A/N: I cannot get this picture out of my mind and it has been absolutely driving me crazy. I wanted something different and so here I am sharing this with all of you from the recesses of my mind.

There will be no full-fledged novel because one, I have way too many stories as it is. Two, people have already done these types of stories so beautifully and Tom Riddle's mind is such an enigma and honestly can be mentally draining for being such a complex character. I'd never want to taint his character as I'm very critical of my writing as it is.

However, I'm not opposed to writing two more chapters to end this. We'll see. So here it is enjoy, don't destroy. I tried my best 😉

I'm a millennial so I grew up with the Harry Potter series and I'm well aware Tom's eyes are brown. However, other actors eyes have been blue and I'm going with that. Such as the actor in the Origins of the Heir. To me, that was Tom Riddle, and played beautifully so.

Reviews show so much love.
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Part I

August 18th, 1942

Wools Orphanage

LONDON

She knew where she would find him.

As with any day in the summer until they both returned to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This never got any easier. As each year passed, he only withdrew into himself more and more...

In the beginning they'd appeared as opposites. Yet even as small children, they'd found a commonality in each other. A solidarity from their shared love of books and introverted complexes. They preferred this over the exchange amongst staff at the inferred—and distasteful— identity as an "orphan". Like branded cattle and herding them out as such every year on Adoption Day.

Forced out of their seclusion, it was in each other their common ground was found—quite literally, perched on the cracked, worn steps of Wools Orphanage and dressed in their hand-me-down—yet—presentable attire.

All for the sake of propriety.

As such a day uneventfully unfolded and the hours dragged torturously on, they'd pass the time reading through a collection of tattered books handed down throughout the years. Silent as doves but ever watchful under the whisper of pages sifted beneath their fingertips. Never scolded and properly postured; she, with her legs formally folded, and his, crossed at the ankles. They'd appraise their surroundings momentarily, once another orphan was sifted. Then once it was over, he'd loosen his tie and she'd shed her ribbons. Together they'd venture up to the rooftops to indulge in the featured worlds much sought from illustrious authors. Exchanging books and discussing the contents from which they'd just soaked in for a read. Whether it be the outlandish endings to a fairytale he'd critically condemn, or the local newspaper that kept them involved with the global war. As day by day, more countries were called into the fight.

Or so it seemed.

Because of this, they'd both quickly learned the price with which war came. Familiar with hardship left from the remnants of the Great Depression, funding once more burned a hole in the staff's pocket. Such guilt only hardened the frown lines along the weathered face of their caretaker, Ms. Cole, having just recovered from the depressive crash. And left as a surviving widow with miniscule staff.

Rationing portions, the daily three servings were then cut to two with teatime skipped during which, the two had created their own system. He'd hand off his stale bread and she, an extra dose of her cool porridge. When their wood deliquesced from the fireplace's hearth of heating the homestead, they'd shove extra potatoes in their sacks to keep warm against winter's bitter chill. With such bequeaths hardly considered a companionship of sorts from an outsider's view, such a functioning for them—worked.

Thus, the coexistence.

It wasn't until 1938 merely a month after her eleventh birthday, their entire world would be flipped on its axis. During a particularly rainy day on the 12th of August, they were introduced to a Professor Albus Dumbledore; a teacher from a school of magic located in a northern part of Scotland. Henceforth, another world to them was suddenly born. Hidden just beyond the charmed bricks of the Leaky Cauldron alley, the magical wizarding community of Diagon Alley was unveiled.

Their true identities were brought to their knowledge as a witch and a wizard. Thereafter they were introduced to a Ministry of Magic; a type of magical government slightly similar in their order and overseen by a head Minister. Much to her chagrin she'd discover a strange banking system run by surly goblins called, Gringotts which handled their financials in the wizarding world. The professor's kind, twinkling-blue eyes and, laughably, zany robes had kept her at ease with the strange creatures. Even as they'd speedily tunneled through caverns housing underground vaults on hazardous tracks.

From one particular vault the wizard had retrieved a velvet pouch teeming with strange gold, silver and bronze coins: Galleons, sickles, and knuts. It was explained as Hogwarts financial-program vault. Only used for those of less fortune much to their overt discomfiture, it was deemed a necessity given their menial means.

However, the instant they'd enter a dimly lit disheveled shop with their presence announced by the chiming of a bell, her friend's disposition would heavily alter...

"13 ½ long crafted from yew with a phoenix feather core. 11 inches of holly, containing a single feather from the tail of a... phoenix." The wizened man named Ollivander—as posted on the shop—had peppered sprightly hair that paired with his seemingly, eccentric persona. As he examined their wands his eyes suddenly widened, considerably. Glancing out the squared window where Dumbledore waited, he then leveled his sharp, beady gaze at them with a steady exhale. "My, my..." One unruly brow raised in surprise. "How curious, curious indeed. Feathers from the same bird. Siblings... By Merlin's beard..."

As she glanced at her friend she noticed a strange type of hunger, merging with the shrewd blue of his gaze that matched the rigidness of his spine.

Once they'd left Ollivanders, they'd tucked their wands safely away, left to shop for the remainder of their school supplies with her friend seemingly locked in his own thoughts. So much so, that not even Dumbledore's strange toppings from an ice cream parlor called: Florean Fortescue's Creamery, had broken him of such a concentrated reverie. Since, she'd been unable to shake the shivering cold that had encapsulated her since the encircling of their wands…

It had come so quickly. The moment the two grasped their wands, a sudden vibration crackled through their fingertips as a blinding, bright flash eclipsed the darkness. The sheer force blasted boxes from the shelves, startling the wand maker himself—before she'd felt it. An icy tendril suddenly coiled around her spine, that much reflected the pictures of serpents she'd viewed, as if sharp incisors had punctured the skin. It felt like white-hot needles held over an open flame. Shocking her psyche, waves of pain scourged her flesh, every nerve ending as if on fire. Hot tears stung her eyes and an agonized cry pierced the air. Just as quickly as it had come, however—it was snuffed like a flickering wicker moments later.

And the light vanished from whence it came.

It took several heartbeats before she could drag herself from the floor, her friend steadily rising to his feet as well. Other than their shallow, labored breathing, it was as silent as a tomb. Whatever magic had just transpired had seemingly deprived the two of oxygen, as if brutally ripped from their lungs. So when their eyes met, she was unprepared for the intensity that burned before her. As if he saw every crevice of personal thought she kept under shadow.

Even from him.

A vast array of emotions blended in those eyes that eerily glowed like a cobalt fire. It was unlike anything she'd ever seen. No doubt this moment would forever impale their memories...

Informing them of the school term coming up in less than a month, the kindly wizard had departed Wools, sending her friend into full retreat rightfully ignoring the pink elephant in the room—after exclaiming about the old man's buffoonery of apparel. For the remainder of that night, his absence was felt. However, he'd remain holed up in his room for several days after, leaving her to ponder over Mr. Ollivander's words. Though she'd wanted to surmise he'd simply inhaled too many dust motes over the years, she was undoubtedly fooling herself.

Alas, the event remained unexplainable.

Soon enough she'd underestimate the impact of Ollivander's words. Such as when they'd first laid eyes on the elaborate domain that was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. To witness such grandeur had left her suspended in that moment of awe as she'd soaked it all in. Until she'd witnessed the ravenous glint in her friend's eyes glimmering against the darkness. Much like the blackened lake they floated upon like a sea of glass. It had left a permanent chill fused to her spine like sharp talons. Which could particularly pinch when his emotions heightened, as if he'd left his very signature upon her at the bonding of their wands.

Even as they found their way into a magical world with the Sorting Hat charmed atop their heads to determine their houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.

A lion. An Eagle. A Badger. And a Serpent.

Bravery. Witts. Loyalty. Ambition.

She had been chosen as a Gryffindor: house of the noble and brave. While he had been sorted into Slytherin: the house of the cunning and ambitious. Which for Tom, was only natural.

Red and Gold.

Silver and Green.

One a Lion.

One a Serpent.

Such a legacy had been built from a starting foundation created by the Founders themselves: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin. Four medieval witches and a wizard whose strong bloodlines brought Hogwarts to the stronghold it would become in magic and mastery that hid from the outside world's eye. Brilliant wizards and witches over the decades would expand the castles' finesse and expound on the academia according to Hogwarts A History. This included The Hogwarts Express, a steam train ingeniously accessed from platform 9 ¾ at London's heavily trafficked, Kings Cross between platforms 9 and 10. Greatly had she enjoyed figuring out the maneuverings of such, just as well as discovering the oddity that was Quidditch. The amassed, intense sport entailed flying brooms with goalposts shot through by a ball called a Quaffle, Bludgers—nasty buggers that trailed and could seriously injure a player—and a flying golden ball called the snitch, which if caught, won the game. Though it was considered a rather uncouth sport in her friend's eyes, she'd admittedly been curious. Enough to consider tryouts for the sport, though she'd digressed from such temptations. A woman on the team was simply unheard of and she did not wish to draw such attention to herself.

Such ample time leftover, allowed her to explore the castle and its never-ending labyrinth of mysteries. From a bewitched Enchanted Ceiling in the Great Hall to the talking portraits nailed to the walls dishing prompt greetings as staircases abruptly changed. Though certain corridors teeming with ghosts of the past such as Nearly Headless Nick had admittedly, taken some time to be accustomed to.

Leeched in darkness were forbidden entrances left in shadow and guarded by a red-eyed cat called Ms. Norris and a disgruntled man, Argus Filch. So having a lavish dormitory up in the Gryffindor Tower gilded in light from the stained glass windows, definitely brightened her moods. Especially the fine maroon drawings and pillows of feathered down softness that brought her comforts she'd only ever dreamt of.

A vast array of food, uncommon in the muggle world—the non-magic folk as she'd soon learn—appeared on golden plates from thr castles working houselves concocting quite the delicacies at mealtimes. With goblets charmed to refill her glasses with pumpkin juice, never did she leave parched for her upcoming classes. Such as Astronomy held in an actual tower at night. To the marvels of Transfiguration and the machinations of such. The surprise lack of gravity in Charms and its levitating splendors. And most curious, the toiling done in the dungeons with a cauldron in Potions.

Come her studious breaks, it hadn't taken long to find the vast library sheathed within the castles limestone walls. Such endless bouts of knowledge there was to be had in such novelties. Often, it was where she'd locate her friend. At Hogwarts holidays were celebrated to their fullest extremity and such an atmosphere of joy often lost to the world outside the wards, soured her friend, considerably. Even as the world they knew darkened come the rise of a dark wizard named, Gellert Grindelwald. A maniacal man, he'd wished to exterminate the race of muggles and muggle-borns altogether. Come the commencement of summer this always left her nervous upon her return to Wools Orphanage. Living in a homestead chock full of muggles oblivious to the psychopath that wreaked havoc wherever spotted next, and unfairly so, given the dictator that ruled in their world: Adolf Hitler. A twisted man drunk off his own power, he wished to exterminate Jewish citizens as abominations. News that had truly disheartened her with such similarities reflected in both worlds.

How prevalent evil was even without magic.

Indeed the 20th century would prove to be a grueling period. In the second year of 1939 they'd boarded the Hogwarts Express, as the orphans were evacuated on trains out of London. By whispered prayer as Ms. Cole said, their orphanage was spared from the bombing of London and allowed them to return for the summer. From their "studies abroad" as Dumbledore had once told their caretaker. However, the wreckage she'd seen coming out of King's Cross wouldn't soon be forgotten. Many areas had been a smoking husk, only reminding her of the villages she'd seen of Grindelwald's sieges recorded in the Dailey Prophet.

There loomed the terror Grindelwald was expelling upon the wizarding world. And ever, did it remain in the back of her mind. Every two weeks she found herself owling the few female colleagues she'd made in her house, loaned from the Owlery. This allowed her in on inclusive reports of Grindelwalds attacks and which towns were targeted next. Often ill after a reading, she'd seek solitude with her childhood friend.

Even if it was just sitting in silence.

Over the course of their school years they still found moments together. Mostly, to do homework by the Black Lake. Only on the rare occasion did they take their studies to the Astronomy tower to observe the constellations for an upcoming quiz. Even more rare, pleasure which only reminded her of their familiar dwellings back at Wools. This fortunately, did not comprise of his odious ring of cohorts he'd collected over the years. Brutes of another breed with which she found no pleasure in heeding. Though her status as a Gryffindor solidified that indefinitely, they'd never been untoward, given her friend's intolerance of ill formality.

To distance himself further from his orphaned background he made sure even his most worn apparel was suitable with a simple brandish of his wand. Always did he seek for perfection and authority. Boldly within the public perception, he excelled at the top of his classes, carrying a façade many teachers regarded him favorably for. Most dominantly their Potions teacher, Professor Slughorn.

Always polite and straight-laced, she'd only seen such composure crack, once. At the cause of an orphaned git named Billy Stubbs. The delinquent toe-rag had often taken pleasure in brawling with others at the orphanage. For unknown reason she'd been his sole focus—until Stubbs rabbit was found hanging from the rafters one day. Being no stranger to the darkness that surrounded her friend, she saw from the chasm of his mind, the beast that surfaced from the deep, with a silent malevolence once a nerve was picked.

Such as the cave incident that would follow them years, after. Per his request she'd kept a fair distance away that spring day, skipping stones to pass the time. As they'd regrouped on the beach, he'd drawn up an elaborate tale of what transpired, leaving no loose ends for further inquiry.

Naturally.

Judging by the kids' wits however, indeed something horrific had occurred. The word haunted itself described their glassy-eyed ashen faces. And shortly after, young Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were bused to an asylum.

Such an action should've made her flee in the opposite direction. But had it? No. Perhaps because he'd been there from the beginning, a young boy nary a tear even when certain events should've evoked those human emotions. Yet he'd done the simplest of gestures, handing over a linen handkerchief to wipe her tears, since she'd been a sobbing wreck upon her settlement at the orphanage.

Thus a solidification took form.

Yet however the twisted relationship appeared to an outsiders view, like the knobbed deformities on a willows bark, he'd become her only confidante which she'd confide in. Such as how her parents were killed in a mob happenstance while she'd been left with the homekeepers nanny. Later she'd discover the reality of their true demise having been murdered by a follower of Grindelwalds. Much time before his rise to power; before his name was unleashed upon the world. Just as she'd learn—eventually—her friend introduction to the world had started with abandonment, left with simply a name. Which only went to show how high his trust was regarded.

With her.

Even as his demeanor began to mold and harden in the present, preferring the Commons to take their meals, alone. While the shadows lengthened around him and his eyes like two abysmal glacial pools. While their years matured to which they found more time wayfaring through town.

He'd merely follow suit as a silent compromise. Though he remained a feigned, disinterested guard on her arm. While once or twice; she was forced to tail after him into Knockturn Alley, into the bowels she couldn't wait to depart from with the stench of darkness so thick it left her itching to cast her black swan Patronus. Many seedy places were hidden along the cobbled streets, a particular antique hovel that had encapsulated him enough to visit was called:

Borgin and Burkes.

Hopefully, as she recalled the lavicious stares she'd received from a few of the peddlers and Mr. Borgin himself the month before—the final visit. As it had been enough to scrap her appetite for the remainder of that night.

However, she felt those same fraying nerves; anxiety as something of preponderance occurred on the cusps of womanhood. It was a rather terrifying feeling yet, here she was ascending a rickety stairway that painstakingly groaned with each step, as if the mere body weight was an encumbrance linked to her shoulder blades and neck.

Tension.

At least she'd made it past Ms. Cole. The head matron well into her early forties retained the mannerisms of a 1920s finishing school. She would've been forced to recite the proper etiquette of a woman's sacrilege from such a state of undress. Unbeknownst to Ms. Cole, this wasn't the first time she'd reunited with her friend at a late hour. Merely clad in a thin night slip which in years past he'd tutted disapprovingly of.

Yet he allowed it to be.

The wispy, frayed ends billowed as a warm draft swept through old, wooden rafters. Taking the spiral of stairs twice at a time was quite the trek for what once operated as a bell tower. The desolate pylon provided a bird's eye view above the smog from chimneys on the rooftops beyond. It held the most scenic views of the sunsets in all of London.

As she shoved the rusted, metal latch with the pad of her palm, the wooden door fell open with an audible creeeak. Picking up the hems of her nightgown, she ascended the ornate stone chilling her toes, to the small landing above.

The skies were a perfect depiction of a Monet painting. The colors were vibrant and the sea of clouds, a dusty rose as the last golden flares of the setting sun sank beyond.

There she found her friend lounging, long legs dangling off the side without so much as a lick of fear. Dark blue eyes leaden with thick lashes shadowed pallid, angular cheekbones, reminding her of the attentive detail Michelangelo chiseled into his marble sculptures. Much like the older prints of Roman art the two had once poured through. Ebony curls free from a coiffed state fell across furrowed brows.

The muscle in his jaw had slackened which only reminded her how he relaxed, just so, in her presence. As he spoke softly, it further conveyed this. "Do you know the meaning of the name Harven? It derives from the old Norse name Hrafn. It means raven."

"Raven?" One arched brow rose as she settled next to him. Her bare, pinkened feet dangled off the side and it felt nice to be in his presence again, since he'd grown more recluse. Hoping to engage his attention she tapped her foot against his secondhand, fabric Oxfords. "How did you discover this?"

His eyes raised and he looked at her then, a small furrow of his brow. "Old Norse sagas. Not necessarily history but experiences remembered. I was reading about the old, Scandinavian culture and an excerpt of a wizard's account on runes." He shook his head with a small, arrogant smirk. "Not particularly memorable. Not your cup of tea, anyways. But raven... it's rather ironic given the shade of your hair."

The reflection of her emerald eyes refracted off his dark, cobalt gaze. Genetics she was often reminded—painfully—of in mirrored reflections. "Not you starting to sound like Professor Binns." she goaded lightly with a nudge of her elbow. Secretly, she was pleased with his unique way at flattery.

It was so like Tom.

Nonetheless, he realized her undressed state then and a flicker of disapproval surfaced with a roll of his eyes. "Harven Potter," he chided, "ever quite the scandal this would be if caught. Ms. Cole would tan your hide for less."

"Oh, Tom, it's not like I'm a lady of the night." She rolled her eyes and crossed her ankles. "I'm hardly uncouth and in a trusting company since practical infancy." She added with a hushed laugh. "And you are ever the perfect gentleman."

"Well, if you're not careful it could tarnish your reputation and mine. And that I cannot allow." He straightened himself and the muscle in his jaw twitched.

She'd, unintentionally, irritated him.

"Are you honestly angry with me? It's not like I'm buck naked for Merlin's sakes." She sighed, exasperated. "On the Witches Weekly cover, might I dare."

His eyes flashed as he replied sharply, "Enough, Harven. We are not mere children anymore; your attributes have certainly changed. It is unbecoming of a lady. If someone like Billy Stubbs saw you in such dressings—" He inhaled sharply and to Harven's surprise, she sensed an underlying hint of... covetousness. "Well, your lack of decency would be the least of our problems..."

A shadow fell under his eyes as the last of his words eclipsed, like a dark promise. A beat later he was on his feet, straightening out the worn lapels of his jacket as a button fell loose from the sewn lining. "We are soon to start our fifth year at Hogwarts and my objective is to be made a Prefect. You should know better in your maturity, Harven. You're now sixteen years old."

Ah yes.

A month ago they'd celebrated it. Or as close to a celebration as there would be. On what little savings she'd suspected off certain accomplices from school, he'd treated her to her favorite bookstore in Diagon Alley. There, she'd purchased Tales of Beedle the Bard; a storyteller from the 15th century whose wizarding life remained somewhat of a mystery. Though Tom had looked dismayed at the purchase, he'd paid nonetheless and even listened to one tale before he'd retired for the night.

Harven stood on her feet, the hurt serrating like a knifes edge. That icy tendril she'd felt as a child, however, echoed beneath her skin and coiled around her spine once more, assuring. As it did, it settled her frazzled nerves and with a tenacity in her voice she replied, "So it has not been above your attentions then?"

His chin jutted out and he seemed to mull over her words for a moment, tongue against cheek. He stared out into the horizon as stars illuminated the coming night skies with tiny pinpricks of light. "Be more specific. My patience is thinning, Harven." He enunciated with a sudden grit of teeth.

Harven gathered her courage and took a step closer. "What am I to you, Tom? Am I just there as a convenience? A fool to believe there could ever be something akin than a passing fancy?"

Tom glanced at her and bit the inside of his cheek as he turned from her, head just slightly tilted over his shoulder as he avoided her steepled gaze. "If you're daring to hint at something trivial as a fondness, then yes, that's quite daft. Think of it as an equivalent to the non-equivalent, Harven. I have plans after Hogwart: plans that don't involve the atypical life of a working man, housewife, or... a lot of children."

A cool front off the summer winds passed through the decrepit pillars just then, rustling the thin, cotton fabric of her nightgown, sweeping back long waves of ebony off one shoulder. It was the only whisper of sound against the deafening silence.

Never had it felt more weighted.

Harven had never found herself to be the typical porcelain beauty with painted lips and the dark, gothic features equivalent to the Black family lineage. Or Rosiers. Nor did she possess the veela-genetics of silvery hair and seraphim attributes like that of the Malfoys. Although her worst critic, she was hardly considered plain. Possessing her mother's soulful, emerald eyes with subtle freckles across a pert nose and ivory complexion. With thick curls framing a widow's peak and her father's strong chin softly rounded by her feminity. Thus she thought herself pretty with how Tom's eye would casually wander. Though she wasn't nearly as domineering in looks, he wasn't the only to have a wandering gaze.

Even his band of followers had their share of subtle, careful, glances.

Though Tom hardly looked at himself in a mirror other than the natural grooming, girls still fawned over her friend. Whether he feigned awareness. His familiarized scent she'd never be able to replicate if she lost him: mint shaving butter and a hint of musk the signature of his presence.

It sent a pang through her.

Still, she refused to succumb like a distressed damsel. Refused him in seeing her weakness and exploiting it. Though damned if she did and damned if she didn't, really. Clenching her teeth once, twice, she swallowed and decided to let things settle before tensions escalated. "Very well, forgive me. I think I'm going to retire for the night. Goodnight, Tom."

Without a word, she forced herself to turn from his penetrating stare. Even as she felt those eyes follow her backside sashaying down the steps. It was smart to have thick skin with such an enigma as Tom. Part of her had always known what to expect from him of course. Regrettably, that didn't make it any easier.

So it was several seconds as the door fell behind her, before she was bidded with a quiet voice that carried off into the winds, he a silent shadow blending into the darkness of his own making. "Goodnight, Harven."

NOTES:

Time eras such as the 1940s fashion and mannerisms I tried to follow to a T as I do believe it's important for any timelines explored and makes it much more immersive.

With Toms menial means, and due to the war, clothes were made more simple and cheaper. Leather was scarce then so Tom would've worn fabric oxfords for shoes. Which I find very interesting.

When researching,"Lady of the Night," back then it meant prostitute.

Also, this was before Tom really discovered more of his heritage hence why such details were Harven is not aware quite yet of his Parseltongue. He's managed to keep that from her quite sneakily. That's all, I hope you enjoyed. I'm more or less leaning for two more chapters or just one more. Take no credit for photo other than title

*Reviews' are so much love :)

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