Hope you enjoy the chapter! Please R&R and come visit me at my tumblr - erikablair


Harry's left arm encircled his chest, carrying his bruised ribs as he wandered the desolate campus of St. Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. Soft pinks and blues stained the sky, indicating the early morning with only a few figures dusting the campus. His split lip and black eye drew no inquisitive looks, the accessories common. Vulturous students tracked his movements across the grounds in wait. Though discomforted, Harry refused to express more than a minute twitch. To reveal weakness was to attract torment.

In this concrete jungle, luxuries were scarce. A lone bench lay beneath a tree long since dead; the branches twisted, leafless, and sharp, imprinted thorny shadows onto the crumbling planks and rusty iron. Sinking into it, Harry relaxed his posture and closed his eyes, attempting to relieve the pressure on his ribs. Despite appearances, Harry was completely aware of his surroundings, his ears listening for the sound of footfalls. Hearing the familiar cadence of Caleb's steps, he opened his eyes. Keeping his gaze towards the horizon, he felt the wood beneath him give slightly as another weight was added to it.

There was silence as they settled into each other's presence.

"Reggie's coming back to school today," Caleb said, no discerning inflexion in his voice.

Eyes widening at the news, Harry wondered once again what Reggie had done to serve out yet another sentence.

"What's his current state like?" Harry asked Caleb curiously.

"Not good," Caleb revealed, "Those bastards in the courts gave him a much harsher sentence due to his past record, and he was placed in The Tower."

Harry winced in sympathy. The Tower was a brutal punishment that even Reggie didn't deserve. Surrey's Junior Corrective Facility, nicknamed The Tower, was the toughest in the county, possibly even England. Tall and looming, the faceless concrete structure was surrounded by barbed wire and electric fences. Tiny windows peppered the building to bring in sunlight, but the darkness persisted with only the harshness of fluorescents breaking the shadows. More focused on retribution than rehabilitation, the guards also took liberties in enforcing order and obedience amongst the inmates.

"What did he do that made them place Reggie in The Tower?" Harry queried.

Caleb laughed without humour, "Idiot got himself mixed up in something too big for him to handle. You remember Kemp and Fuller?"

Vaguely remembering the 6th formers, Harry nodded.

"Fuller had managed to find himself a gun to use, and they decided to rob the local newsagent, god knows why. When the owner wasn't quick enough, Fuller, in his panic, shot him."

"The others?" Harry sighed, pinching his nose in exasperation.

"Locked up in adult correctional."

"What did Reggie end up charged with?"

"Accessory to robbery, the public defender managed to convince them that Reggie didn't know about Fuller's gun."

Nodding once, Harry groaned at the stupidity of it all. He knew Caleb's information was accurate; it always was. Caleb had persistently exhibited a talent for intelligence gathering. Young though he was, he'd created a whole network, a web of information that he plucked and used whenever beneficial to him. There was a reason he was known as The Spider, and Harry was glad Caleb considered him an ally as opposed to an enemy.

The bell rang, and Harry stood as fluidly as he could with his injury.

Caleb eyed his ascent with a twist of his lips, "the Whale?"

Harry's silence was its own answer, and Caleb picked up Harry's bag without another word.

"You don't need the extra weight," Caleb responded to Harry's inquiring gaze.

Slowing his pace to allow for Harry's injury, they walked towards the entrance side-by-side.

It was lunch when Harry felt it – a calling, a Siren song. Ensnaring his very soul, he could do nothing but follow it. Excusing himself from Caleb's company, Harry went to search for it – alone. Caleb gave him a penetrating look before shrugging, saying he'd catch up with him later; he knew Harry could handle himself.

Letting it pull him through the twists and turns of the school, Harry ignored the curious glances he received from the other students, their expressions sharpened by their predatory and calculating dispositions. A few turned away as he passed, lowering their eyes in submission – these were the ones who had challenged him. Slight and small for his age, he was initially seen as easy pickings to the rest of the boys, a toy they could bend and break as they pleased. It changed when a group of them from 5th form jumped him within his first month of attending St Brutus'. Having been the victim of 'Harry Hunting' by Dudley and his gang for years, Harry had developed a knowing, a premonition for these types of events.

Sidestepping the first one's lunge caused his attacker to crash into his friend, sneaking up behind Harry. Distracted, Harry overlooked the group leader, a hulking, mean-looking boy named Michael Jennings or 'Big Mikey' before it was too late. Thrown against a nearby wall, Harry's head smacked into the brick behind him, dazing him. Leaning in, Big Mikey's putrid breath fanned over Harry's face as he explained the rules, how this was a twisted initiation of sorts, and how since Harry was on the lowest rung, they had cooked up something special for him. Frozen in fear, Harry's mind sank as his Uncle's face overlayed that of Big Mikey's, memories of similar punishments bleeding into reality. A small voice piped up, a voice Harry often buried that was spitting and snarling at the bullies before him, wanting to rip, to tear, to maim.

He was caught off guard by the first punch, but as they continued, Harry felt something ugly and twisted surge and a dark fire ignite. He laughed. Narrowing his eyes, Big Mikey went to ask what Harry found so funny before he was trapped in Harry's poisonous green glare. Harry smiled at him, a smile too wide and showing too many teeth, made even more gruesome by the blood coating them. Grip slackened, Harry twisted out of Big Mickey's hold and began to fight back. The air vibrated around him as lightning crackled through his veins, giving him agility and physical strength he didn't naturally possess. He felt blood bloom as he struck, muscle rip as he tore, and bones break as he snapped. As the haze cleared and the air stilled, Harry noticed the slickness of his hands and the heaviness of his breath. Turning away, he didn't spare a glance to the boys sobbing and cowering beneath him – they had lost.

Most people left him alone after that.

Blinking out of his memories, Harry absently noted he'd been led to the library. Mr Wilkins eyed him suspiciously as he entered, a look Harry skilfully shrugged off. It was stronger now, entrancing him, and he was helpless to ignore its song. Coming to a stop in a shadowy corner of the library, he began running his fingers over the book spines in front of him. He paused when he felt a caress, a peculiar probing deep within himself; his fingers trembled as they slowly dislodged the slim black book from between the two giants on either side of it. It was a small leather journal – soft and supple from frequent use and handling.

Curious, he opened the front cover only to spot a name that made him feel odd. Thumbing the name, T.M Riddle, he couldn't help thinking he knew this person. A whisper in the back of his mind, a feeling of knowing, of familiarity, rose within him. It was like the name of a long-forgotten friend, a name he had heard in his sleep, cooed to him while he dreamed. Opening the book proper, he expected to see some scrawl, only to find nothing. It was blank. Turning further in the book, Harry grew increasingly frustrated as the empty pages continued to mock him. He contemplated putting the book back, this insignificant, barren book. As his fingers began to leave the cover, revulsion coiled deep in his stomach, lying heavy, like a dead thing which only abated when he took the journal more firmly in his grasp. Harry furrowed his eyebrows before shrugging off his suspicions; a book couldn't elicit such feelings.

Another journal, he supposed he had use for that; his old ones, ones that Dudley had discarded without a second thought, had almost reached their limit. Often using them to record his musings, research, and theories, Harry relied on these notebooks heavily. Filling them with all sorts of titbits and rumours, it was a recording of his life, a continuous stream of consciousness.

Realising he was hidden from Mr Wilkins' hawk-like gaze, Harry quickly stuffed the book beneath his baggy uniform, keeping his gait casual and unassuming as he strolled from the dark corner to the exit. Breathing a sigh of relief as he turned the corner, escaping Mr Wilkins' accusatory glare, Harry brought out the diary beneath his shirt, giving it a triumphant grin. Carefully tucking it between the books in his bag, Harry gave it a parting brush before zipping it away. Beside him, the clock on the wall ticked over to one, and Harry decided to head to his next class, temporarily forgetting about the book in his bag entwining into his soul.