Fourteen-year-old Tom Riddle had heard about the London Blitz while he was at Hogwarts, of course. He had seen photographs of the terrifying bombings in the Daily Prophet, alongside contradictory anti-muggle and anti-Grindelwald propaganda. He had asked again to be permitted to stay at Hogwarts because of it, but been denied after the aerial campaign died down towards the end of May, the German muggles apparently giving up on that strategy. What he had heard and read did not prepare him for the grim reality of post-Blitz London when he stepped out of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Half of the platforms in King's Cross were closed, the tracks still littered in debris. The only muggle train currently in the station was loaded with rubble rather than people or goods. When he left the station, the city was in shambles, parts of it still smoking even a month after the last air raid. Anger flared to see the damage, and moreso that he had been sent back unwillingly into this warzone with no magical protection.

He picked his way through the city, growing even angrier as he neared the poor neighborhood where Wool's Orphanage stood. The damage here was worse than what he had yet seen, because no one seemed to be repairing it. He saw few laborers, mostly the thieves, urchins, and other low-lifes that inhabited the area. Of course, it was now after dusk, the walk having taken much longer than usual what with detouring around construction sites. Then he came to Wool's... the roof was smashed in, as were all the windows. He could tell without even going inside that it was abandoned. Had neither Dippet nor Dumbledore even checked to see if his supposed home was safe before refusing his request for an alternative residence? He kicked at the stones and loose bricks moodily, then looked around. The old parish church was still standing. He could probably find out where Mrs. Cole and the other orphans were if he asked in there. He hated the priest who had once proclaimed him demon-possessed, but he would trust the other shady characters around here to tell him the truth even less. Reluctantly, he dragged his trunk over to the church and lugged it up the stairs. The blasted thing was getting heavy, but there was no place to safely leave it. Inside, the church was dim, and it was crowded with people and their belongings. It appeared the church had become an encampment for the locals. It was filthy. Tom set his jaw and resolved he would not be staying here, even if the other orphans were. He dragged his trunk up the aisle until he spotted not the priest but a deacon.

"Excuse me? Sir?"

The deacon looked up from the large book he had been writing in, probably a ledger, and furrowed his brow. "Is that Tom Riddle?"

"Yes, sir."

"What on earth are you doing here, boy?"

Tom shrugged helplessly. "I just got back from school. I didn't know what happened to Wool's. No one wrote me. Where is everybody?"

He sighed. "Your friends are well, mostly. A few broken arms on the mend. Mrs. Cole has the younger children up at St. Patrick's Priory. The three older boys are staying in the dorms at Smith's Workhouse. The two older girls now have positions in some well-off families, helping in the kitchens in return for bed and board. I'm sorry no one notified you..."

Tom ground his teeth. "That's alright." He thought fast. Tom was now considered one of the older boys as well. He refused to stay in a workhouse. He would be robbed blind no matter what covert magical precautions he took, and he would probably be forced to actually work in the absurdly dangerous mill no matter the updated child labor laws. The pipeline from orphanage to workhouse hadn't really changed that much despite the muggle government's aspirations of modernity. "I'll go find Mrs. Cole," he said, before the deacon could tell him otherwise. He swung about and left the little church as fast as he could. He looked up at the clock on the steeple as soon as he got outside, and his stomach sank. It was almost midnight. Most places he knew to be safe would be closing soon, assuming they were still standing. He did not want to try to sleep in any muggle establishment that kept its doors open much later, not around here. That meant he had to get to Diagon Alley, the only other place in the city he could count on. The dangers there were of a much different nature, but he did not intend to go to Knockturn tonight, so it would be safe enough.

It was long past midnight when he reached the Leaky Cauldron. He had fended off five attempted muggings on the way here and had to backtrack on the Hungerford Bridge as a result, but he still had his trunk and his wand. His vest was torn, but could be repaired with magic. It could have been worse. He tried the door and cursed to find it locked. Why was the tavern that served as the link between muggle and magical London closed, even at two in the morning? He knocked tentatively, then again, louder, and again. There was no answer after ten minutes. At this point, Tom's anger and frustration boiled over. Yes, he probably would be perfectly safe staying on the tavern's magically concealed doorstep for a few hours, but he didn't want to. He didn't deserve that. And magic could be used at his age legally in an emergency... he drew his wand, studied the seals on the door, and easily unlocked them with a few charms. The last one was stubborn and blew the door open with a loud bang as it released. Muttering obscenities, Tom wearily dragged his trunk over the threshold, closed the door behind him, and collapsed into the nearest chair.

He did not have to wait long for the proprietor to respond to his breached wards. The surprisingly young but hunchbacked wizard Tom had always avoided on his previous visits to Diagon Alley rushed down the stairs, wand alight and raised defensively. He stopped instantly when he shone his light on Tom and his trunk.

"I take it this is not a malicious breaking and entering?"

Tom shook his head.

The barman lowered his wand slightly. "Might I ask who you are and why you are here at this remarkably late hour? You look like a Hogwarts student."

Tom smiled thinly. "I am. Got off the train six hours ago. No one thought to tell me ahead of time the place I usually stay in the summer was bombed out."

The barman frowned and strode forward. He dragged a second chair around and straddled it, looking at Tom over the back. Tom found the overly casual posture mildly offensive but said nothing. "Muggle-born?"

Tom shrugged uncomfortably. "Orphan."

"I'm so, so sorry. You really didn't know until getting off the train? Your other family didn't reach out?"

Tom rolled his eyes and glared at him. "No, I've always been an orphan, the kind that lives in an orphanage. It was the orphanage that got hit."

"Ah." His brow furrowed. "It's still beyond belief no one thought to tell you or make arrangements for you. That's horrible."

"That's what I thought," Tom agreed sulkily.

"Can't have been intentional. I wonder where the communication breakdown was?"

Tom disagreed. Between Albus Dumbledore and Mrs. Cole both hating him, leaving him to fend for himself in war-torn London could easily be intentional, in his opinion.

"You can certainly stay here tonight. I'll let Hogwarts know what happened. What house are you?"

"Slytherin."

"Slughorn's head, right?"

Tom nodded.

"I'll send him an owl now and call him directly in the morning if he doesn't get back to us quick enough. What's your name? I'm Tom, by the way."

Tom blushed. He knew that. It's why he always avoided the barman when passing through here. He hated their shared name. "Riddle... Tom Riddle."

The other Tom smiled faintly. "Well, us Toms should stick together, eh?" That was one way of looking at it, but a stupid way. "Come on. We've a couple empty rooms yet. Let's get you settled. I'll manage the trunk." He stood up and beckoned Tom to follow. The chairs automatically rearranged themselves, and Tom's trunk floated up after. Tom closed his eyes in jealousy. He wouldn't have to be here if he could only be permitted to use his own magic. He could have constructed his own magical space in the ruins of Wool's, and no one would have bothered him. Really, what was the point in restricting underage magic if he also was not permitted the safety and protection other children were afforded? It was a conspiracy against the disadvantaged.

He voiced no complaint verbally, of course. He even thanked Other Tom when he was brought to his room, which was far nicer than Wool's had ever been, though nothing to compare to the Slytherin common rooms. He kicked off his shoes, fell onto the bed, and immediately went to sleep.

Professor Slughorn and Professor Dumbledore were both waiting for him down in the taproom when he descended the stairs five hours later, unfortunately. Slughorn stood up and actually hugged him, along with his usual "Tom, my boy!" Dumbledore stayed seated, but at least he had the good graces to look concerned. He was dragged to a chair across from the two of them. Other Tom plunked a large breakfast plate in front of him and winked, but offered no other comment.

"Good morning, professors," Tom said blandly. He concentrated on his plate and started eating. He was rather peeved with both of them still.

Dumbledore sighed. "I went 'round to Wool's already this morning. I'm sorry, Tom. I had no idea it was damaged back in May. It had been untouched when I checked back in January when you first raised your concerns about coming home. I tracked down Mrs. Cole as well. She says she sent a letter to us, but only the one." He grimaced in distaste. "She says she has her hands full enough with the little ones and berated me for not having either a telegraph or fellytone, whatever those are. I informed her you are safe and not to expect you back in her care."

Tom dropped his fork and stared up at him. "I don't have to go back?"

"Of course not!" Slughorn answered. "We can't have a fine young wizard like you living on the streets of muggle London."

"Funny how that was never a problem before," Tom seethed.

Dumbledore blinked. "Tom, you had a roof over your head before." His tone was impatient and lecturing. Tom was not inclined to stay polite for his benefit, though.

"Sure. A roof. In an underfunded orphanage where I was called the 'demon child' since I can remember and where the children were all encouraged to pick pockets on the streets in order to help put food on the collective table. Where half the infants taken in died of fevers and malnourishment. Where the boys who weren't adopted grew up to die young in the workhouse, and the girls grew up to work in the clothes factory or to become whores. And where the staff always directed potential adoptive parents away from me and towards other, more normal children, the ones they thought deserved better lives than I did. It was a really great place to live, Professor."

"Dear Merlin, Tom, why didn't you say something?" Slughorn asked, eyes wide. After all, he was head of Slytherin, land of pureblooded luxury. Tom's circumstances were probably beyond his comprehension.

"I did. To him. The one who saw the place and should have known what it was like." He gestured furiously at Dumbledore.

"Albus-"

"Not now, Horace. Tom, I understand that you are angry, and I will admit you have every right to be angry. In fact, you have a right to be angry with me in particular. I see I have not served you well, but that is not because I am not trying to. Since the situation is now most clear, we will do what we must to correct it and keep you safe."

"Fine. So where am I going this summer? Back to Hogwarts?" He could not keep the wistfulness from his voice.

"Unfortunately no. Although Professor Dippet agrees something must be done, he will not change his policy. We will find another solution. Horace thought we could perhaps reach out to the families of some of your friends. Is there anyone you would like us to ask first?"

Tom looked at him blankly, resisting the urge to laugh. Slytherin families weren't interested in charity. If they took him in, he would be paying for it for the rest of his life, he was sure. Even if Slughorn called in his own favors to make it happen, he would still be indebted. He looked at Slughorn, and from his pained expression could see he knew it too. "No. Is there... could I work someplace? Maybe in Hogsmeade or here in the Alley?"

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "I'm afraid the wizarding world is rather stricter about child labor than muggles are. The laws against underage magic are quite clear."

There came a cough from behind Tom. "Er, pardon me professors, but there's more than magical work around. Places like mine, or like the icecream parlor or Flourish and Blots even, there's tasks that would be safe enough without him needing to do magic. I've got a discount rate room open." Tom twisted around to find the barman was listening in. Other Tom grinned and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Toms should stick together," he repeated himself from earlier. He squeezed his shoulder briefly then let go, turning back to his work.

Dumbledore and Slughorn exchanged a glance. "I'll think about it," Dumbledore said eventually. "I'd rather you didn't have to work at your age. That isn't fair to you. You'll certainly stay here at the Leaky Cauldron today and most likely tonight. I'm covering your room and meals. Horace and I will figure this out for you, Tom. We have our contacts. We will involve the Ministry if needed. If nothing else, I have my own house and would be willing to host you for the summer, especially since this is my fault." Tom barely concealed a wince. Summer with Albus Dumbledore was almost as bad as going back to Wool's. But he managed to nod politely before turning his attention back to his breakfast. He was hungry. He hadn't eaten dinner.

Rather than forcing him into indebtedness to some wealthy patron, the two professors actually went to the Ministry who officially posted his case for fosterage and potential adoption. Tom quickly realized it was the first time his status had been made public to the wizarding world. At the same time, he realized furiously he would have had a home years ago if not for Dumbledore keeping him under wraps. Interested families came calling at once; there were far fewer orphans in the magical world, and news traveled fast. Slughorn or Dumbledore remained in the bar and intercepted and spoke with everyone who tried to approach him. They turned away quite a few, almost everyone who came that afternoon, in fact. At first, Tom was livid to see that, until Slughorn explained these were the types of wizards who were seeking not a child but an opportunity or even a victim. Tom reluctantly agreed to let his professors filter his prospective foster families after that.

Still, some couples eventually arrived who were deemed safe enough for Tom to meet: the Prewetts, the Lovegoods, the Midgens, the Davises, the Doges, the Potters. None of them were rich nor even particularly interesting, but nor were they threatening. And all of them were magical, which was the best part. The Lovegoods suited Dumbledore and Slughorn the best, so it was agreed that Tom would foster with them for the summer. Slughorn would check in regularly to make sure the arrangement was suiting everyone.

The Lovegoods had no children of their own yet despite looking as old as Dumbledore, and Mrs. Lovegood smiled at Tom as if she actually wanted him. He hadn't seen that smile in years. It made him willing to overlook her odd clothing and jewelry choices. He went with the Lovegoods to their home in Ottery St. Catchpole the next day.

He decided as soon as he saw the bizarre, upside-sown house with its garden overflowing with dirigible plums that this was a dreadful mistake. He knew better than to be charmed by a Ravenclaw with a motherly smile. At least Slughorn would be able to get him back out of there by next week. He could probably bear it until then, rather than shaming himself calling for help right away.

The Lovegoods were strange, their house stranger, but after a few days, Tom started to find it all... nice. The food was excellent and plentiful. The construction of the house was peculiar, but he quickly realized that was because of the intricate architectural spellwork, which was fun to study. He could ignore the color palette. He was allowed freedom of the garden and surrounds. There were tree more wizarding families a little over a mile away. The family business was a sort of variety magazine called the Quibbler, operated right out of the house. Most of the articles were rather silly in Tom's opinion, but Mrs. Lovegood enlisted Tom's help in devising the crossword and other puzzles for the upcoming issue, and that was quite a lot of fun. For the first time, he did not regret his common, obviously muggle surname, when Mrs. Lovegood decided it was an omen of his innate gift with riddles.

This was very different from his experience living at either Wool's or at Hogwarts. There was no competition. There was no conformity. This wasn't his family, but it could be, because the Lovegoods seemed perfectly accepting of just about everything. Nothing was strange to them. Every new addition to home, business, and garden was cherished because it was more variety, not superior or inferior.

Slughorn came and went, a blip in the serene afternoon.

The Quibbler readership's response to Tom's puzzles was positive enough that Mr. Lovegood offered him a part-time job as a puzzle writer and journalist regardless of whether he stayed with them next summer. Tom graciously accepted the offer so long as he was permitted to write under a pseudonym. He then spent the afternoon with Mrs. Lovegood coming up with suitable anagrams of his own name. After rejecting Darell Doom Vomit, Dartmoor Evil Mold, Milo Mordred Volta, Mordred Moltovila, and Overlord Tommidal, they eventually settled on Lord Merit Moldova.

They had dinner with the Diggory's, who lived on the other side of the hill, and with the Weasley's, which was rather less enjoyable for although the family was a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they seemed to resent the fact and adhered to none of the traditional pureblood values. He was informed every single one of them had been Gryffindors for the last three generations. Mrs. Weasley nee Black looked on him as a Slytherin orphan with...confusion more than anything else. He did not fit into her world view terribly well. Orphans were supposed to go to Hufflepuff apparently, because of their deep-seated desire for belonging.

He received a few letters from his Slytherin classmates which sounded even more condescending than usual now that they all knew all the details of his living situation from their father's Ministry contacts. Walburga Black's was the most annoying, warning him not to associate with her blood traitor aunt two days after he already had.

They took a trip to Diagon Alley for Tom's fourth-year school supplies when the letter (and his scholarship money) arrived. Tom carefully budgeted out the Hogwarts funds with his own money earned from tutoring and illicit quidditch bets. He decided he could afford to buy two extra books this year since he had room in his robes to let out the hems if he smoothed them and redid the seams with transfiguration on the train. His budgeting efforts completely went over Mrs. Lovegood's head, it seemed, as when he was torn between three books at Flourish and Blotts, she absently took them and the Standard Book of Spells Grade Four, added three more items to the pile, and bought all of them with her own money. She handed the lot back to him and explained she thought her additions were good for young children to read. He thought to be offended until he saw what they were - The Hobbit by John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, A Tangled Tale by Lewis Carroll, Numerology by Martin Gardner, and Éléments de Mathématique by Nicolas Bourbaki. Then he was just flummoxed, not offended. The first two were muggle paperbacks, so he had no idea how she had even found them in Flourish and Blotts. The last was in French, a language with which he had only passing familiarity, although he did have a French-English dictionary he had stolen from a book fair years ago. The bigger problem with both math books was that the equations appeared far more complicated than anything covered in his Arithmancy textbook. He could not comprehend half the notation when he opened to a random page. Mrs. Lovegood promised to help him with any questions though, and he certainly wasn't going to refuse free books, no matter how strange the selections were. So he thanked her profusely before they went to lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, where Other Tom was glad to see how well he was getting on.

He read The Hobbit in a night. He could not decide whether Mr. Tolkien knew something or nothing of the real magical world. He had to admit it was entertaining, at least. He read A Tangled Tale the next day, which was frankly bizarre, but at least gave him a hint as to why Mrs. Lovegood might have suggested these particular books. The preface stated the various short stories, all of which contained mathematical or logical puzzles hidden or not-so-hidden within the text, had originally been published serially. They were not dissimilar from some Quibbler articles. In fact, when he went back through the most recent Quibbler issue, he saw legitimate puzzles were to be found in almost every single article of the magazine, even the ones touting baseless conspiracy theories about employees at the Ministry for Magic. It was much cleverer than he first realized.

Numerology absorbed the whole next month. He had to scrounge through the Lovegood library to find both other Arithmancy and muggle math texts to make it comprehensible. He decided to put off Éléments de Mathématique until after he had read his other new books and finished the puzzles for the next Quibbler issue.

When the end of summer came, for the first time in Tom's life it felt too soon. He and Mrs. Lovegood flooed to the Leaky Cauldron while Mr. Lovegood apparated over with Tom's trunk. They walked from there to King's Cross. The streets of central London were mostly cleaned up by now, as was the train station, but so many buildings were still ruined. He was more relieved than ever he had not been forced to stay in the city all summer. He hesitated at the platform barrier and turned to the Lovegoods.

"Thank you so much for letting me stay," he said, his gratitude completely genuine for once in his life.

Mrs. Lovegood smiled and hugged him. He let her. "We loved having you. I hope you'll think of us for the Christmas holidays and next summer as well."

"I will."

"And don't forget to write. We'll need the puzzles ready the second week of each month."

"I'll remember."

"And if you come across any important or interesting stories, try your hand writing them up, and we'll see about publishing it. Make it clever, Lord Merit."

Tom grinned. "Count on it." He was seriously considering writing some kind of essay for them that spelled out the whereabouts of the Chamber of Secrets in some kind of code once he found the place, since no one would believe it coming from the Quibbler even if they did manage to decode the hidden message.

"We'll miss you," Mr. Lovegood said as he took his shoulder.

"I packed you some plum pudding for the train." Mrs. Lovegood handed him a brown paper bag that threatened to float away.

Tom smiled once more, stowed the pastry in his pocket, then turned to push his trolley through the barrier.

Author's note: I've been reading a lot of Tom Riddle/Voldemort fics this week. The thing about the Lovegood family is they are so totally accepting and nonjudgmental of personality differences that most find off-putting and either can't manage or try to take advantage of, they might actually be able to handle Tom at this age. If they're remotely like Luna, they won't be very susceptible to manipulation, they're unlikely to be excessively punishing (which doesn't work on psychopaths and was Dumbledore's error), and they'll be highly rewarding of his actually positive traits, namely intelligence. The family is strikingly intelligent but in a way Tom hasn't encountered before, which might distract him from his usual negative obsessions.

Tom would already have started at Hogwarts by the time The Hobbit was published in 1937. A Tangled Tale is one of Lewis Carroll's lesser-known works, a collection of loosely connected humorous stories that all contain mathematical or logical riddles that the Lovegoods definitely would have enjoyed. Martin Gardner was an American polymath who wrote the math games columns for the Scientific American and also had a fascination with magic. He never wrote a book called Numerology, but maybe he would have if he was actually a wizard in the Harry Potter universe. And the last book I chose because Nicolas Bourbaki is actually a fake mathematician, with various people publishing real math under that name for several years. It might take awhile for Tom to figure out why the heck Mrs. Lovegood would think these particular books worth his while, but eventually, he could be having a blast writing insane-sounding articles just littered with completely serious and incredibly complicated encoded Arithmancy or something, just to mess with people intellectually. Like what Dumbledore does, only MORE.

Tom Riddle would have been away at Hogwarts throughout the entirety of the London Blitz, but it's still pretty sad that none of the adults around him thought now was the time to come up with some other place for him to go in the summer.