Chapter 21: Uninvited guest
It was Billy Stubbs' fault.
The boy was roughly Tom's age, but about a head taller and built like an ox. His intelligence was inversely proportionate to his size. Plus, he seriously had it in for Tom, ever since Tom had killed Billy's rabbit at the age of seven.
So it wasn't wholly unexpected when he'd shouldered Tom roughly as he walked past on the stairs, hard enough to bruise, the very first day back for the Christmas break.
Of course, Tom was no stranger to violence; the orphanage wasn't exactly a peaceful environment in which to grow up. The children were from the areas of poorest London, and with barely a few years of proper education, most were destined to end up in factories and workhouses. Except for Tom, of course, who went to a fancy school for most of the year. His superior attitude also didn't encourage any bonding with the other children. He was universally despised by all the others, as well as feared to a certain extent. As a result, they took to travelling in packs, like animals out for blood, and he was careful to lock his door at night.
He had no magic or popularity here, no possible way to physically defend himself besides his wit and the will to survive. It was at the orphanage, long before Hogwarts, that he had learnt how to get revenge in ways that couldn't be traced back to him. Billy was his most outspoken enemy, and therefore often found himself the victim of strange 'accidents'. One time he lost the tip of his finger to a slamming door on a windless day. Another time, he was rushed to hospital after ingesting shards of glass lurking in his leek and potato soup. But despite everything Tom tried, Billy Stubbs was like a cockroach; always somehow avoiding serious or fatal injury. Tom attributed it to luck and an abnormally durable build. He also seemed too stupid to to be intimidated by supernatural means, like many of the others.
"You got somethin' to say, freak?" Billy challenged, lip curling, as Tom mutely rubbed his bruised shoulder.
He said nothing in the face of Billy's posturing. Physical confrontation was not his style, and he had made a decision to lay low. Consoling himself by picturing ways to eventually put the idiot in his place - or possibly kill him, once and for all - Tom merely clenched his teeth and kept walking, doing his best to ignore the cretin's scornful laugh.
"Yeah, I thought so!" the boy jeered, his voice ringing in the orphanage halls. "You're pathetic!"
Tom stopped. His eye twitched.
Screw laying low.
He couldn't just let that go unpunished.
And so, the next day, Billy found himself the victim of yet another inexplicable 'accident'. A large vase had been balanced precariously on the banister at the top of the stairs (no one saw who did it). Right at the exact moment the unfortunate boy was passing under the vase two storeys below, a door upstairs was slammed violently (no one knew by whom) causing a draft of air to make the vase wobble, then fall with perfectly timed accuracy, directly over Billy's head.
Knocked to the floor and motionless, the other children excitedly gathered around as blood soaked into the threadbare carpet.
A flurry of activity and an ambulance later, the hunt for the culprit began. "Tom Riddle!" shrieked Miranda, marching up the stairs in a black mood, "Get out here, you little shit!"
Tom had an alibi, of course. Three young, wide-eyed kids testified that he'd been reading a book in a quiet corner of the playroom at the time of the incident.
Miranda wasn't convinced.
"This kind of thing only happens when you're back here!" she accused furiously, pacing up and down his cramped room.
"You have no proof." Tom said calmly. Perhaps that should be my official catchphrase, he mused drily.
"How many times has Billy been put in hospital because of you? I don't know how you do it, but I know it's you!" she yelled, spittle flying. "Do you think this place can afford more medical bills?!"
"Oh, does that mean he's going to recover?" Tom said, displeased. He looked back at his book and idly turned a page. "Think of all the money you'd have saved if he died."
"I- you little-!" the woman spluttered, turning purple.
Tom ignored her. Miranda wouldn't do anything worse than yell. Over the years she'd come to realize, like many of the residents of the orphanage, that Tom was different. When Tom was twelve years old, Miranda took over the orphanage from the sickly Mrs Cole. She'd tried to get him to move out of his single room to share with another boy; naturally, he refused. He liked his space. That was something that the mouse-ish Mrs Cole had understood, but Miranda hadn't yet known. Things escalated, he'd pulled his wand, and minor items on tables and shelves had moved while the lamplight flickered creepily. Nothing overt enough to trigger the Trace, but it was enough. He'd been given his space and fear-induced respect ever since... most of the time, anyway.
Because of his wand.
Which he no longer had.
That fact secretly made him very uncomfortable, despite his calm exterior. The only way he coped with living nose-deep in muggle filth was the knowledge that if he truly wanted to (or needed to) he could blast them all to kingdom come with a flick of his wrist. But it wasn't only important as a weapon to him. It was a reminder that he was worthy. That he was powerful... He was special.
But how could he have explained all that to Dumbledore, a man who'd known his whole life who he was, where he belonged? He'd probably never had to go a day without magic. His wand was a part of his identity - without it, he felt like a part of his soul was missing. It was an anchor tying him to the magical world; without it, he felt horribly paranoid that somehow it all just wasn't real. It didn't matter that he was currently reading a book on Goblin Wars; the irrational fear remained. It was his one big secret, this irrational anxiety that oneday... he would open his eyes and realize it had all been a cruel dream, a fantasy to help him cope with a mundane life.
As if sensing his secret vulnerability, Miranda narrowed her eyes. "Billy's coming back tomorrow, Tom." she said nastily. "And you know what? I think he deserves to know just who was responsible for putting him in the hospital."
"I didn't do anything."
"You can tell that to Billy when he gets home."
Riddle unconsciously tightened his grip on the book, but kept his face neutral.
"If he thinks I'm responsible, he'll try to kill me."
"Think of all the money we'd save if you died, right?" she snapped, throwing his own words back in his face.
He stared at her. "I wasn't aware you were starting up a children's fight club." he spat venomously.
"Harold and I agree that you two have some differences to sort out." Harold was the resident cook and disciplinarian. He also happened to be the town drunk. Of course this twisted idea was his. "We're going to let you two clear the air, like men... And that'll be the end of it."
Are you serious?! This was a new low, even for her.
She went to the door, fishing out a jangling ring of iron keys from her apron.
He slowly put down his book, swallowing around a dry throat. "Wait. Are you-"
"Sleep tight, Tom." she slammed his door shut, and he heard the key scrape in the lock.
He had no intention to wait around to see if she was serious about letting Billy have his revenge.
Using a piece of wire he'd salvaged from one of his bedsprings, he got to work picking the lock with cold fingers. It took hours, but he felt uncharacteristically patient about it. The tedium of the task should have been frustrating, as the wire kept bending out of shape, but he felt numb to the situation. He knew running was only postponing the inevitable, but he wasn't apathetic enough to give up without trying. Eventually he was free, and wasted no time walking through the sleeping orphanage to exit through the back door, using the spare key he found on a windowsill.
Outside, he hunched his shoulders against the frigid, early morning air and walked quickly down the street as the grim dawn broke, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. The coat wasn't suitable for the depths of winter; hypothermia was a distinct possibility. He scowled at the purpling clouds overhead, as the snow fell thick and fast, as if mocking him.
There would be no sun today.
It seemed appropriate.
He walked quickly down the street, his feet crunching on the black ice, and to any casual observer (not that there was one; people with any sense wouldn't be out in this weather) it seemed like he had a purpose, maybe some destination he was anxious to get to. But that wasn't true. In fact, it was merely the instinct of self-preservation that drove him onwards, aimlessly walking around the grimy streets of poorest London.
About three hours later, he found himself in a miserable-looking park, complete with rusted swing-sets and trash poking through the carpet of slushy snow. It wasn't far from the orphanage; he'd gone in a meandering loop, knowing he'd have to return eventually. There was nowhere else to go. He made his way over to a low wall next to a skeletal tree, and without a better plan in mind, he threw himself down against it, sheltering from the wind in a vain attempt to conserve what little body-heat he had left.
He knew he couldn't stay in one place for long; he had no intention of freezing to death. His breath was cold, no longer misting in front of him. Ironically, his lungs felt like they were burning.
A moment of stillness was all it took for his bitterness and hate to surge within him again, sweeping away his apathy and replacing it with something hotter, and uglier. The ever-present rage simmering inside had always sustained him through tough times.
He thought back on the past three days of hell - it had only been three days into his Christmas holiday - and mused about how quickly everything had gone to shit. If he had his wand, at least he could defend himself. Self-defense was allowed for underage wizards, though there would have been a tedious hearing. He knew in his heart that even if he'd had his wand, he wouldn't use it for fear Dumbledore would expel him once and for all. He'd endure any amount of pain and humiliation to remain at Hogwarts.
Not long into his musing, however, he heard the sounds of approaching boots crunching through the snow. There were two, but he could guess from the sound of familiar, obnoxious mouth-breathing just who they were. He briefly considered trying to sneak away before he was seen - but immediately gave up on the idea. He was in no condition to fight or flee... He would just have to endure it, like he always did.
He stood up quietly, dusting the snow off his coat with numb hands.
Billy Stubbs was accompanied by his friend, Eric Whalley, smaller in stature but no less thick.
"Still alive, I see." he commented, sounding contemptuous.
Billy sported a large, white bandage wrapped around his head like a turban, but otherwise seemed annoyingly healthy. "No thanks to you." he growled.
"You're gonna pay!" piped up Eric. Everyone at the orphanage despised Riddle (some for arguably good reason) and it was clear they were looking forward to a little revenge. He mused that at least out here there were only two. If he'd stayed at the orphanage, who knew how many of the others might have joined in.
"I wasn't anywhere nearby, when it happened." His denial was half-hearted, at best. He was tired and cold. He wanted this to be over.
Billy shrugged, stomping closer threateningly. "That's not what I heard."
Tom held his ground and looked at him up-and-down, "Don't you have a concussion or something? At least?" he demanded, bitterly disappointed that he hadn't thought of weighting the vase with a couple of bricks.
Billy grinned, displaying a missing tooth, and shook his head. "Nah. The doctor said m'brain's absolutely fine."
"Well, aren't you lucky?" he drawled, holding back his shivering (from the cold, of course) with pure willpower. "I suppose you can't damage what you don't have."
It took Billy a few seconds to realize just how he'd been insulted.
He cracked his knuckles meaningfully. "No one's gonna miss a freak like you."
Later that day...
Amalia gazed up at the forbidding building with some trepidation. An iron gate stood half-open, slightly rusted, with big letters that spelled "WOOL'S ORPHANAGE". The place didn't look in very good condition, but there were lights on inside. She shivered slightly in the cold - it was already dark.
Did Tom really live here? She couldn't picture it. Her curiosity grew, and she strode purposefully towards the double front doors.
It was a full minute before anyone heard her polite pull on the bell.
"Yes?" a thin-lipped woman with frazzled hair opened the door and gave her a bad-tempered stare.
She hid her annoyance at the woman's rudeness, and smiled brightly. "Good evening! I was wondering if I might intrude for a short visit with one of your charges."
The woman gave her a suspicious up-and-down look, taking in her fine wool coat, calfskin boots, the silver pin holding her hair back.
"I think you got the wrong place, Missy." she told her, and made to shut the door.
Thwack.
Amalia's hand stung with the force needed to keep the heavy door ajar, but she didn't let her friendly smile slip. "Oh, I don't think so." she said pleasantly, inclining her head. "You see, I'm here to see Tom Riddle. I'm a friend of his, from school." Well, friend was stretching it a bit, but...
She was surprised by the fleeting panic on the woman's face, followed swiftly by anger. "I don't know what you've heard, girl, but I assure you you're in the wrong place! Good day!" at with that, she wrenched the door shut. Amalia heard a bolt slide home with a heavy thunk.
"Huh." she stepped back, biting her lip thoughtfully. That reaction had been... unexpected.
She paced slowly around the side of the building, gazing up at the bricks, stained grey with pollution. There was a small window open just a little near the back door.
She grinned. Perfect.
Shapeshifting into her cat form took only a moment, and she relished the feeling of confidence that always accompanied. Cats were so self-assured.
Before she could sink into the snow, she leapt up onto the windowsill agilely. She slipped through the opening and looked around, her luminous amber eyes taking in the scene effortlessly. She was in a kitchen - it was empty for the moment. She leapt down onto the tiled floor, her velvet-padded paws not making a sound.
Slinking through the halls, she realized the place was much bigger than she'd expected. Or did it just seem that way, while she was in such a small form? Not knowing where to start looking, she made her way back towards the front door, following the muffled sounds of the rude woman's voice. Her senses were sharp; it seemed that the orphans were all upstairs. Perhaps they'd just finished dinner?
The black cat crouched under a chair in the hall, blending effortlessly into the shadows, and listened.
"... asking questions." said the woman from the room directly off the hall. She sounded anxious.
"Stop your naggin', woman," ordered a man's voice. "It'll be fine. Boys get into scraps all o'the time. Doctor Jessum's comin' tomorrow morning to see him, he'll patch him up. None will be the wiser."
"But if that school has found out... I bet that's why that little shit tried to run this morning. He might have contacted that... Professor!"
"Then why'd some girl pitch up?" grunted the man obstinately, "You're over-thinkin' things. Anyway, I made sure he can't get out again. Okay? So quit your whining."
The woman subsided reluctantly, muttering.
"An' bring me that whiskey. We deserve a little pick-me-up, eh?"
The woman's steps drew nearer to the door, and she chuckled. "That's the first sensible thing you've said all night, Harold." she closed the door with a snap.
The black cat's tail started lashing as she emerged from her hiding place, sharp claws digging into the dirty carpet.
It sounded like Tom's situation was worse than she'd thought. Throwing caution to the winds, she transformed back into her normal form and strode up the stairs with a menacing scowl.
The first room she came to was open, and she didn't hesitate before marching right in.
"Who-who're you?" squeaked a brown-haired boy, maybe about ten years old. He stared up from his position on the ground, his peeling wooden toy train falling from his grubby hands.
She didn't have time to be polite, and grabbed his upper arm, yanking him to his feet. With her other hand she smothered his yelp, glaring him into wide-eyed silence.
"Where's Tom Riddle?"
The boy gulped audibly.
"I'm waiting." she gave him a little shake.
"Um... at the end of the hall... and third door on the right..."
"Will I need keys?"
He shook his head. "It's not locked."
That didn't sound right. Downstairs, the man called Harold had said he'd made sure Riddle couldn't escape. She felt a prickle of unease.
"Why?"
"...Wh-what?"
"Why isn't his door locked?"
The boy's face was confused for a moment, before he seemed to recall something. "Um... well... I don't think he can walk, so..."
She stared at him blankly for long moment.
"Stay in your room." she ordered mechanically, and let him go.
She strode down the hall purposefully, not caring that her presence was no longer going unnoticed. Some kids had seen her - she clearly didn't belong - and others were poking their heads out of their rooms, curious and excited. She ignored them and continued, shoving aside any runts stupid enough to get in her way.
At last she came to the plain door- exactly the same as all the others - that was supposed to be Tom's. As the boy had said, it wasn't locked. She considered knocking, but her hand was already pushing the door open. She just entered and closed it on the curious whispers from the other orphans. Hopefully they wouldn't be disturbed for a while.
Then, she turned to survey the room.
It was small, with spartan furnishings; just a bed, a desk, and a narrow cupboard. Riddle's bag lay on the desk ; he'd obviously only taken a few of his belongings with for the short, two-week holiday, next to a book on Goblin Wars. Other than that, the room was completely empty of personality.
She turned her attention to the bed, upon which the person she'd come to see was lying, motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
"Shit, Riddle." she breathed, stepping closer, eyes wide on his pale face. A shadow of a nasty, purpling bruise lay across one cheek, and his lips were cut and bleeding. He was lying in an unnaturally stiff position, as if he'd been placed there while unconscious. To her fury, she noticed that the man Harold had tied one of his wrists to the bed-post, twisted at an awkward angle behind him with a length of rope. What the hell kind of medieval orphanage was this?!
Clearly, he'd endured a severe beating. By whom? The skin of his knuckles was torn up, so at least he'd put up some kind of a fight. She couldn't see the extent of the damage on the rest of him, and gingerly peered at the skin around his neck. She thought she could spy further bruises on the exposed skin, but was reluctant to peek beneath his shirt. She'd learnt her lesson about how much he hated that. Also, the fact he had been left in only a thin shirt was appaling; it was freezing in the room, and they hadn't even bothered to cover him with a blanket.
She made a decision right there on the spot. Whether it was a foolish one, or not... she'd have to find out.
"Riddle," she said gently. "Can you hear me? Wake up. Riddle...?"
She was starting to think he really was still unconscious, after all, when suddenly his eyelids fluttered.
"That's it. Open your eyes." she encouraged, and took a few steps back. She didn't want to give him a heart-attack when he saw her.
He came back to the world with a pained groan, his expression tensing as he instinctively tried to curl onto his side. Clearly, the movement was a bad idea, as he fell back with a gasp, the fingers of his free hand dragging at the bedsheets as he dealt with the pain, panting raggedly.
Then, he saw her.
"N-no..." Riddle whispered, anguished, his dark eyes staring. "No!"
No, this can't be happening... not here... She's not here... She's not seeing me like this...!
"Well, that's not a very flattering reaction," the girl said, clearly striving to sound her usual sarcastic and calm self. But her half-hearted smirk slipped quickly off her face, her brown eyes serious, yet unreadable.
She was staring at him. He stared right back.
"What are you doing here?" he forced out eventually, between clenched teeth. Disgust, anger and shame twisted his insides into writhing coils of anxiety as he watched her look down at him with her steady brown eyes.
She looked serious, but there was no pity in her gaze. He was thankful for that - he wouldn't have been able to handle it. Better she laugh. Why wasn't she laughing?
He gritted his teeth and carefully dragged himself into an upright position, with his back supported by the cold metal bars at the end of the bed. He felt bones grate in his side, a stabbing pain making black spots explode in his vision with every breath. It was harder with only one arm; he'd lost feeling in the hand tied to the bedpost. At least that meant one part of him didn't hurt. When had that happened? He couldn't remember coming back to the orphanage. What time was it? How long had he been out? But mostly...
Why was she here?
Amalia made no effort to approach, merely watching him struggle upright with a blank expression. He glared daggers at her, daring her to feel pity for him - if she did, he felt like his magic would break free from him entirely and attack her, even without his wand. But she looked almost disinterested.
"Answer me!" he spat, barely able to stifle a wince as his loud words made his bruised ribs throb.
One elegant eyebrow raised, as if he'd affronted her with his tone. "I was curious." She said after a moment, finally looking away from him. Her gaze flickered around the room, and she straightened up. "I overheard your conversation with Dumbledore when he took your wand." A small smirk curled her mouth, but Tom saw little trace of amusement in her eyes, which remained curiously emotionless. Now she turned away from him, and seemed unwilling to look at him again. She stepped over to the window restlessly. "You seemed… afraid. I was curious to see what the great Tom Riddle could possibly be afraid of."
Fury replaced his confusion and pain. He wrenched his body around so that he could see her better. He ignored the blood which now dripped from his wrist where the ropes cut into him. "I'm not afraid of anything!" he snarled harshly, his pulse pounding in his ears. Unwillingly, his mind fled back to how he'd felt like he was drowning in dread at the thought of returning here.
"Everyone's afraid of something." she said quietly, still without looking at him.
To his great shock and profound disgust, he felt pressure building behind his eyes, which prickled suspiciously. If he had ever cried, he'd been so young as to not remember it. Now, even if they were tears of anger - not shame and helplessness, of course, he was above such emotions - he would not permit it. With great difficulty, he fought with himself to get his unruly emotions back under control. But his usual ice-cold focus was elusive.
Amalia fortunately seemed not to have noticed, and just looked out at the dirty street outside, seemingly lost in thought.
When Tom had himself under more control, he snarled in a low voice. "Well, you've satisfied your curiosity. So get out."
She turned her calm brown eyes back to him, and merely gazed at him.
He searched for pity or malice in her expression, but found something else instead. He was puzzled for a moment, before he realised with a shock what it was. Disappointment.
"Riddle, you've certainly messed up." she said at last, with a pretty sigh. "I assume you're not entirely the hapless victim here?"
"What?"
"Come on. There must be a reason you were beaten within an inch of your life. Though, for it to happen at an orphanage..." She shook her head and gave a humorless chuckle, "Anyway. You may not be responsible for every bad thing that happens... Like some people seem to think... But I don't think anyone could call you innocent." she mused.
He found he was unable to reply, but glared at her balefully. what was the point of this? Why wouldn't she just go? His stomach gave another twist as he saw her frown down at him, unhappy. For a moment he felt like he'd just gotten a "F" and dashed the hopes of teacher who expected more of him.
She sighed again, but this time it was more decisive. "Alright." She said, as if reluctantly agreeing with something he'd said. He eyed her suspiciously.
"I'll be going, then." She said abruptly, pushing herself off the windowsill. He blinked at her in confusion, his heart doing an uncertain double-beat. She's... leaving?
"Don't worry. I'll see you soon." She strode out of the room without another word, closing the door behind her.
He stared after her, blinking in the sudden silence.
He opened his mouth to call her back, but checked himself just in time. After all, he'd wanted her to go, hadn't he? But his uncertainty remained. What was she thinking? How had she found him? Why? Where was she going now? … Would she be back…? "I'll see you soon", she'd said. When? At the start of the school term? … Sooner?
He strained to hear a sound. He thought he could hear the sound of her light steps down the stairs, before the sounds disappeared into the background of the ambient noise of the orphanage. He cursed loudly, shifting uncomfortably against the bedpost.
Then, he heard the heavy front door open and close.
At that sound he felt a curious desolation sweep over him, almost immediately swept away by a blistering tidal wave of fury. What right did she have to come barging in here, anyway? And judging him, too, by the looks of it. Well, he didn't give a damn what she thought! He vindictively imagined how he might take revenge when the term started again. He would torture her until her screams made her melodious voice break and her liquid brown eyes… those brown eyes...
That disappointment glinting in her eyes…
At the memory of it, all his rage seemed to leave him, seeping away into the hard stones of the floor, leaving him bereft and empty. He thought he could handle the orphanage, but now he realized he'd only been able to endure it so far because no one from the school had known about this other life. There, he was invincible. Popular. Respected. Perfect. Now the illusion was shattered. She would use this against him, and none of them would ever see him in the same way again. He would be seen as this. Poor, stained with Muggle filth, alone… Weak.
"I'm not weak."
His defiant voice sounded small.
The answering silence only served to mock him.
Author's note:
Some people have left reviews that the way Riddle acts in this chapter is non-canon. I disagree, and here's why: he's not Voldemort yet. He's a teenager, who is alone and full of angst and rage, and hates feeling helpless. In my opinion, this is the reason he goes down such a dark path - fear. Particularly, fear that he isn't 'special', that his link to the magical world might be severed and he would be left alone, surrounded by muggles, unable to protect himself and demand respect and recognition. So this is very much his absolute lowest point.
But that's just my interpretation :)