Little Orphan Annie.

It was raining when she left the hospital. Buffy huddled beneath the umbrella that the skinny woman from the orphanage had provided and followed her, dodging shoppers on the crowded high street as they headed for the tram.

As it was getting late, every seat was already taken and they were both forced to stand the entire way. Buffy hanging onto a leather strap that hung from the ceiling and shuffling from one side of the aisle to the other as people pushed past her as they got on and off the vehicle. On the seat next to her, a thin man glared at her continuous as rainwater poured from her umbrella and made a large puddle next to his highly-polished shoes. Buffy ignored him. She was far too busy dodging commuters and trying to stay on her feet than worry about one sour face in a crowd.

By the time they'd reached their stop, Buffy was beginning to feel seasick from all the swaying she'd done and was glad to get off. The rain was as relentless as ever. Mrs Cole gave the sky a dark look and muttered about it being 'set in for the night' before scurrying off past the rows of Victorian terraced houses with Buffy following.

"This way," Mrs Cole said when they reached the bottom of the street and then she turned right, past more identical houses. Buffy hurried after her; keeping her umbrella low enough to shield her from the sideways rain and just high enough to see the woman's shoes and lower legs walking in front of her.

The legs came to a stop at the bottom of the long street. "This is your new home."

Buffy lifted her umbrella. Directly across the street from her was a red brick building; it was set behind tall walls that were topped with spiked metal railings. Hung above the arched gateway, a metal sign bore the building's name, Wool's Orphanage. Buffy blinked, taken by surprise at its appearance. It looked more like a prison than a home for young children.

Mrs Cole watched her face, expecting a response from her.

"I like the walls," Buffy said slowly, desperately searching for something nice to say. "They look very uniform and er, every brick is in line. It's kinda neat, when you think about it." It sounded kind of lame to her own ears, but she was struggling to find anything nice to say about the place. The building looked stark, without the slightest bit of softness to make it appear more welcoming.

The woman tutted with disapproval. "Without that building, children would be sleeping out on the streets. Come along. We're getting soaked."

When they stepped through the main doors of the building, the first thing that hit Buffy was the gloomy colour scheme. Whoever was in charge of interior decorating these places must have been insane. No one normal would think green and brown tiles should cover every surface.

'That's because it's easier to mop up the blood after they've murdered the children in demonic rituals.'

Buffy gave an inward shake of her head. Why was she having these dark thoughts? Had she always been like this or had that bang on the head made her crazy?

"Martha!" Mrs Cole called loudly as she shook off the umbrellas off vigorously, making Buffy jump. Dropping them both into the umbrella stand, she began unpinning her hat and taking off her gloves. She shouted again, "Martha? Are you busy?"

A plump woman in her thirties wearing a floral pinafore apron, and holding a bundle in her arms appeared in a nearby doorway. "I'm here, Mrs Cole."

"If you're busy with the baby, I'll find someone else" Mrs Cole patted her damp curls and grimaced as she looked in the hall mirror. "The rain is terrible out there and on my evening off too." Seeing Buffy smiling at Martha and Martha eyeing her with interest, she introduced them. "Martha, this is Buffy Summers. She's the American girl I told you about."

They exchanged greetings and Buffy politely commented. "What a sweet little boy, he is."

"Her name's Enid," said Martha. She held out the tiny baby to Buffy and Buffy took her, somewhat reluctantly. "Her ma died last night and the dad can't cope. He's just dropped her off."

"What sort of dad does something like that?" A deep-seated dislike for dead-beat fathers sprang to life inside her. It made her wonder about Hank Summers. Where was he? Why hadn't he come looking for her? Had he walked out on them?

Martha tutted and shook her head reprovingly. "Hush now, Enid's dad has four other kiddies to deal with," she went on, "He's working all hours at the docks and he's no one to help him but his neighbours. You shouldn't judge people if you don't know the full circumstances."

"But it's not her fault," Buffy replied holding the child to her and watching her close her eyes as she rocked her.

Martha softened. "No, it isn't, poor mite. Don't worry, we'll soon find her a new family."

As they spoke, a door further along the corridor opened and a boy appeared with a book in his hand. He paused when he saw them look over at him.

"Tom!" Mrs Cole's shrill voice echoed in the tiled hallway.

With a resigned set of his shoulders, the boy pasted on a friendly smile and headed towards them.

Still holding the baby, Buffy kept her head down and watched from under her lashes. He looked around the same age as her, but with no sign of a teenager's awkwardness about him. His dark hair was side-parted, cut very short at the sides with a longer, tousled section to the front. On most boys it would have looked severe, on him, it emphasised his best features; his high cheekbones, sharp aristocratic nose, and the slight arrogant turn of his lips.

"Oh yum, to the salty goodness," she under her breath as she looked at those full lips.

The boy shot a sharp look in her direction. Buffy tensed, her eyes widening. Had he heard her? She hadn't meant for him to hear that. Buffy dropped her gaze to the floor, feeling flustered, and had a sudden flashback...

She was in a deserted dark alley with a dark-haired, dark-eyed man. He had the face of an angel and yet Buffy knew she shouldn't trust him.

"Who are you?" She asked, in her hand was the small box he'd just tossed to her.

"Let's just say – I'm a friend," the dark-haired man replied, starting to walk away.

It was annoying, He was annoying."Yeah? Well, maybe I don't wanna friend."

He looked back at her, a twisted smile on his lips. "Oh, I didn't say I was yours."

The memory faded and Buffy found herself reaching to where a crucifix used to lie. In its place, under her blouse, the key to a Gringott's vault hung on a string tied around her neck for safety.

"May I be of service, Mrs Cole?"

As he spoke Tom slanted a glance over at the baby Buffy was holding. Buffy watched the edge of his polite smile curl into a small sneer as his contempt for it and the young mother.

Did he think the baby was hers? Ha! That was so far from the truth it made her raise her chin and smile. She caught his eye again and was startled to see that his eyes weren't brown as she'd first thought. They were blue, so dark a blue that in the gloomy hall they looked almost black – black, like a snake's.

"Tom, I'd like you to meet Buffy Summers," Mrs Cole said rather stiffly. "Buffy, this is Tom Riddle. Buffy and her mother were caught up in the bomb explosion at St Pancras a few days ago. She'll remain with us until her mother recovers or another member of her family comes for her."

Tom politely put out his hand for her to shake. Her skin tingled oddly when her palm touched his hand and something deep inside her stirred, putting her on edge. She looked up into his pale face, noting the way his pupils widened before he dropped her hand as if it had burnt him. He then held it out to the side, as if it was dirty.

Did he think she'd given him cooties? Would he run off and dunk it in bleach because she'd contaminated it? Her polite smile broadened into a grin. Tom didn't look happy that she was laughing at his squeamishness. He still wore his polite fixed smile, but she could see his nostrils flaring, with annoyance.

"Tom is older than the other children," Mrs Cole was explaining, "We had a teacher call here one day and invite Tom to attend a special school."

"Special?" repeated Buffy suspiciously. Did he have learning difficulties? That would explain his weird aloofness, the awkward handshake, and those wary looks Mrs Cole kept giving him.

"It's a school for the gifted," Tom replied, looking down his nose at her. "Even if I explained, I doubt you'd be capable of understanding what that actually means."

"Oh, don't be so certain that I won't understand," replied Buffy, cheerfully misunderstanding. "We can't all be a special needs kid. Can we?" And she made sure she gave him a condescending smile. When Tom's nostrils flared again and a flash of anger popped in his eyes, she knew she'd hit home.

"Most children leave school at fourteen and go to live elsewhere," Mrs Cole explained as she glanced at her watch, thinking about the end of her shift, and oblivious to the rising tension. "Tom, however, will continue to spend his summers here until he finishes school."

"Did the teachers hold you back?" Buffy was confident that the mega-watt smile she gave him eclipsed his fake one. "That must be a pain."

"Indeed they did not," his voice hissed with irritation. "I take my studies very seriously and I have no time for," he paused, dropping his eyes significantly to the baby, "socially inappropriate behaviour that leads to unwanted consequences."

"Tom always has his nose in a book," said Martha. "All the staff think that he'll be running the country in a few years."

"Bossy, is he?" Buffy couldn't resist asking. She could feel the boy's dark eyes boring into her head. If thoughts could kill she'd probably be a shrivelled heap on the floor by now.

"Oh no, he is ever so helpful," Martha replied.

Tom bestowed a saccharine smile on Martha, making her simper. "I'm not so sure about politics," he said slowly, "but I'd love to be in a position of power."

He allowed his eyes to run slowly over Buffy's clothes, lingering for longer on the tears and the clumsy repairs she'd tried to make. Finally, he lifted his gaze to her hair and the ribbon listing soggily to one side. "There are so many people in this world who are less fortunate than myself. I'd like to make it my business to..." he smirked at Buffy, "...end their misery."

Those sly digs wouldn't usually bother Buffy, but today she was feeling extra-sensitive about her appearance. This was her first day out of the hospital and she was still wearing the outfit she'd been wearing when the building had buried her. It wasn't her fault she hadn't been able to go back to the hotel, pack her stuff, and find something decent to wear. As for the soggy hair accessory, that hadn't been her idea. One of the nurses had insisted on brushing her hair into a side parting (side partings seemed to be a thing here) and then topping it off with a large white bow, saying that it looked pretty. Buffy had taken one look at herself in the mirror and known she was a walking fashion disaster. All she needed was ringlets and she'd rock the Shirley Temple look.

Tom missed the vicious death glare that Buffy treated him to as Mrs Cole chose that moment to interrupt. "Tom, you can start your benevolent career off by showing Buffy up to her room. I've put her on the same landing as you. She's in number eighty-six." Tom nodded, and she added for Buffy's benefit, "Dinner is at 6 o'clock. If you require a bath before then, please remember there's a war on and the bathtub must not be filled above the black line. After dinner, I'll give you a list of rules and then go over your daily chores."

Chores? Suddenly, the irritating Tom Riddle was forgotten and Buffy was back to panicking. She kept visualising herself as Orphan Annie, scrubbing floors and staring out of windows belting out 'Tomorrow' at the top of her voice.

"I just know I'm gonna need Daddy Warbucks to rescue me," she muttered, handing over the sleeping baby to a bemused Martha.

The two of them left the gloomy hallway behind. Buffy following a silent Tom Riddle through a long series of tiled corridors and then up a bare staircase, their footsteps echoing loudly as they walked through the building. Tom was taller than her, with much longer legs and he set a fast pace, purposely pretending he couldn't hear her calls of "wait up".

As they passed through each section of the building Buffy noticed that the further they went from the public area, the more depressing it became. On the higher levels, the windows were small, set high in the walls, and hardly let in any daylight.

Finally, she burst out, "This place is like a prison! How can you stand it?"

"You become used to it," Tom replied shortly, without looking at her. He slowed and led her down another tiled corridor. "We are on the top floor, there's only the attics above us." The fake smile had long since left his face. He probably thought she wasn't worth the trouble.

"How long have you been here?" Buffy asked, noting the numbers on the doors as they passed them. A couple of the doors were open, and inside she caught glimpses of empty narrow rooms. They looked more like prison cells than the kids' bedrooms.

"I was born here," Tom replied without elaboration. He stopped beside a door bearing the number eighty-six and give it a push with his hand.

The door swung open silently to reveal a narrow room. Stepping past Tom, she walked inside. Buffy thought he'd leave her on her own to explore, but he hovered in the doorway, his curiosity getting the better of him. "What happened to your baby's father?"

"He ran off with another woman." Buffy looked around the room, taking in the furniture, a small closet in the corner near the door, a desk under the window, and a narrow cot to sleep on. She sat gingerly down on the stained mattress. The bed sagged and the springs creaked under her weight. The longer she looked at the brown stains, the more they looked like old dried blood as if someone had died on it. Maybe teasing Tom wasn't such a good idea, not if he was the only other person sleeping up here. "I'm just kidding, the baby isn't mine. Martha got me hold her." From out the corner of her eye, she thought Tom give an eye roll, but she might have imagined it.

"How old are you?" he asked. "What school do you go to?"

She lifted her chin, met those dark eyes, and countered, "How old are you?"

He gave her a slightly bored look. "Fifteen."

"My passport says that I'm fifteen too." Buffy ignored the school question as she didn't know if she was supposed to restart school or not.

Deciding to check the view from the window, she walked over to the desk. This side of the building faced the gable end of the building next door. The two separated by a gap of only a few feet. Buffy stretched out over the desk to press her forehead on the window and then tilted her head to squint around her.

"Oh, wow! What a great view! Not." She turned and perched on the desk to face Tom.

He'd leaned against the door jamb with his arms folded. "What do you mean ''your passport says'? Is the date wrong?"

She looked back at him, wondering what to tell him. Buffy had no memories of the kids from before her accident, but she already knew Tom wasn't altogether normal. Underneath that polite smile of his, there was something dark and brooding. It didn't automatically put her off him. Strangely, it felt sort of familiar as if she used to hang out with guys like him in the past.

She was the new girl here, it no use spilling her secrets and getting a reputation for being a crazy kid. It was better to keep to basics and say as little as possible. "I'm sure my passport is right. The truth is, I can't remember anything from before the accident. The doctor says memory loss is normal and that it might take a while to get them all back."

"You have amnesia?"

She nodded.

He was silent for such a long time that she prodded him for a response, "Don't you think it sucks that I've lost my memory?"

"Sucks?"

"Yeah, sucks. You know... a shame, awful, unpleasant."

Tom shrugged. "It could be much worse." He pushed himself away from the wall he'd leaned against. "Bathroom's on the left down the hall. You'll find clean towels and bedlinen in the cupboard next to it. Make sure you clean up after yourself in there as we're sharing, and don't be late for dinner."

"How could it be worse?" Buffy asked as Tom turned into the corridor. " Do you mean if I was dead or had no legs?"

The dark-haired boy stopped in mid-stride to look back over his shoulder. There was a sarcastic edge to his smile and the glitter of mischief in his eyes. "Oh, no, that isn't what I meant at all. It would be far worse if I'd been the one in the accident and it had been me who'd lost 'my' memory."

And then he stalked off, ignoring her call of "Gee, thanks," that echoed down the corridor after him.