising to unparalleled heights—at once the stream of becoming it had been since the primordial Mage-Emperors, but also something entirely unprecedented, dissonant, and disordered, against the face of its own expanding power, and against the reality of one particularly recent implement—The Statute of Secrecy.

Magical history before a certain point—roughly 1500 B.C, was full of fables of grandeur and cruelty; endless wars between half-Gods and gigantic, impossibly beautiful winged men—of the blood of fallen angels transfiguring into cities, rivers, and mountains. Tom was sceptical of their historicity, but he was sure of their meaning. The first spells were simple, but powerful—wizards who fought with thunderstorms, floods, and earthquakes, shaping the fate of the world as they did.

Tom saw the ferocious asteroid of magic streaking through the starry sky of prehistory—on one ignoble day, it crashed into Earth, exploding into thousands upon thousands of potions, spells, and rituals—greatness fractured into practicality. From a thunderbolt, into a thousand anthills. Wizards went from ruling Muggles, to ruling with Muggles, to hiding from and depending on Muggles. The Rise and Fall and Rise and Fall demonstrated how magical Dark Lords were contextualised by Muggles; in feudal Europe, they aspired to become Lords and Kings; after the Protestant Reformation, they wanted to form their own, exclusively magical orders; the onset of European Colonialism was a boon for Dark Magic—like the Tower of Babel coming back together, curses and blood rituals from different corners of the Earth became known to Dark Wizards internationally.

The turmoil of eighteenth century revolutionary Europe prompted a series of upstart Dark Lords, each with their own ideas synthesised from muggle philosophy and magical principles. The common denominator was that all of them were defeated; but one thing was proved—history was a cycle, but only crudely and superficially so—with every new curse, ritual, and muggle machine, the fundamental rules of the world changed—constantly, the possibilities of magic were becoming greater, more violent; bit by bit, it was regaining the prelapsarian power it had. For thousands of years, there hadn't been a Dark Lord as powerful as Grindelwald; who was to say that there wouldn't be a more powerful one after him? Magic had fallen from the sky; magic had fallen off a cliff—who was to say that one day, it wouldn't ascend back to Eden?

Tom rarely indulged himself with sappy, pointless things, but Elsie Jenkins was a girl that his whims kept on calling for. She looked like a younger, shabbier version of Mary, with her long, dark hair and round, well-portioned face—she was new to the orphanage, too, and even if she was small, her voice suggested that she was raised by rich, Southern English parents, just like Mary. Unlike Mary, she hadn't betrayed his trust—she was like Mary, but smaller, and innocent.

At first, Tom only gave her the small chunks of flavourless, chewy bread that were given at every meal—soon, he began to give her the sausages and blood pudding he bought with Mary's money as well. She would always smile, her lips forming a long line, producing pretty dimples on her small face, without revealing any of her teeth—just like Mary's smiles. Which was why one day, when he saw Billy Stubbs sitting next to her in his spot, Tom became very, very angry.

"Move." He commanded Billy.

Elsie looked at him curiously and Billy, who was holding a small rat in his hands, gave Tom a frightened expression. Rats were disgusting, even compared with orphans.

"T-Tom…"

"I said move," Tom repeated. He knew Billy once had a fondness for animals, collecting strays in the way some children amassed marbles, but that was before Tom killed his rabbit. "I shouldn't need to repeat myself."

"I-I, I was just showing Mickey to Elsie," Billy stammered, turning to the smaller girl, "Y-you like Mickey, don't you?"

"I like Mickey!" She exclaimed excitedly.

"What about sausages, Elsie?" Tom asked in a kindly tone.

"I like sausages!"

"See?" Tom glared at Billy, "Now get lost."

"Okay, Tom…"

Billy stood up to leave, but as he did, someone forced him back into his seat.

"Hold on," Said Isaac Booth, who firmly gripped Billy's shoulders, "Billy, you shan't let anyone terrorise you like that."

"Isaac —"

"What's your deal, Riddle?" Booth took his arms off Billy, "I don't see why you're the one laying down the law here — you're not even around, for most of the year."

Despite Booth's words, Billy obediently stood up, and Tom took his seat.

"Isaac, don't bother —" suggested Paul Ferrell, another older boy.

"Oh yeah?" Booth smirked at the challenge, "What's he going to do then?"

Tom impassively stared at Booth.

Elsie was pulling at his sleeve with her small hands. He ignored her; he held Isaac Booth's gaze in a staring contest—Tom knew his threat was vapour and smoke; the Statute of Secrecy effectively forbade him from defending itself. His shield consisted of his reputation, and nothing more.

"Alright, alright. Whatever," Booth chuckled, before turning to walk away.

Against Tom's hopes, Booth did a very stupid thing—he suddenly turned back around, and slapped Tom in the face.

Although Tom didn't have magic, he had anger—and in a moment of blind, furious stupidity, Tom shot up from his seat, and tackled Booth to the floor. Although the older boy was taller and stronger than him, like all new orphans, he was weak-willed—he didn't even fight back.

Tom thrashed Booth against the floor, pulling him up and slamming him down over and over again. Thump, thump, thump, thump. No one came to the older boy's aid—they didn't know that Tom was forbidden from magic, they were afraid to take chances.

Tom let go of the older boy; he could feel magic and adrenaline running up his veins synchronously, like stormwater and thunder—a terrific sensation, but one he had to let go of. It wouldn't do if he got expelled from Hogwarts for losing control of his magic, just to hurt one muggle.

"Whatever, Riddle…" Booth stood up, straightening his dirty white shirt, "I'll see you around. Watch your back."

Tom sat back down, and faced Elsie, as he listened to Booth stomp up the stairs. Her expression was a little fearful, but also indignant—a construction he'd seen on Mary time and again.

"You made Mickey run away!" She folded her arms.

"I made Billy run away," Tom corrected, "You can see Mickey after lunch."

He reached into his pocket to take out a yorkshire sausage wrapped in a clean handkerchief. "Here. Bon appétit, Elsie."

She eagerly took it, hunger bright and dripping in her dark eyes—

"No, Elsie," Tom caught her wrist, "Smile. You ought to be happy."

The small girl gave him a confused look, before grimacing into a sloppy, half-hearted grin.

"I want you to smile properly," Tom repeated, irritated, "Do you understand?"

She nodded rapidly, and she gave him Mary's smile—the look he needed to see at least once a day, as though it were medicine. Satisfied, Tom let go of her wrist.

He was staring at his ceiling, twirling a fork in his hand, as his wand was hidden at the bottom of his trunk. 26 days left until the end of summer—until Hogwarts, until Magic, until Mary. Although the night air was cool, Tom's shirt was sticky with sweat from the day, and the crickets outside were obnoxiously loud. He continued to twirl the fork in his hand, imitating the wand movements of various spells as he did.

He heard footsteps. From the corridor, they were coming closer; at least two people, possibly more.

Tom sat up on his bed, pointing his fork at the door as though it was his wand. His chest clenched not with fear, but anger—it was utterly absurd that he had to use cutlery to defend himself. The Statute of Secrecy was conceived by a clown.

Unlike every room in Mary's house, Tom's room had no lock. None of the orphans' rooms had locks. The door opened.

Isaac Booth entered, and behind him followed two taller teenage boys. Though Tom's room was dark, he could make out a sneer on Booth's face.

Tom pointed his fork at boy to boy, as though it were his wand, and he was deciding who to curse.

"Get out," he said firmly.

"Or what?" Booth mocked, "You'll push me over?"

"If you don't get out, you'll regret it," Tom coolly assured.

Truthfully, Tom had no idea what to do; but he knew he couldn't let this intrusion go unpunished.

"We told Isaac how it is, Riddle," said one of the other boys, "You can't pull your tricks anymore — now, you'll have to play the devil by the same rulebook as the rest of us."

"You think so?" Bluffing, Tom rapidly twirled his fork in his hand.

Before the boy responded, Booth lunged forward and shoved Tom onto his bed, knocking his neat stack of books over. Tom quickly tried to stand up and stab his fork into Booth, but one of the older boys caught his arm. The other older boy grabbed his other arm, and the two of them pinned him against his bed.

Booth swaggered towards Tom. In the dark, Tom saw him squat down, and then raise his arm, his right hand balling into a fist—it came down fast, smashing into his nose and his mouth. There was searing blunt pain, the metallic scent of his own blood, and then Booth's fist, again, and again, and again.

He was defenseless against a muggle—a muggle, hitting him with their fists, again, again, and again, like an ape—and it suddenly occurred to Tom that not only was the Decree Against Underage Magic absurd, but that it was an insult to magic itself. At that very moment, sore and bloody, Tom didn't even feel spite for Booth—only for the Dumbledores and Strangehouses of the magical world. He used to find 'blood traitor' a rather dramatic insult; now, he understood why it was often intoned with venom.

The salty taste of blood was thick in his mouth; his head felt light, and his vision was blurred. Booth kicked his stomach, and Tom lurched forward.

"You're nothing, Riddle," Booth spat on his face, his saliva wet on Tom's cheek, "You're not better than any of us."

Tom spat a mouthful of blood onto Booth, as he tried to wrench himself free from the older boy's accomplices. Booth's next punch came with renewed force; he was aggravated by Tom's insolence, and then—once again, the hinges of his room's door creaked painfully; someone else had entered, and their presence illuminated the room—they held a lantern.

"That's ENOUGH!" Ms. Cole shouted in a slurred tone, "Get out — the lot of you!"

"Ms. Cole—"

"OUT!"

The three teenagers left, and Tom fell back onto his bed, gasping and grunting in pain. His vision remained blurry; he made out his books sprawled across the floor, and Ms. Cole standing over him, holding a lantern that illumined the concerned look on her weary, plain face. She smelled faintly of alcohol.

"Tom — are you able to stand?" She asked hoarsely.

He realised she was going to insist on treating him. Although she despised Tom, Ms. Cole was committed to her job, zealously so, much to his dismay.

"Yes," Tom stood, "I'm fine."

"You're bruised and bleeding, and this," Ms. Cole pointed at a spot beneath his eye, "Is going to swell —"

"I'm fine!" Tom snapped, "I don't need you!"

"You impossible boy," Ms. Cole shook her head, "Sit up and lean your head forward; spit out any blood in your mouth, and don't swallow it."

With that, she left the room, and Tom lay back down on his bed, fantasizing in equal parts about hurting Cassian, hurting Booth, and snuggling Mary. He heard Ms. Cole's drunken shouts at Booth and his conspirators, which were barely muffled through his room's thin walls. He rubbed his hand over his face, coating his palm in his own blood. It was oddly and annoyingly sticky, unlike thestral blood, which was pleasingly smooth.

Disappointingly, Ms. Cole returned to his room, with a bag of ice and a grey metal bowl.

"Stop fidgeting, Tom," Ms. Cole squatted by his bedside and pressed the ice-bag against his cheek, "It's important to reduce swelling while the bruises are still fresh."

Tom wanted to protest, but the coldness of the ice on his face was a welcome respite, not only for his bruises, but from his summer altogether. Pinching and glacial, the iciness on his face reminded him of the Scottish winter wind, when he had first reconciled with Mary. If he had to die, he'd rather freeze than burn. Ms. Cole placed the metal bowl in Tom's lap—he was to spit any blood in his mouth in it.

"I'm sorry they beat you," Ms. Cole said quickly.

Her tone was strained; her sympathy was a formality, like a Professor wishing an unskilled, troublesome student 'good luck' before an exam.

Soon enough, Ms. Cole left, leaving Tom alone with his sore face and brooding thoughts. He tried to plot revenge in a hundred different ways, but there was nothing—without magic, he had no cards to play against Booth. The teenage boy was physically stronger, and he had more friends. Most of the orphans feared or disliked Tom; there was no way to mobilise them against Booth.

Yet Tom knew he would have his revenge; there was no other choice. He had broken rules and overstepped boundaries at Hogwarts several times. Although his face remained bruised, Tom's ego returned to its unscathed state; a freeing sense of clarity washed over him, as he figured out the next aspiration he was going to pursue—he would remove the Trace from his wand, and free himself from the repression of the Statute of Secrecy.

The thought of being able to use unbridled magic against Booth filled Tom with excitement; the possibilities, splayed with blood and screams, played through his mind, and he let out a breathe in excitement, his toes curling. It was with these thoughts that Tom fell asleep.

Tom woke, and his head was heavy and sore, as though it was a sack full of doorbells. His eyes hurt as he opened them, and he limped towards his window, spreading his grey curtains. Beams of overpowering sunlight immediately invaded his bedroom; realising it was afternoon, Tom promptly closed the curtains.

He went to the tiny, stinking bathroom at the end of the corridor, examining himself in the dirt-specked mirror. At once, he felt relief and anger—relief from the fact his injuries weren't significant; his left eye was swollen like a large grape, and dried, flaky blood overlaid a big purple splotch on his left cheek. A potion from Diagon Alley would easily heal them; the money Mary had given him could be exchanged with galleons. But the fact he was at the mercy of a muggle to begin with…

Isaac Booth would be dealt with. Isaac Booth had no true power over Tom, to begin with—it was the Statute of Secrecy that beat Tom, not Isaac Booth. And it was wizards—snivelling, self-righteous, pampered blood traitors such as Dumbledore and Strangehouse—who were responsible for his wounds. After all, if a spectator of a circus carnival was hurt by an animal, the circus master would be the one to blame, and not the animal.

He washed the dry blood off his face.

Leaving the bedroom, Tom went downstairs. He didn't care for the stares of the orphans; he was looking for Elsie Jenkins. He needed to see her smile, and then he would return to his room to read.

"T-Tom…" said Dennis Bishop, "What h-happened to your face?

Tom gave the short boy a grim stare, meaning you should know better than to ask.

He continued searching for Elsie; she wasn't with her usual gaggle of small, obnoxious girls, nor was she in her 'dormitory'. He recalled that yesterday, the weekly half-pint milk rations were distributed. Perhaps she was with the ugly, helpless, nameless kitten she was so fond of—like Ben Chapman to Mary.

Tom went through the convoluted series of grey corridors and creaky doors to leave the orphanage. He went down the street, to the narrow passageway between the decrepit houses with the dying lawns—there, he heard a kitten, and a voice; unmistakably, Elsie's voice.

Then, Billy Stubbs' voice. Tom's heart sank, as he approached the narrow passageway, tiptoeing. He peeked around the corner.

"Here, Tibby," Billy squatted, gently holding his milk bottle to the kitten's mouth, like he was feeding an infant, "Good kitty."

"What's a Tibby? It sounds silly!" Elsie said, giggling.

Knots tied in Tom's stomach; he felt as though someone just punched him in the abdomen with a fist of steel, much more painful than Booth's hand of flesh. He was only a little late for lunch; couldn't Elsie, the stupid girl, have waited for him? Couldn't she see that he wasn't replaceable by Billy Stubbs?

"Tybalt, the Prince of Cats," Billy told her, "From Reynard the Fox, don't you know?"

"Is that from The Bible?" Elsie stroked the kitten's back.

"No, it's a book from the nursery. I'll show you."

Tom heard enough, and he quickly walked back to the orphanage, sulking at the ugly street. The kitten, and its lack of a name, was supposed to be his secret with Elsie. He would've preferred to have Isaac Booth punch him in the face another hundred times than to see Billy together with Elsie; he was angry, much, much more angry than he was at any point last night.

Then, as he returned to the grey, stony orphanage and ran up the stairs into his bedroom, Tom realised he didn't care at all. He didn't care for Elsie, nor her stupid cat. It was Mary who he wanted to see; it was her smiles and the warmth of her voice that he needed. He had confused Elsie for his sister, a foolish mistake. Now, he only needed to be patient—there were only 26 days left until Hogwarts.

Tom was holding a cat in his arms. It had smooth, impossibly soft orange fur, as though it was groomed to be seen in the presence of a King. He couldn't explain why, but he deeply cared for it; under no circumstances would he let it fall from his arms.

If it fell from his arms, it would drown. Tom was walking on a long, thin road of dirt, perhaps a yard wide. On either side of the dirt path were endless oceans of red, and although they were entirely opaque, Tom somehow knew that they were deep—if he fell into them, it would take him a long time to reach the bedrock of the sea.

The horizon was cloudless and endlessly orange, an unpleasant hue, as it was utterly without contrast—there was neither sun nor moon. Tom kept walking on the dirt road. The idea of a destination didn't occur to him, he was only to protect the beautiful, well-groomed cat in his arms.

He saw small bubbles reach the surface of the blood-red ocean, and he heard a screaming sound—distinctively human, but far enough that he couldn't make out whether or not it belonged to a man or a woman. Somehow, however, Tom knew that he was responsible for the suffering of the drowning, screaming soul. He didn't know what he did, but he knew he had done the right thing—otherwise, Tom would be the one screaming under the blood-red ocean, and they would be carrying the cat.

In Virtute Tenebrae said that everything was Violence. Violence, with an uppercase V. Form is Violence; a house with walls is violent because its residents are safe at the expense of freezing, starving strangers. There's no justice without Violence; Violence precedes justice. Violence supersedes justice. Justice grows from Violence like a furtive garden-flower in a sprawling, merciless rainforest. Love is Violence; Love excludes the non-loved, and Love is Devotion—to be Violent at the behest of your beloved.

Tom stops, and stares into the blood-red ocean. What if he jumps? Why not? Like how apples and pears contain seeds, drowning by suicide and walking onward alike contain Violence. He doesn't want to be in the fray of everyday Violence, yet, what other options does he have?

There's nothing, but Violence. Beauty is mastery of Violence; mere life is mediocrity at Violence. He doesn't want to live like a dog.

Like an angel, he ascends. The brown line becomes ever thinner in the distance, sandwiched by two eternal expanses of red. However, the more he ascends, the heavier the cat becomes in his arms, from the weight of a cauldron, to a barrel, to an anchor. He wants to drop it, but he can't—he wished that it would just jump off on its own accord, but it's sleeping—it's lazy, ungrateful, evil; it's a burden, and he can't cast it off, and now Tom's falling from the sky, dropping together with the stupid cat.

The dirt road becomes closer and closer, and bigger and bigger, impossibly so. It was only a yard wide before, but now it's several yards wide—unless—

Tom wakes up to searing pain in his thigh. His right thigh. He rubs his eyes. He's in his room, at Wool's Orphanage. His thigh is going to explode; he can hear its pain. Should he have carved it to begin with? M for Magic, M for Mary, M for Moron.

There is searing pain in his thigh. His heartbeat is so loud he's sure everyone else in the orphanage would be able to hear it. Sweating, Tom rapidly takes off his trousers and limps towards his desk, beneath the curtained window. He draws the curtains.

The moon is a ball, and it's big and bright and beautiful, and the moonlight illumines his room, like Lumos from Mary's wand.

Tom lifts his leg onto his desk, so that the rays of moonlight are on his thigh.

His scar, M for Magic, M for Mary, is black, and glowing, like heavy ink on parchment. It moves on his skin, like a snake made from black mist. Tom presses a thumb against it; he traces his wound… he presses his fingernail into it, and deeper, deeper, and deeper still, until his entire thumb is in his right thigh. He screams.

Tom wakes up to searing pain in his thigh. Panting, he rubs his eyes, and limps towards his desk under the window. As he draws the curtains, he sees that that the moon is a small crescent. He takes off his trousers, and lifts his right leg onto his desk. He runs his hand over his pink, fading scar, M for Magic, M for Mary—there's a single drop of blood streaking from it, like a single teardrop on a mosaic of Mary, the Mother of Jesus.

The pain is gone. Tom collapses into his chair and wipes his sweat with his arm.

He pulls his trousers back on, dons a gray jacket, and quietly leaves his room. He goes down the stairs, through the maze of grey corridors and creaky doors, and then down the street. He needs to get away from his room, from Booth, from Ms. Cole, from Elsie. He doesn't know where he's going.

The night air is pleasant; not inspiringly cold, but not suffocating, either. It wasn't the Scottish winter, but it was better than the London day. It smelled like smoke and gutter-water. He passed the two decrepit houses with the dead lawns. Bending over, Tom pulled out a handful of strawlike-yellow grasses, and scattered them into the air. He passed into the narrow passageway between the two houses, examining the floor, as though to find Elsie Jenkins and Billy Stubbs' footprints.

On the dirt path, there was a familiar ugly kitten, coiled like a ball in sleep. Tom reached his hand to stroke it, waking it up.

"Sssh, Tibby," Tom's face ached as he smiled, "It's just me, Tom."

"Meow?"

It looked eagerly at Tom, as though it was expecting milk or blood pudding. He noticed there were a few large rocks lying against one of the houses, the sides of which grew reeds.

"Good kitty. Tom's here to feed you," he said gently, "Be patient, please."

He picked up one of the large rocks with both his hands, and knelt down by the kitty. His knees on the ground, Tom raised his arms as though to exalt the rock before God.

Then, as though it was a cauldron he intended to shatter, he violently smashed it against the floor—no, against the kitty's head—it gave a short-lived cry, before there was a crunch, like dry leaves getting crushed under a boot.

"I'm sorry, Tibby," he said in a passive tone.

Tom raised the rock and smashed it down again, again, and again. The cat stopped writhing, but Tom kept smashing its crushed head with his rock. Splat, crunch, splat, crunch. Something wet splattered over his hands—cat blood, he realised. It looked, felt, and smelled the same as human's blood. Metallic, fleshly, and intoxicating.

He slowly let out a groan, not from exhaustion, but from pleasure. His thighs tightened in pleasure, and he thought of Mary's smiling face. He hadn't felt this good in weeks—he could feel his magic well up in the air around him, like a thousand swirling snowflakes, cooling his skin and easing his breathes. He wanted to do more, to do something even more forbidden and fun, but he realised his magic would leave a mark—he had already gone too far—it would be unbecoming to get caught. Thus, Tom dropped the stone to the floor, sighing in delight as he smeared his cheeks with the blood on his hands.