Authors Notes and Miscellany: Yes, I've read the sixth book. Ask me any question, I'll answer it for you. This is basically a remake of Snake Speaker, which I wrote about four years ago, and I hope to present you with a fresher, more enjoyable version. Enjoy!
It wasn't uncommon to transfer orphans to a tradesman in the war-time, and in fact it was lauded, but only solicitously so. Wherever there a threat of air-raids, most London inhabitants made refuge in the subways, and some had long since fled to other areas of Britain, even other countries. Tom Marvolo Riddle had thusly found himself in Worthington's Carpentry and Masonry two hellish weeks ago.
He shifted on his narrow bed and winced convulsively as his bruised side pressed into the bed frame, then eased carefully into a more comfortable position. The pain seemed to remind Tom of something, like a life truth in his tempest-tossed mind, and his dark eyes smoldered as they fixed on a rip in the dull, heather-grey coverlet he lay upon. Tom's handsome face, of which he was so noted for, froze into a mask, and for several minutes he lay battling with pain, hatred and rage. The three Muses for which he had most of his success to thank for.
The knock on his low, splintered and peeling door was what brought him back to reality, and no sooner had Tom sat up to invite the person in when the door banged open. A boy Tom's age stood there, one blade-like shoulder pressed into the doorjamb, a smirk to rival the Cheshire Cat's fixed on his face. He had been an apprentice far longer than Tom- perhaps since the beginning of Worthington's career. "Oh, you've really done it now, Riddle. You're gonna pay, dear-like. The 'master wants you." He said, his words distorted by the grin that he never lost while speaking. Tom sat up laboriously, his large, thin hands clutching his abdomen and glared at the boy through a layer of raggedly cut hair.
"What in God's name are you going on about, Flemming." Tom's response was more a demand than a question, and though this would have normally raised hostility from Flemming, he still kept his outrageous grin.
"You'll see. Y' better go to Mr. Worthington, now. He's already getting real impatient."
Tom's heart fluttered erratically as he approached the only decent looking door in the place, for he knew past that gleaming oak, frosted, rippled glass and gleaming brass a monster lurked. This type of monster was very special, oh yes, because unlike its cousins, it hid in the light. It wrapped itself in the mantle of a beneficial member to society, and drank too much, and when its twisted soul was brave enough, it would summon boys to its lair. Perhaps even more horrifically, they all returned, never again to be the same. What happened in its lair, no boy ever revealed, and the monster remained safe.
Thin, spidery fingers hesitated over the gleaming brass knob, more out of an unspoken desire for self-preservation than fear. For a few seconds, Tom weighed the merits of his options and then gripped the knob with resolve- only to have it torn forcibly from his hands by the monster.
Samuel Worthington, breathing heavily and reeking of stale spirits, glared down at the boy with puffy, reddened eyes. His butterscotch hair was unkempt and greasy, his clothes rumpled from spending several days and night in them. And as was customary when Worthington sent for Tom, he was roaring drunk.
One of his huge hands shot forward and grabbed Tom by the throat, yanking him into the room while one square-toed boot kicked back to slam the door shut.
Tom collided painfully with the desk, massaging his throat. "Mr. Worthington," he said in his deep, sweet voice, trying to sound cajoling. "Please-" and was promptly cut off by Worthington's half-clubbed hand swinging around to strike hard across Tom's face. Tom's head was flung back, and he lost his footing, falling back upon the desk, upsetting the bottle of gin Worthington had been steadily imbibing.
Sunbursts of light danced across his field of vision, not to be dispelled by Tom woozily shaking his head; it was therefore understandably that he couldn't defend himself when his thin hips jerked up as his belt was yanked off.
The stench of Worthington's breath, hurt and, ultimately, coolness was all Tom could distinguish from what happened, leaving him on the desk, clutching a black eye.
"Get down on your knees, you damn brat." Tom sat up, still clutching his battered face, hunching over his naked legs. He couldn't kill this filthy bastard- it would titanically interrupt his plans- he wouldn't be able to complete- Worthington's fist swung around a second time, knocking Tom clean off the desk, so the youth's long, thin body was sprawled. Tom lifted himself on one elbow, his free hand touching his freely bleeding nose. He snorted out blood and received a kick from Worthington in his previously bruised side.
"Beg, you little freak." The voice seemed to come from very far away. Tom shook his head and tried to get to his knees. He wouldn't beg. Not to a filthy Muggle. The sound of leather being drawn against tough cotton was oddly louder than the voice, which was speaking again. "Get on your hands and knees."
The strap cracked unexpectedly across the frail skin; Tom shrieked and muffled the sound immediately. The second time the belt came down, the buckle hit instead of the strap, and there was a dull, hollow thud as the breath escaped Tom.
"Mr. Worthington- please!" Tom said again, drawing back and shielding his head with his arms. Something had to be done- he couldn't end like this. Worthington, perhaps aiming for Tom's ribs and missing, managed to swing his boot past the barrier of Tom's arms and kick Tom in the face.
For several more minutes, Tom lay on his back, stunned, his eyes unfocused, one with a film of blood, his mouth slightly open, revealing shattered teeth and blood rimming the gums and making the bone pinkish. The only sound in the thunderous silence was Tom's ragged, half-sobbing breathing and Worthington finishing what hadn't spilled from his bottle of gin.
Protego
Protego
That was it- he knew what to do now, but it could only work if-
Worthington had lifted the boy again, by the throat. Worthington's face was alarmingly close; Tom could feel his rancid breath whispering against his own lips. The youth choked when he felt Worthington's leg press between his knees. It happened more by accident than anything else; the rush of adrenaline, fear, and, more surprisingly, rage. Worthington howled and leaped back from the boy, who somehow managed to stay upright by propping his hands and pelvic bone on the edge of the desk. Tom staggered forward, toward Worthington, who had obviously never been this frightened in his life. More than sober, he stumbled backwards, trying his best to avoid the boy who had somehow given him a fifty volt shock.
Tom was out on the street within five minutes, taking only enough time to collect his wand, the only thing he brought back with him from Hogwarts. After all, why bring dangerous spell books back to the orphanage and have awkward questions asked when you could find a perfectly good, very secret cranny and hide them there?
Albus Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had long since taken his leave of the Leaky Cauldron, setting out on foot to reach a safe spot to Disapparate. On the outskirts of London, just outside of the industrial limb he had discovered a small neck of woods that served this purpose wonderfully; so it wasn't very strange that, little piece of land being, for the most part, communal, he found another person already there. What had been the real shock was that person had obviously been very badly battered. What had been the real shock was that person was one of Hogwarts most promising students.
The youth upon seeing Dumbledore, staggered from his hiding place. Seeing the surprise registered clearly of Dumbledore's face prompted him to speak. He opened his mouth, and when no sound issued, he closed it and swallowed before attempting again. Dumbledore barely managed to catch Tom as he collapsed; the youth's knees the first to buckle, and then falling quite naturally forward and to the side.
Dumbledore remained half-crouched on the moist forest floor, still in a state of disbelief before he came to realize that there was precious little time to waste. He stood; his face shadowed, and, holding the boy close, disappeared.