Chapter 1

June 19, 1943

The bombed out streets, the piles of debris beneath dilapidated buildings, and the crowds of homeless people were a sight he had grown accustomed to since the summer of third year, when he had returned from school to find a city in ruins. Whenever summer came around, he had to wonder if he would have somewhere to return to, or if the day would come when he would have to join the swelling numbers of those left without a roof.

This seemed to be his lucky year.

He stared at the building in disbelief… or what was left of it, anyway. He'd felt like something was amiss from miles away; it had been too quiet, for one thing, but he had convinced himself that everyone was probably inside. Even if there had not been a repeat of the Blitz so far, at Hogwarts he'd heard the mudbloods whisper that the occasional air raids were keeping Londoners high-strung; as he walked closer to the orphanage, the feeling of dread increased.

The wrecked buildings and cratered streets, even by East End standards, should have really given him a hint.

He had not been surprised when Mrs. Cole had not shown up to pick him up at King's Cross; she never did, choosing instead to spend as little time as possible in his presence. This was different.

Heavy chains held the broken gates shut, the shattered windows were boarded up, part of the roof had caved in, and a large black mark on the side of the building hinted at a fire at some point during the year. The front garden, usually littered with broken toys, lay empty, abandoned.

He swore.

Looking down at his trunk, he fought down the rising panic in his chest. It would not do to lose his head right now. He needed a place to stay. He had no money, no food, no water, and did not dare to use magic. This was bad.

He swore again, and ran a hand through his jet black hair. That spiteful woman and the stupid orphans had left without a word; the matron must have known that he would be back for the summer, and had knowingly left anyway. It was true they had never liked each other, but this was something else entirely. Unless...

The black scorch mark on the side of the orphanage taunted him. What if something had happened to her? To the others? True, he couldn't care less about their wellbeing, but it did not bode well for his immediate future.

Glancing at the boarded windows, Tom Riddle, all of sixteen years old, evaluated his options. He had stooped as low as possible and begged Dippet to let him stay at Hogwarts, but the Headmaster had turned him down, citing that the school would be empty aside from the Ministry inquiry happening at the premises because of that mudblood girl's death.

What a mess that had been. Everything had been going according to plan, until Warren had decided to cry her eyes out in a broken toilet at the wrong time, glanced at the basilisk, and died. It was sheer luck that she happened to be a mudblood, anyone could have walked in, but at least that had gone well.

When Tom had asked about the inquiry, Dippet had said it was protocol for the DMLE to gather their evidence and tie any loose ends when a death happened. He wasn't worried. He'd handed them that oaf Hagrid and his dangerous pet in a neatly wrapped package, and everyone had happily accepted it as fact, wanting to sweep the incident under the rug as fast as possible so they could keep the school open. Hell, they had even given him an award for services to the school. Law Enforcement and academic bureaucracy at their finest.

Even so, Tom had the inkling that Dippet would have given in to his request, if not for Dumbledore whispering in the Headmaster's ear, convincing Dippet not to make an exception for him. As usual, the old goat had found a way to make his life miserable yet again.

His predicament loomed ahead of him, in the shape of a broken down building with scorched walls and sinister shadows.

Getting past the dilapidated gate was no problem. The first thing he had to do was to get inside the building to regroup and think of a plan, but the front door was stuck shut. Tom growled at having to take the long way around dragging his trunk behind him, but he did finally get to the back entrance. The lock was flimsy; Tom had learned how to open it years ago, when he used to sneak back into the orphanage after a long day of avoiding the matron and the other orphans.

The old door creaked on its hinges, opening to a storeroom where the orphanage kept firewood, the furnace, gardening tools, and cleaning implements. He had spent many a day here, cutting and stacking wood or shovelling coal into the furnace, conveniently out of the way of other orphans; the chores were meant to isolate him, which suited him just fine, even if furnace duty could be back-breaking.

Today it stood empty, cold and dusty. The temperature and the stillness made him shudder involuntarily as he stepped inside. Tom set his trunk down, and closed the door behind him, plunging the room into semidarkness. He tried to turn the single light on, but whatever happened to the building must have killed the power.

Tom grimaced as he fingered his wand. A quick Lumos would fix the problem, but he did not dare use magic. He'd cut it close with the Chamber, he didn't need the Improper Use of Magic Office coming down on him as well. So, he went for the door that connected the storeroom to the rest of the orphanage, intending to search the building for matches, candles or oil lamps before the sun went down.

He had barely made it past the threshold when something heavy tackled him to the ground, and pinned him down.

No, not something. Someone.

Instinct took over, and Tom trashed against his attacker, twisting and elbowing him on the ribs, quickly reversing their position, so that it was Tom on top holding his fist in the air, ready to strike. The person came into focus and he did a double-take: he knew his attacker.

"Stubbs?" Tom said with a frown.

"Blimey! It's Riddle!"

Tom looked up and caught sight of another two dark shapes looming across the hallway. One of them was holding an oil lamp, and the other a frying pan, of all things.

Stubbs grunted beneath him. "Oi, Riddle. Geroff, you berk!"

He did so quickly, getting off the floor and dusting off his coat. He did not bother extending a hand to help the muggle, watching instead as the blond struggled to get up.

"'Ow d'you get in?" demanded one of the others in a thick cockney accent, the one with the frying pan and mousy brown hair. They were making their way down the hall, eyeing him like he was some sort of predator.

Tom scowled. "Backdoor. That lock has never worked."

"Goshdarnit," swore Frying-Pan, lowering his weapon.

Stubbs was eyeing Tom with suspicion. Tom glared back. He had not expected to find anyone, least of all other orphans. The fact that they were here sent Tom's mind into overdrive. Were there more of them? If the building had been abandoned, why were they still here?

"We are going to have to board that up," Stubbs said finally, without removing his eyes from Tom. "Go get some planks, Eric. We'll do it before blackout."

Frying-Pan, who Tom could now see was Eric Whalley, gave a single nod, and scurried away. The third boy, a scrawny, nervous little thing who until now had been silently approaching them, stopped in his tracks once Eric left. Tom could almost smell the fear in the air.

"Bishop," greeted Tom with a knowing smirk. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Back-off, Riddle," snapped Stubbs, stepping between the two of them. "What are you doing here? What do you want?"

Tom shot him a look. "I live in this dump, Stubbs."

Stubbs had the gall to shake his head. "Not anymore, you don't. Get out."

Tom scowled again. "Where am I supposed to go?" he snapped, regretting the words the moment they passed his lips.

"Not my problem, is it?" replied Stubbs.

Tom scoffed. "Are you going to throw me out?" he challenged with a snarl, squaring his shoulders. He noticed with glee that Stubbs had to look up to meet his eyes; he was shorter and scrawnier than Tom. If push came to shove, Tom was fairly certain the other orphan wouldn't stand a chance.

The two boys glared at each other while Tom's mind raced. Things were not going according to plan. It wasn't like Tom wanted to stay at what was left of Wool's, but his pocket change could barely cover a night at the Leaky Cauldron, let alone the rest of the summer. He had to find a solution that did not include asking for the muggle's mercy; that would simply not do.

They were blissfully interrupted by the sound of Eric's footsteps returning with an armload of splintered planks, and a cardboard box.

"Got'em," he announced proudly, unaware of the tension building in the hall. "Wanna help me put them up, Billy?"

Stubbs glanced at Eric, and slowly deflated. "No. Riddle will help you," he announced, looking back at Tom with furrowed brows. "Fine, you can stay. But we have rules, and you will pull your weight around here," he added.

Tom's expression turned sour, even if he was internally relieved to at least have a spot for the night. Who did Stubbs think he was, to order him around?

Eric scratched his neck. "Somethin' happen?"

"No," replied Tom, still glaring at Stubbs. "Let's go."

And so, Tom made his way back to the store room with Eric. Compromise was a necessary evil that Tom despised.

Eric let the planks fall to the floor with a loud, annoying clatter, and opened the cardboard box, which happened to be full of nails and a large rock.

Tom scowled, and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to move a finger. Eric got to work in the fading light, throwing Tom a dirty look when he still didn't move, but refrained from saying anything.

'Good. He remembers who's in charge.'

It was slow and tortuous watching the muggle work. Tom never appreciated his magic more than when he saw muggles toiling with physical labour. Eric seemed to be particularly clumsy, too, because he kept dropping the planks whenever he attempted to drive a nail through them. The insufferable clatter made him cringe every time.

The fourth time it happened, Tom had enough.

"Will you stop dropping the damned things?"

Eric turned around, seething.

"Wouldn' be a problem if ye 'eld them up!"

Tom sneered. "Only if you ask nicely," he said sarcastically.

He had to admit he was surprised when Eric took a deep breath, cursed through his teeth, and schooled his features into a neutral mask.

"Al'ight. Would you please gimme a hand, Riddle? S'goin to be dark soon, and we only got the one working lamp."

There was a beat of silence while Tom considered the situation, but finally gritted his teeth and relented. He had to get settled before dark, and causing trouble would just bite him later.

The two boys got to work, Tom holding up the planks against the doorframe, while Eric hammered the nails into place with the rock.

"Looters," Eric said suddenly, as he hammered the second plank into place. "If you got in, they can, too," he explained.

"I didn't ask," said Tom, still miffed about being forced to work in exchange for shelter.

Eric shrugged. "Still, if ye're staying, you should know. They go 'round the empty houses after dark, nicking what they can."

Tom smirked. He would like to see any of those filthy muggles try to steal his cursed trunk.

The silence stretched between them as they worked, but eventually Tom's need to know everything outweighed his resolve of not speaking to the muggles if he could avoid it.

"Who else is here?" he asked.

Eric shrugged. "Just us. Everyone else's gone. "

"What happened?"

"Ah, the usual. A buildin' on the next block got hit in a raid back in January, there was a fire, a few people died. After that, the young 'uns got put on trains and sent to the country. Mrs. Cole, that besom, said we were old enough to get jobs, that no one would take us, so she left us 'ere."

"Charming, as always. Where did she go?"

"Her sister's, I reckon, out in Liphook."

"What about you?"

Whalley shrugged and made a noncommittal noise.

"I get odd jobs here and there. Dennis is the lookout. Billy tried to join up, but the Tommies turned him down; he'll be seventeen in a couple o'months, I s'ppose he'll try again then. Some of the girls come 'round sometimes. They, uh, found jobs rather quick."

Tom pursed his lips. He could infer the nature of those jobs from Whalley's tone. Well, at least he wouldn't have to deal with more orphans than the few he had already encountered. He could probably barricade himself in one of the rooms (surely one must have survived?), and put some distance between himself and the others while he planned his next move. He was determined to leave this place behind as soon as possible. He might be able to find a job in Diagon, and stay there for the rest of the summer.

He also had a family visit planned, but that was a matter for later.

They finished quickly after the brief conversation, and Tom followed Whalley upstairs. With night falling rapidly, the boarded up windows, and the general blackout, he could barely make out anything in front of his face. He had to rely on his memory to move through the rickety building without running into furniture, or missing a step on the staircase.

As they ascended, Tom wrinkled his nose at the damp smell that got stronger the closer they got to the first floor. This floor was where the girls slept, so Tom made to keep climbing the stairs to the second floor, where his room was, but Whalley stopped him.

"Those rooms are no good, mate," said the muggle. "Roof caved in, we got rain, it's all mouldy and draughty up there."

Tom scowled but he dragged his trunk to the hallway, and started opening doors, looking for a suitable room to barricade himself in. There was yellow light streaming from one of the doors, but he pointedly ignored it, and Whalley looked relieved when he noticed Tom had no intention of joining them.

"Well," said Whalley. "See you 'round, then," he said awkwardly, before making a beeline for the light and leaving Tom on his own in the dark.

There weren't many rooms available on this floor, and most of them were large and cavernous, designed to house eight to twelve occupants. Tom settled for one of the rooms that used to belong to the aides. There was a crack on the boards, so it was not as dark as the rest of the building. He could make out two beds next to each other, but the mattresses had been stripped of any linens. He sighed, releasing a string of expletives under his breath.

At around this time, Malfoy should be settling into his plush bed after a grand welcome-home dinner. Lestrange would be leaving in the morning to his family's summer house in the south of France, muggle war be damned. Nott and Avery, while not as rich as the other two, still had summer cottages and homes in the countryside where it was safe. Pendleton, the Rosiers… everyone he knew would be safely tucked away from the warzone that was muggle London. Perhaps even the mudbloods would have been relocated to the country.

Not for the first time, he wondered how he had gotten such rotten luck, and just as it seemed to be picking up, too. While he still had much to research about his mother's family, finding the Chamber of Secrets was irrefutable proof of his ancestry, and the realisation just made him angrier… he was the heir of Slytherin! He should be living in a palace! Not in a broken muggle orphanage in the bad part of town!

Tom took a deep breath, attempting to get his temper under control. He needed to sleep, so he could go hunting for a job first thing in the morning. Things would be better once he got a job, he was certain of it. He locked the door, and set his heavy trunk against it for good measure. He knew the muggles were wary of him, but he wouldn't put it past them to attempt something during the night.

He changed out of his day clothes, settled into bed as best as he could under the circumstances, the flimsy metal frame creaking under his weight, and stared into the darkness. Even the unfamiliar room put him on edge. At least in his own room he could move around with his eyes closed; he knew every creaky floorboard, and how many steps he could take before hitting the bed, the wardrobe or the door, but now it was probably covered in mould.

He sighed and closed his eyes, hoping to sleep, yet knowing he wouldn't.

History Trivia

Blackout: During WWII, German planes flying over London did so with pre-war maps, and pilots needed to correlate what they saw on the maps and photographs with landmarks on the ground to find their targets. To make their jobs a lot harder, London turned off every street light in the city, vehicle headlights were masked, and citizens hung thick curtains on their windows so that no light could escape their houses. Of course this encouraged all sorts of criminal activity at night, not to mention the increased amount of road accidents, and people losing their way in the dark.

"What was left was more than just wartime blackout, it was a fearful portent of what war was to be. We had not thought that we would have to fight in darkness, or that light would be our enemy." -Daily Herald journalist Mea Allan, 1939.

Blackouts were in effect every night from September 1st, 1939 to April 23rd, 1945.

Tommies: This is slang for common British soldiers. Its origin is a bit disputed, but officially, in 1815 the British War office started using the name "Tommy Atkins" as a placeholder name for official paperwork, and it sort of stuck. It became more popular during WWI, and even German and French soldiers would call out to "Tommy" across the battlefield when they wanted a word. You won't hear it as often nowadays, but it was still widely used during WWII.

Furnace duty: Back in the day, homes and buildings were heated by furnaces in basements that ran on coal or wood. The furnace was connected to a series of ducts or pipes that travelled through the walls and ended in small vents, so the hot air that the furnace produced moved through the building, heating up the rooms. If you have been to an old house or building, you probably noticed small grilles or vents near the floor; now you know what they were for. Since the furnace ran on coal, people had to be on furnace duty around the clock, shovelling coal into the furnace, and clearing the ashes. If coal ran out, or it couldn't be afforded, they had to cut up wood or choose what could be burned to keep the building warm in frigid weather. It was back-breaking and messy, and Tom probably hated it.

Troublesome Vocab

Berk: A stupid or foolish person, a fool, prat or twit. I love British insults.

Besom: A woman of loose character, according to an early 19th century dictionary. Generally, an unpleasant word to call a woman. It sounded like "bosom" which, at the time, was another taboo word.

Additional notes:

I really have to question Dippet's and Dumbledore's decision not to let Tom stay at Hogwarts during the summer. London was an active warzone; sirens would blare occasionally, food and clothes were rationed, about 60% of the city was destroyed…Sure he hated the orphanage, but he was just a kid, he must have been terrified to go back to that.

That said, we don't get much insight into Tom's childhood, so I will be going off my research on what childhood was like during the era. Particularly life in orphanages, and let me tell you, it wasn't very nice.