And when you appear
All the rivers sound
In my body, bells
Shake the sky,
And a hymn fills the world.
- Pablo Neruda (showing everyone who's boss)
.
.
The dress robes should have been unbearably heavy. It was a choice she'd never have made as Muggle.
But this dress – for it was more dress than robes – had been irresistible. The thick silk was covered in gold beading and it hung, heavy and glittering, bias draped and backless.
It was the kind of dress you wore on a balcony with red lipstick, smoking a cigarette and drinking brandy, the kind to set tongues wagging and men staring.
Hermione didn't know why she'd bought it, really. Probably because it was the closest thing they'd had to a Muggle dress and she'd been feeling contrary, bored of the conventional witchy attire of long fluttering bell sleeves and nipped-in waists. But there was no time for a rethink; she was going to be late as it was. She'd just have to wear it.
She pulled on the dress, gasping as the fitting charm pulled it tight against her skin for a moment before relaxing, and then checked her hair, spelled in the hopes it would stay it a braided up-do it was already trying to escape from, makeup and jewellery one last time in the mirror.
"You look beautiful, dear," it said.
Courage, Dearborn, she whispered to herself.
There was a knock at her door; no doubt it would be Hector. She and Marcus had agreed to take other people to the party, so that more of their friends who weren't invited would be able to go. She was glad of it now.
"It's open," she called out, turning away from the mirror.
The sandy haired Chaser looked handsome, if conventional, in slate blue robes with the barest hint of lace around the cuffs.
"Hermione! You look marvellous. Very French. Are you ready?"
French! Well, then. Acceptably scandalous, perhaps.
"Yes, sorry I had to set us back a little – we're so late! Let's go."
.
.
Professor Slughorn's chambers had been transformed into a winter wonderland. The walls and ceiling were hung with panels of ice blue silk. A cloud of what looked like a thousand silver faeries sparkled overhead. The effect was elegant if a little frosty. The lighting was warm though, with candles housed in glittering crystal globes floating above the crowd, and there was masses of hoarfrost-covered foliage – including, she spotted with a practiced eye and made a note to avoid, what she suspected was enchanted mistletoe.
Hermione was impressed, despite herself. It was a far better theme than the frankly tacky green, red, and gold he'd chosen – would choose – in 1996.
The ice sculptures of the four founders were probably a bit much though.
The room had been expanded to perhaps three times its normal size, but it was still crowded. She estimated at least double the amount of people there, probably nearing a hundred and fifty, than when she had attended in the late nineties.
But, of course, she realised, this was still Slughorn at the height of his influence. Still young enough not to yet be completely tiresome, but with enough years under his belt to be very well-connected.
"Champagne, miss?" a house-elf squeaked and Hermione nodded, gratefully. She loathed mead.
"This is awfully fancy, isn't it?" Hector muttered, accepting a glass.
"Isn't it? Oh, look, there's Sophia and Marcus."
Marcus had brought Ancha, and Hermione now half-wished she'd encouraged him to take Claire. It might have made things easier – although perhaps not. Probably worse.
And if she had been the one playing tricks...
"Darling," he said, kissing her cheek, and she tried not to feel too guilty. There just hadn't been time to break up with him. Besides, it was better to do it before they left tomorrow, when he'd have nearly a month to recover before he had to see her again. "You look absolutely beautiful."
"Thank you. You look lovely as well. All of you."
"That's quite a dress," Ancha commented. "Where did you get it from? Paris?"
"No, actually in Hogsmeade, believe it or not. You know that tiny little robes shop? It was in there. I thought it was nice and seasonal."
Just then, Abraxas walked over, and handed a drink to Sophia. She looked very much a future Malfoy, albeit a beautiful one, in dark green velvet robes, with bared shoulders and full bell sleeves to her knees, diamond earrings sparkling madly in the candlelight.
"Hermione, how are you?" he said, kissing her cheek in greeting. "I like the gold. Good dress for an alchemist's daughter."
It was one of the canny observations that gave a flash of the intelligence he often concealed and made it almost impossible not to like him.
"Very well thank you. Congratulations –" she gestured to the sparkling emerald on Sophia's finger.
He grinned and Hermione relaxed, suddenly. She hadn't noticed how tense she'd been but there was something reassuring about how friendly he was, wearing the same face as her old enemies. It told her how good a job she was doing at hiding in the past.
"You're almost tanned," she noted, although he was never as pale as his descendents. Perhaps Narcissa's blood had sucked the colour from that boy's skin. "How was South America?"
He told her, at some length, before an acquiantance of his family's joined them and she excused herself to find Cerdic, accompanied by Sophia and Ancha, who insisted they were simply dying to meet him.
.
.
"Oh no," Hermione hissed, freezing. "No, no, no, no."
Tom Riddle was standing chatting to her father, looking unbearably handsome in midnight blue. She felt a small glow looking at Cerdic because father was finally not a lie any more and the lies were so wearying. As she watched, Cerdic started laughing and slapped Tom's shoulder.
Sophia gave a choked laugh next to her.
"I assume that's your pater talking to Tom?"
She nodded, and Sophia silently handed her another glass of champagne from a passing tray.
Unfortunately, Cerdic spotted her before she could fully gather her thoughts and waved her over with a beaming smile.
"There you are child! I've just been talking to your friend Tom, here."
"I saw," she said, raising an eyebrow at Riddle. "Father, these are my friends Sophia Selwyn and Ancha Burke. Girls, this is my father, Cerdic."
"Delighted. Selwyn you say? I suppose you'd be Perseus's daughter?"
"That's right," Sophia said and Hermione had to restrain a snort. Perseus? Greek names were almost as ridiculous as star names, she reflected. Sophia had clearly been lucky with her own.
"Very good card player. Lost a fair bit of gold to him in my youth."
"They say you should never play cards against a Selwyn," she agreed, grey eyes dancing with humour in her otherwise composed face.
Hermione glanced at Tom as Cerdic charmed her friends. His face was composed in a pleasant smile, but his eyes were glittering savagely.
Family would be a sore point for him, she supposed. Especially all this upper class do-you-know-so-and-so Pureblood bonding. She had always hated it, too. Always a reinforcement that she didn't really belong. Until now.
"You look very smart," she said quietly, that traitorous pang making her chest ache again, because there was something so tragic about his envy. When he met her eyes her stomach flipped.
"I know," he agreed. "Apparently it's my colour. The older witches in here are very charming."
Hermione laughed.
"What a terrible burden you bear," she mocked.
"I know," he sighed. "Can I get you another drink? Girls? Mr. Dearborn?"
"Cerdic," her father insisted. "Thank you dear boy. I think I saw an elf headed towards that group with a bottle, go and grab it."
That's right, just my father casually ordering around the future Dark Lord in front of two of his future minions' mothers or aunts or cousins or whatever. Hermione almost laughed aloud, slightly frazzled as the situation fully hit home.
"So tell us, Cerdic, what were you and our illustrious Head Boy chatting about?" Sophia asked, smirking at Hermione.
"Well I won't bore you with the details, but we were talking about some of my recent work on using salt to negate magical properties – very clever boy, that." He launched into an explanation, and it was clear Riddle had been doing his research on Cerdic Dearborn – and had made quite the fan in him.
Fortunately Tom returned before he could really set sail, trailed by a house-elf holding a bottle of champagne almost the same size as herself, and the flow of academic talk, most of which she'd already heard, was cut short.
Hermione wondered if it would be strange to read the label to find out if it was the same as Muggle champagne, but decided that would probably look a bit odd. She'd ask Cerdic later.
"Thank you," she said, politely to the elf.
"I need to go and rescue my fiancée but it was very nice to meet you," Sophia said to Cerdic, who kissed her hand charmingly. "I'm hoping to visit Hermione over Christmas, if that's quite alright?"
"Yes, yes, you're all welcome any time. When are we going to my brother's?" he asked Hermione, who huffed at him fondly.
"The twenty-third, and going back to Wales on the twenty-seventh. Or at least that's what you said in your letter, Merlin knows if it's right."
He laughed. "True enough. Ah, Horace, hello, hello."
Slughorn bustled over to join them, bearing yet another bottle of champagne, and made a tremendous fuss of Cerdic.
"Quite a coup, having you here! Everybody's dazzled you're out of hiding."
The fat Professor stayed, parading a collection of acquaintances of varying importance in front of them.
"And this must be your daughter! One's heard the rumours," one commented, a wizard Hermione was informed, though she couldn't quite believe it, was called Fustius Trimble. She almost felt sorry for him, but the more he spoke the less pity his awful name inspired. "And what a pretty one."
"Clever too," Slughorn assured him. The transparent networking was nauseating. She felt like a cow at auction.
"Are you going to follow in your father's footsteps?" Trimble asked.
"No," she said, and smirked at Tom, who was still standing there, remembering how she'd answered when he'd asked her that question. The answering glint told her he, too, remembered that day. "I'm afraid I have absolutely no ambitions, Mr Trimble. I think I shall travel the world and waste my fortune on fripperies. If you'll excuse me, Father, I'm going to go and find my friends, and my date who I quite abandoned more than an hour ago. It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Trimble."
She kissed Cerdic's cheek, and whispered, "Have fun."
"I'll escort you," Tom offered, clearly as keen as she was to escape Horace Slughorn's particular brand of favouritism.
"Oh, no, Tom there was someone I very much wanted you to meet," the potions master protested. "This is our Head Boy you know!" he added, turning to yet another guest.
Laughing, Hermione left him to the wolves.
.
.
The evening passed pleasantly after that. A band played soft jazz, pipe and cigarette smoke filled the air, and the drinks flowed freely. Hermione realised she was actually having fun. Far more fun than she'd had when she'd spent all evening trying to escape Cormac McLaggen's attentions and wishing he'd been Ron instead.
The memory of Ron brought no pain with it, and it occurred to her just how silly he'd been to kiss another girl out of jealousy after agreeing to be her date to that long-distant party. She'd begun to think she would have made him quite unhappy in the end. Ron needed to be adored and her sharp tongue and high expectations always got in the way of that. She hoped one day the sixth brother would finally come come first for someone.
She stood quietly as someone made a speech, and then the music was louder and people started dancing – including Cerdic, she spotted, who was whirling rather smoothly around the dance floor with Professor Wolfe.
Tom Riddle was talking to one of the Slytherin girls now, and Hermione wondered if she was his date. He'd been dragged pretty well around the room by Slughorn, the price of being the favourite child. She didn't envy him for a moment.
"Shall we have a dance?" Hector asked her, interrupting her contemplation.
"Why not," Hermione agreed, thankful she'd learnt all the Wizarding dances for the Yule Ball.
.
.
So she danced with Hector, and Anthony Steele, and Lorcan McLaid and Jasper Brown and the handsome Aldfrith Diggory, and Abraxas, and Cerdic and eventually Marcus, who extracted himself from the very long conversation he'd been having with a tall, white-haired wizard.
"You do look beautiful," he said, smiling down at her as they moved into a slower dance. "Sorry I've been so occupied all evening. I've neglected you."
Hermione didn't reply; she wasn't sorry, so what was there to say?
As they turned, she saw Tom leading Penelope Greengrass towards the dance floor. The girl looked stunning– as blonde as Tom was dark, and almost as tall. They cut an elegant figure together.
Tom's eyes met hers and Hermione felt that lurch in her stomach again, so she turned her face away from him.
"We haven't really talked about the break. Could I visit you?" Marcus asked.
She stiffened. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, I –" but there were no words, and she definitely didn't want to break up with him on the dance floor at a party. That would be mortifying and horribly unfair to him. "Let's talk about it tomorrow."
"I want to see where you live, where you're from. You're so elusive… I've tried to give you space, I know you're not used to much company and I understand that, but lately you've been more distant than ever. Let me in, Hermione."
His warm brown eyes burned down into hers and she was struck by how awful she'd been. She could never be honest with someone, never give even half of herself to them, never not be hoping to get back – forward - to Harry and to everyone, everything, else she had left behind.
Letting someone fall for the lying scrap of herself she could share was the most singularly selfish act of her life.
"Marcus you're wonderful, and you're patient and I'm so sorry I've been distant. But please let's just enjoy the party and talk about this tomorrow?"
"It's him isn't it? I... I'm not a complete fool, Hermione. I see the way you look at each other, but I'd hoped…" He shook his head and stepped back, away from her.
"I'm going back to the tower. Just... just think about what you really want. I love you, what little of yourself you give me," he added bitterly. "I'll see you in the morning."
He was gone before she could reply, and she swallowed the unsaid words. They left a bad taste in her mouth, sour with guilt and self-reproach.
Sophia joined her, as she stepped off the dancefloor, and handed her a drink.
"Are you alright?" she asked, more bluntly than usual. "I saw Marcus leaving."
"Yes I'm fine. He said lots of true things and I'm a horrible person." She took a sip but couldn't hold the rest in, not with Sophia. "Oh, he asked about Tom. I wish everyone would stop doing that," Hermione admitted. "He's not… a good person. I couldn't–"
"Why do you think that?" Sophia asked. "I mean, he had to prove himself to his house, but then they did think he was a Mudblood and it's Slytherin. They have their own distasteful traditions. That's why I asked the Hat not to put me there; not really my thing. Abraxas told me last summer… they did some terrible things to Tom. I expect he did whatever he had to do to survive."
Hermione absorbed the unsurprising fact that Sophia ought to have been a Slytherin silently.
"It's just a feeling I get," she said at last, watching him dance with Greengrass. "Like he's capable of great evil."
She pulled her eyes away and turned slightly, to face her friend.
"Aren't we all? Look, we've all… wondered about Tom. Even me, I suppose. Silly really," Sophia shrugged and grinned as she cast her eyes meaningfully over Hermione's shoulder, "but I mean just look at the man."
"The thing is," she carried on after a moment, "he's never blinked half an eye at a girl, or boy for that matter, not really. Not until you came along… and suddenly it's like he can't look away. Anyway, he's coming over, so if you don't want to dance with him you should probably run away now."
But, despite herself, despite every cell of her mind screaming at her to leave, to walk away, to run, Hermione turned and there he was.
"Well?" he asked, hand out.
She stared at it for a moment and then took it.
They'd never touched before. She hadn't known that in her mind until they did and her hand met his sending a violent rush through her body, down her spine and up her neck. Her chest felt too small and her cheeks too hot, like her skin had been waiting to touch his, and every cell was set rejoicing at it. He could feel it too; she could see the shock of it in his eyes.
As he pulled her close to him, Hermione wondered what she'd done wrong. Surely, surely this was a form of hell, especially created for her, where her body betrayed her mind and memory and everyone she loved and owed loyalty to. Hell, because she could finally acknowledge to herself what she'd been denying for so long: she wanted him, and wanted him desperately.
"I didn't say it earlier but you are exquisite tonight," he said. The words sounded rough in his throat, and they burned down her core and left her floundering.
.
.
He'd hardly been able to look away from the moment she'd walked in, dressed like the rich women he'd seen as a boy going into the opera house in London or the Café de Paris. Slughorn had been telling him some rubbish at the time, and of course the professor had clocked on to where his gaze rested.
"So that's how it is," the fat man had chortled. "Her father's here tonight, you know."
Tom had known that already, because Professor Slughorn had mentioned it repeatedly. The man leaned in a little lowering his voice, and Tom's interest had been caught.
"He's a great alchemist, I'm sure you know. Rumour has it that he's found out how make a Philosopher's Stone. I doubt it though. No one's done it since Flamel, and besides people always say that about alchemists. But some say he can turn metals into gold and that the man's richer than Midas. And he's very well-respected, if rather eccentric. It would be a good match. Come, let me introduce you."
The Philosopher's Stone, Tom had thought disdainfully. What a pointless endeavour: who needed that? He'd found a far quicker path to immortality. And as for gold, well that was irrelevant. Useful, but fundamentally uninteresting.
Tom had organised, with a little magical assistance, that he would inherit all his late father's money as well as his house. Finally having money had been a relief, he supposed. He'd loathed being poor, though he had used it to his advantage.
Once, he'd contemplated picking a girl to aid access to places and people he, as a half-blood, initially found resistant, of course. And on nights like tonight, where it was made so clear that names were power it was tempting. But he despised the idea: why marry for status when he could forge a new name, a name worthy of the last of the Slytherins?
A name that would last forever.
Slughorn was pathetic for suggesting it - but he was like everyone else in the room with their ordinary little minds and ordinary concerns.
Everyone but her.
For Tom Riddle, looking at Hermione was like looking straight at the sun before it sets, still ablaze but low in the sky and golden, setting the world aglow. He'd watched her, eyes burning, but unable pull them away. She was dazzling and dangerous and she lit up everything and everyone around her.
He hated her for it.
But she was in his arms now. He'd watched Blishwick walk away, watched her face – an open book for once, the rampant play of emotions screaming discomfort, and a wish to escape, and he hadn't been able to resist.
.
.
"You like the dress, then?" she asked in reply, that slight edge of irony he found so appealing in her voice. He was grateful for it too: he hadn't meant to tell her she was beautiful though surely she must know it.
"Very subtle," he acknowledged, smiling. "The alchemist's daughter, draped in gold. A good joke."
He felt her relaxing, as she turned easily in his arms, her body as in tune with his as though they'd danced this dance together a thousand times before. The skin of her back where his hand rested was like hot silk and he wanted to pull her closer, to dance a different dance, to feel that soft warmth pressed against his bare skin.
The song ended all too soon and not fast enough and she pulled away.
"I'm tired of dancing," she said. A lie, he thought, but he'd been too thrown by his own reaction to her presence to mind.
Dangerous, he thought again.
"It's only half past eleven, and I think it would be very bad form for you to go to bed while your father is still out dancing. Come, let's sit down."
He liked the surprised smile that flickered through her dark eyes when he teased her, hovering at the right hand corner of her lips, like a kiss in an old story he half only remembered.
.
.
She was quiet, sipping at a glass of water, her eyes full of some sadness he didn't understand.
It was irritating, not to know why she should be feeling so. Was she upset about Blishwick going off in a huff? The man was so bland, Tom couldn't fathom it.
"I've been wondering all evening," he began, jealous of her attention. He could tell she was listening even though she didn't look at him. "Where on earth do you keep your wand dressed like that?"
Hermione smirked at him, brow raised slightly. She raised her right brow when she was amused and her left when she was being disdainful. He had noticed. He was ashamed of the triumph capturing her gaze had sparked.
"Perhaps I left it in the tower," she murmured.
"No. I don't believe you ever do that."
"You're right. There's a holster in the strap. I enchanted it so it can't be felt. They always make it invisible but forget how clunky it feels. Silly really."
Clever.
"Why did your pet wizard storm off?" he asked at last. He'd been patient but, really, enough was enough.
"My pet wizard?" she repeated scathingly, ignoring his question as usual.
He smiled at her. If he was quiet she would fill the silence. She did, but it was unsatisfying.
"I assume you mean Marcus, and frankly that's none of your business."
"Quite a scene," he pressed, and the flash indicated he'd hit the right nerve. "Must have been embarrassing."
"We just want different things, I think," she said, effectively telling him nothing. Again.
"And what is it that you want, Hermione?" he asked in a low voice. It was getting easier to use the techniques that sent other witches fluttering on her. That was pleasing; it had been mortifying to be the one made ill at ease.
Her eyes filled with tears he didn't understand.
"I don't think it really matters what I want," she said softly, and he wondered if she actually was a little drunk. "But I can't be tied down to something. All those creepy pals of Slughorn's asking what do you want to do, at least the ones that assume I'm going to work and not just get married that is, and I don't know. I just want to learn. There's so much to see, and do and so much time to fill. The idea that I'd just get married to someone and wait around, I don't know, gardening or something is unbearable. As for working for the Ministry, well I don't think so. I don't want to teach, not yet anyway, although perhaps one day… I just… I want to do something good and I don't know how to that here."
That wasn't what he'd meant at all, but it was interesting. Very interesting. She'd never shown any real vulnerability before and he hadn't expected to see her unravel.
Fascinating.
But before he could probe her further, her father joined them at the table, cheeks red from dancing and a broad smile on his face.
This man wasn't ordinary, at least, although Tom wasn't entirely sure what to make of him.
"Very shoddy from you both," Cerdic said, setting a bottle of firewhiskey on the table. "Not even midnight and you're both sitting like you've been fed glumbumble fluid! Here, drink up m'boy. Night's still young. You Hermione, go on, here you go child."
Tom took the conjured glass, in some awe at the man's ability to drink. He'd hardly stopped as far as Tom could tell and yet there was very little difference in his demeanour now from when they'd been first introduced.
"What's your story then, Tom? Why has old Sluggie been prostrating himself for you all evening?"
Hermione tilted her head and he felt annoyed. She always seemed to see through his lies, so it would have to be honesty.
"I'm his favourite student and the top of our year, but I'm an orphan. A half-blood with no wizarding family left alive. I suppose he feels the need to, er, take an extra interest in my prospects."
"What's your blood got to do with anything?" the man demanded, from the privileged position of a name a thousand years old.
Still, it wasn't the reaction Tom was used to.
"Most of the truly powerful wizards in history have had mixed blood," Cerdic continued. "Besides, it's a load of old tosh. Every family that calls themselves pure is lying. All of 'em. Even the Malfoys, you know."
"You're such a gossip father," Hermione scolded, but she sounded amused.
"No, it's interesting – go on."
"Well, you know they're the family that really pushed for segregation – all because some Muggle queen wouldn't marry one of 'em. A Muggle king gave them the land that ridiculous house is built on too." Tom wasn't sure how a man with a castle could say that straight faced, but Cerdic managed to. "And they've long made a fortune in the Muggle world, converting it back into ours. Then there's the changelings… you know the family motto? Sanctimonia vincet semper – well let me tell you, that means a little impure mixed in doesn't matter to them in the long run. Very charismatic, though, all the Malfoys. Hyperion and Brutus – that'll be your friend Abraxas's father – were at Hogwarts with me. Not very long ago of course."
"Changelings?" Tom asked, genuinely fascinated.
"Not a tradition widely in practice now of course," Cerdic said, with a strange look at his daughter. "But in the old days, when a Muggle family would kill their child for its magic, some used to adopt them, or swap them for squib children. It was quite common. But then the population of Muggles increased so much and we lost track of them - to our detriment. Often worry about these children, well children like you, who don't know a thing about the world you really belong in till you're in it, just chuck you on a metaphorical broom and expect you to fly without ever telling you how."
.
.
Two firewhiskys later, the conversation turned to the holidays. Cerdic was curious about Muggle traditions, and when Tom mentioned he'd be going to Wales for a private research trip the man actually hit the table with his hand.
"You must come and visit, then, and see the salt experiments for yourself. Hermione'll give you the address."
"Alright," Tom said, calmly, although inside he was overjoyed. Perhaps seeing her home would reveal Hermione Dearborn's secrets to him? "Thank you. That would be very nice."
And it was doubly a win, really, because Hermione looked furious for a moment before she controlled her face.
He'd one-upped her, at last.
"Now you two children, go and dance. I'm going to have a nice talk with your charming head of house, Hermione. I'll see you at the station tomorrow, if I don't see you again later."
"My charming head of house, indeed," Hermione grumbled to him as they walked over to the dance floor again. "Can you believe him?"
"I think he's brilliant," Tom said, honestly. "Not at all what I expected, though."
"What did you expect?" she asked.
He took her hand and there it was again, but not as much as that first time, and pulled her close. Her body was more pliant now, and he could feel it against his all the way down, the curve of her waist, the smooth skin of her back.
"I don't know, really. Someone more like you, I suppose. Quieter, certainly."
She laughed.
"You didn't look pleased when he invited me to your house. Scared I'll finally discover your secrets?" Tom said, turning it into a seductive whisper in her ear.
"Maybe," she said quietly. "Or perhaps I'll find out yours."
.
.
When Tom got back to his dorm, sleep wouldn't come. Thoughts danced in his head, taunting him, out of control - the moment they'd touched as though their magic had combined for a second in breath-taking alchemy, stealing away his sanity for just a moment; his body's traitorous response, the possibilities seeing her home offered, what could possibly make her so different. The way she faded into the foreground and demanded to be noticed. The way her skin had felt under his hand, her red lips, the curves of her body, how it might look without the burnished dress...
Perhaps I'll find out yours, she'd said. And even as half of him thought that was a very, very bad idea, the other half yearned to tell her everything, to open up the festering wounds of his buried youth and let her burn him clean. If anyone curses his father or mother, he must be put to death. The verse rang round his head like a bell, as it had since the summer. But he could not die, would not.
The bible verse reminded of something. He found the book he'd stolen from her weeks ago. A Muggle book he hadn't been able to bring himself to open again, but tonight...
He began to read.
Of Mans First Disobediance, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
He drank up the words like black whiskey, lying on his bed, the glittering snake she'd conjured wrapped around his wrist. Naturally he hadn't wanted her to know how much he liked it, or that he'd keep it, so he'd had to double back after dinner one evening and taken it from the tree, conjuring a replacement instead.
Tom Riddle had never read anything like Paradise Lost.
They'd forced the Bible on him, of course. Church every Sunday, prayers in the morning, prayers before bed. Prayers to thank the Lord for the gruel placed before them three times a day. Prayers over them when they were bad. Prayers and beatings too if you put a toe out of line. More than beatings, sometimes.
He'd survived. He was special.
[You are nothing, Riddle. Nothing nothing nothing.]
But the book made him remember.
[You are full of wickedness, Tom Riddle. God sees All and He will punish you.]
Unnatural! fiend! (the marks the nuns had left had never lasted overnight on him so they'd tried harder and harder before they gave up at last, when he became too big and he fought back with things neither party understood).
Hell is full of fire, Tom Riddle. You'll be straight there if you carry on like this.
It wasn't, though. He'd always known that. He'd grown up there, after all. They'd exorcised him, but it hadn't helped.
[Do you known what happens to boys who wet the bed? He'd learnt not to. He'd had control other children hadn't had and they'd hated him for it. Hated him because he'd always been in trouble, always treated worst. Hated him for being different, just like Mrs Cole and her army of bitter, twisted help who called themselves Godly].
[Have you been touching yourself you disgusting freak? Wash his palms in carbolic acid.]
[I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; he'd recited to Mrs Cole once, She is to keep silent. That was when they'd moved him to his own room and locked him away from the other children as much as possible. It would hardly have been a punishment, if they hadn't also half starved him.]
.
.
But this hell – this man, this Milton - this was different. This wasn't the excruciating dullness of Sunday school, or twice-daily scripture class.
Knowledge, forbidden?
Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord
Envy them that? Can it be a sin to know?
Can it be death?
Why should they not dream of other worlds? Tom thought in a rage, and threw the book across the room, immediately glad the rest of his dormitory was out cold, snoring.
It would have been truly mortifying if anyone had seen the effect this muggle book was having on him.
The knowledge he'd been told was wrong to want, the feeling of being cast out of a better world, the unfair portrayal of snakes… Swept away in the rhetoric, and unaware he'd fallen into quite the same trap as so many before him in admiring Satan, Tom read the whole thing twice in the night and turned up to breakfast the morning after with black-ringed eyes burning in his pale face.
He felt clean.
Hungover, and tired as hell, but clean.
.
.
.
Orphanages in the 1920s and 1930s were not nice places! The historic abuse that's come out in the UK is just... Terrible. Look it up.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for your wonderful support and reviews.
