Chapter 2. Point of No Return
It's a quiet ride.
Hermione leans against the chilled glass, mindlessly staring through it - observing the rapidly moving images of London as if it were a movie. She slides on her seat inside the police vehicle.
Exhaling slowly on the window, she reaches towards it with a finger and draws an unhappy face.
"We are almost there, Ms Owens."
She feels her muscles tensing underneath her skin.
Her world is falling apart, and she's risking everything trying to glue the pieces back together. It was hard to not think about how her life turned into such madness. Since getting trapped in the past, nothing made sense anymore - especially now on her way to living with one of the most dangerous individuals she knows.
What does she expect to happen there? What are the possible outcomes of having Voldemort know about her?
Will he keep it a secret or tell a teacher about a forgotten underage witch in the muggle world? It should be his duty to share such information.
But would he?
If he does, someone from Hogwarts faculty will come for her. There would be a meeting, and she would act her part perfectly as an orphan homeschooled witch.
The blame would fall on the Ministry of Magic for failing to register her. There would be an investigation, but they would cover it up the best they could. The general populace shouldn't know about their Ministry's failures. It might reflect poorly in the next elections.
No one would suspect her motives for entering Hogwarts since it would be their idea in the first place. They sought after her, not the other way around. She'll be an innocent girl exercising her right as a witch to be there.
They would ask about her mother, she knows. Her American mother, a weak witch who learned about magic - even if she could not fully practice it - because she loved knowledge as much as she loved teaching. Being brought up as an invalid in a society that did not want her, she kept Hermione away from them. Monica Owens thought she was protecting her only daughter from their cruel views.
Hopefully, a "squib" would be of no interest for further investigation since they were of no value to those prejudiced airheads.
Grudgingly Hermione accepts that she'll need Voldemort to play his crucial part in her orchestrated show. If only it would be that easy to manipulate an unpredictable sociopath whose supposed to be brilliant but has not a lick of common sense.
"We're here." Mr Taylor announces.
The car slows down until a complete stop in front of an enormous iron front gate. Hermione gets out of the car, staring up at the intimidating letters that formed "Wool's Orphanage". They loomed over her, shadowing her face.
There's nowhere left to run or hide. This is it.
The orphanage was a towering structure with red bricks and enormous archway windows on its front.
Hermione waits for Mr Taylor to fetch her luggage out of the trunk. She says her thanks, shortly following him through the entrance - before arriving at the front doorsteps.
Mr Taylor uses the door knocker, disrupting the silence that had fallen between them. They didn't have to wait for long before the door handle started moving, and a skinny older woman with a harassed look opened the heavy doors. Her eyes settled on Hermione.
"Who do we have here? Ms Owens?" She asked with a neutral voice.
Hermione straightens her shoulders. "Yes, Madam." She replied softly, curiously studying the woman who was semi-responsible for a teenage Voldemort. She caught herself wanting to analyse the environment that he lived in before knowing about magic. Why did he have such deep hatred towards muggles?
"This is Hermione Owens; she's going to live here." Mr Taylor said with a wave in Hermione's direction. As if to illustrate his words, he gave back her suitcase.
"Welcome, Ms Owens. - I'm Mrs Cole, the matron of this orphanage. I'm sorry for your loss and for us to meet under these circumstances." Mrs Cole said before turning her attention back to the guard, "Thank you, Mr Taylor, you can leave. I'm sure you're very busy today."
Mr Taylor says his brief goodbyes and quickly departs.
"Now, Ms Owens, if you would please follow me? I'll like to show the room you'll be staying at."
Hermione walked into the hall entrance, carrying her light suitcase. She looks around and doesn't see anyone else besides her and Mrs Cole. The sound of people talking animatedly and scraping on plates come from somewhere in the far end of a corridor.
"It's lunch time. When you're ready, go eat there and meet some of the others." Mrs Cole speaks as she leads Hermione through a wooden staircase to the third floor. They turn right into a long hallway with five doors on each side. In every door hung a little number plaque. They stopped in front of 32, where Mrs Cole pulled out a silver key from her apron's pocket, inserting it into the lock.
There is a click sound followed by the creaking of the opening door, and Hermione peeks inside the tiny and minimalistic bedroom with a single black iron bed, clean white sheets, a small study desk, a chair and a two-door closet. Every piece besides the bed is of dark wood. The only window present had a sorry view of a brick wall. It was a dreary space to live in, but not the worst.
"It's yours for the remainder of your stay." Mrs Cole said beside her, pulling Hermione's attention away from the room. "You will be expected to keep it clean and organised. On top of the desk there's a schedule with your chores and obligations. Our curfew begins at eight o'clock."
"I understand Mrs Cole, thank you for having me. I won't cause you trouble." Hermione said respectfully, wanting to cause a good impression. She didn't need nor want another enemy in this place, thank you.
"Let's hope you keep your words, Ms Owens." She agreed before proceeding authoritatively, "You may make yourself at home and explore our community rooms. I must go attend to other matters now. Take care, child." Mrs Cole walks away, not waiting for Hermione's reply - leaving the latter to her own devices.
Having next to no personal objects and only a few new muggle clothes she bought for herself yesterday with coupons and some money found in her father's home vault, Hermione soon finished unpacking. With the rationing of clothes in full effect, she decided in picking a few pairs of robust and practical garments that would last.
She kept her wand hidden in a secret compartment in her suitcase, deciding against warding it to not attract unwanted attention from a certain someone that would feel the presence of such magic.
A paper lays innocently on the desk, and Hermione picks it up, reading how she'll spend her time and what are her responsibilities:
Wool's Orphanage Schedule for Hermione Owens
MON - FRI School 08:00 AM - 3:00 PM
SUN - Youth meeting at St Paul's Cathedral 09:00-11:00 AM
Household Chords:
- Organise and clean your room daily;
- Sweep the third floor every day at 7:00 PM;
- Always wash your clothes and used dishes.
Besides being forced to attend church with Voldemort, everything else seemed fine.
Thump
Thump
She nervously made her way downstairs to the dining hall. With each step closer, the stronger the pounding of her heartbeat appeared inside her chest.
Hermione arrives in another colourless expansive room with abundant sunlight pouring through the many windows that layered the entire back wall. People were already seated, eating and talking with each other. The air smelled heavily of cereal.
All the chatter died down once they saw Hermione. She's the only one standing and, with determined steps - that sounded louder than they should have - crosses to the other side of the room, where an uninformed staff member is seated behind a counter.
Feeling the countless stares concentrated on the back of her head, Hermione desperately tries to ignore her building anxiety. Finding her voice, she greets the woman responsible for distributing food among the orphans. "Hello, good morning." Hermione's voice carried away further than she intended with all the madding silence around her, making her cringe a little. "I'm... new here." She whispered this time.
"Hello, dear. Today's porridge." She gives Hermione a tray containing a cup of water, a spoon and a filled bowl. "Here."
"Thank you." Gripping the tray hard, Hermione takes in a deep breath and turns around. She doesn't know what was worse: the silence or the fact that they started talking again - most likely about her.
Merlin, I hate this.
Hermione's searches for the emptiest table while avoiding meeting curious eyes. There's a secluded table with only one occupant in the farthest corner. Relieved, she heads there without a second thought.
"Excuse me, " She said, already sitting down - to the other person across from her, whose face was hidden by a book they were reading. Her eyes scanned the familiar cover that read 'The Call of The Wild by Jack London'.
Hermione stopped herself from babbling excitedly about the book, for she hated it when others interrupted her reading. Let's not be a hypocrite, Hermione. Choosing to eat in silence, she relaxes the more she thinks about the first time she had read it.
There was a favourite quote of hers:
"He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars. - Jack London"
The new muggle girl was quietly eating, unaware of the danger.
Tom swallowed the bitter taste of venomous words prepared since the moment she came his way. Did it not cross her mind that he was alone for a reason? Did she not see the nervous expressions from the others? They worried for her, how lovely.
At least he's being left alone.
She hasn't looked in his direction besides reading the cover of his book.
She ignores everyone's existence.
He watches her.
Hermione was occupied with her meal when she felt the weight of his stare. A cold shiver revibrated through her whole being. She lifted her doe eyes to meet his steel, cold bottomless ones. Looking at the man sitting mere centimetres from her - their knees almost touching - she knew, she fucking knew who he was. Tom Morvolo Riddle.
Terribly handsome Tom Riddle.
With his pitch-black hair, pale skin and those long spidery fingers holding his book - how on earth was she not aware of him before? Did her uncontrolled emotions blind her that much?
She stood there for a moment that felt like an eternity, watching him watch her.
Hermione believed she would be prepared for when the time came to meet him. How foolish!
When she looks at him, all she can think about is what he becomes.
Voldemort.
What he has done.
What he is capable of doing.
Don't show fear. You're not supposed to know who he is.
He smiles at her, and it's terrifying.
Hermione chokes on the fucking porridge.
Thank you for reading!
Aevancho, thanks for leaving a lovely review. (My first one, yay!) I can't wait either! :)