11th August 1942
The first thing I noticed, when I slowly opened my eyes the next morning, was that my bed was awfully uncomfortable. I'd have to tell Grace to get onto Halls management; she was paying £112 per week for this room so the mattresses should at least allow a comfortable night's sleep. Then, my eyes focussed and I took in the dirty, cracked ceiling that I was staring up at. I bolted upright. Everything came flooding back; I wasn't in Grace's Halls of Residence. I was in some kind of orphanage. It hadn't been a dream, then.
I cast a look round the dingy, little room I had been allocated upon my arrival in the early hours of the morning. I was on a tiny bed with a worn down mattress so thin that I could practically feel the creaky, metal frame through it. The sheets were thin, off-white pieces of cotton with a thick, grey blanket over them. To my left, in the corner next to the bed, was a single desk, similar to the old-fashioned kind you sat exams at in school, and a rickety hard-backed chair. The walls were bare, and on the far wall opposite the bed was a wardrobe that had definitely seen better days. A mirror hung, lonely, on the wall beside it. My Halls of Residence hadn't even been this bad. God, what a shit tip, I thought.
Tiny chinks of light were creating striped patterns on the wall and ceiling as the sun fought to get through the faded, grey curtains, covering the small, square window. I slowly got up off the bed, feeling my joints ache and my knees sting. I inspected the grazes, and noticed they weren't as bad as they had appeared last night. I frowned as I saw that my shiny, purple nail varnish was chipped on my right index finger. Then, I reached up to run a hand through my wild hair; it felt scraggly, but strangely longer than it usually was. Confused, I walked over the floorboards in my bare feet (the torturous hoes had long been discarded by the bed) and looked at myself in the mirror.
My jaw dropped.
How?...What? HUH? Oh, no way!
My make up was smeared down my face in thick, black streaks, my face looked pale and washed out, and my hair was knotted and grimy. The cut on the left side of my forehead had stopped bleeding, and looked bruised and sore (which it was) and the blood from it was dried and mixing with the mascara and eyeliner down my cheeks. But that was not what surprised me; I had expected to look like a tramp.
My hands shot to my hair, tugging bits of it out to the side, and I anxiously peered at it, my face as close to the mirror as I could get. How? My hair was at least three inches longer than it had been last night, and it now fell to the bottom of my breasts, instead of just before them. And, worst of all, my highlights were gone. Yep, gone. Absolutely not one trace of caramel or blonde in my dark brown hair at all. What the hell?
Then things started to get even weirder. Because, as I began to look at myself more closely, I started to notice certain things. Now, the previous night, when the police officer had been under the illusion that I was fifteen, I had presumed it was because I have always looked young for my age. I hadn't bothered to correct him because I had not wanted to risk losing a bed for the night. Now, however, I could see exactly what he meant. I did not just look like a young nineteen year old, I looked fifteen. Actually fifteen. And not just fifteen, I looked like myself four years previous.
My highlights, which I had first got at seventeen, had vanished, and my cheekbones, though still defined, were more subtle, soft almost. Although dreading what I would find, I looked down at myself and found more abnormalities. The skirt I was wearing seemed a little tight, as though it was a dress size too small, and the shirt was loose around my breasts. My bra felt awkward, as thought I hadn't grown into it yet.
When I was fifteen, I had been a dress size bigger than what I was a nineteen – a comfortable, curvy but still thin, size that my friends had envied. I had lost a lot of weight after the car accident when I was sixteen, and had never managed to put all of it back on. The skirt I was wearing, a size eight, was a size that would have been slightly too small for my fifteen year old self, as was the shirt. The bra was a different story. Looking like a compete pervert, I placed both hands to my top and pulled it away from my chest, cautiously peering down. Bloody fantastic (note the sarcasm here). At fifteen, I had been a small B cup, not a fully proportioned C. Well, shit. This certainly explained why I had looked young enough to be accepted into the orphanage. Did they even have orphanages anymore? I was sure they were all children's homes or foster care centres now. Orphanages were like something out of the old days.
What on earth was going on? I began to think over the events of the previous night. Losing Grace, the pub called The Leaky Cauldron, the funny hourglass necklace (that was still tucked round my neck), waking up and having some policeman try and make me think it was 1942. Only, he had been pretty convincing, and that newspaper had backed up his story. I knew I had to determine what in God's name had happened. So, giving a quick glance back at the mirror and still trying to get over the shock of my new reflection, I walked towards the door. It had an old, brass handle, and was stiff to turn. When I was finally out into the corridor, I looked up and down. Doors lined both walls, and at the end of the corridor to my right was a staircase. I headed towards that, my bare feet feeling the cold wood of the floorboards.
The walls were bare, with the odd grubby painting, grey with dust, few and far between. The house was silent. I couldn't hear anything. I leant over the banister as far as I could and peered downward, my hair falling into my vision – it hadn't been this long in years, and I remembered why I had originally got a few inches cut off; it got everywhere. I appeared to be on the second floor, with two floors below this one. I looked up and saw another two sets of stairs leading up; there must be another two floors above, too. How many people lived here? I continued to peer down the staircase, wondering what I should do and where I should go. If I was really in 1942 – and I really didn't believe I was – then I needed to find someone who could help me besides committing me to a lunatic asylum, even though I was beginning to think I belonged in one. Where the hell was I?
"Can I help you?" a voice spoke from behind me. It was cold and detached, and sounded rather bored. It was also male. It surprised me so much that I jumped spun round to face the corridor I had just come down, and very nearly slipped down the stairs. I gasped and caught myself, pushing some hair out of my eyes.
The boy standing in front of me looked around my age (well, fifteen, the age my body seemed to have reverted back to), with dark hair and a demeanour to match. His icy blue eyes were staring straight at me, and it was when I met them that I remembered him from the night before. His stare had cut right through me as he had hidden in the shadows. His grey jacket and trousers were slightly too small for him, so that more of his ankles and wrists were shown than necessary. How odd for a boy of fifteen to be wearing anything other than jeans or tracksuit bottoms.
"Erm...yeah, actually, you can," I managed to say, once my heart had stopped its little attack from almost falling down a flight of stairs. "I arrived late last night, and I don't know where to go? I think I need to see... Mrs Cole, is it?" I rushed out, eager to get to the bottom of why I was here and what was going on.
"I'm Jess, by the way," I said quickly, shoving my hand out. The boy slowly lowered his gaze to my hand, and the corner of his mouth turned up in disgust. His eyes travelled back up to my face, and I just raised my eyebrows in a 'what?' expression.
"Fine, don't shake my hand, then. I'm not infectious, you know?" the boy looked as though he very much doubted that, and the sneer remained in place on his face.
"What's your name?" still no answer.
"Fine," I sighed, irritated. "Be that way. But you asked if you could help me; so, where do I go?" I asked. If he didn't answer this time I was going to walk away. Arrogant prat.
"Mrs Cole's office is the room to the left of the front door. Ground floor," he said. His face was suddenly a mask of calm collection; he obviously did not want me to know that I was irritating him. I smirked.
"Thanks. And your name?" he just glared. I crossed my arms over my chest and refused to break his gaze. I was trying to be God damn friendly! God, men – so much more hassle than they're worth.
"Tom? Tom? Tom Riddle you will answer me when I call for you!" I heard a voice suddenly screech. I saw the boy's eyes flare with rage and his hand twitched and was immediately settled over his pocket. We both turned to look as a woman dressed in a drab black dress, her greying hair pinned back in a sharp bun, stalked up the stairs. With a groan, I recognised her from the night before. Mrs Cole.
"Yes, Mrs Cole?" the boy drawled out, seemingly bored. So, this was Tom, then? What did she say his surname was, Riddle? Tom Riddle? Another name out of Harry Potter? Where one earth had I ended up, the nut house? The Harry Potter Fans Anonymous ward? Come to think of it, wasn't the head of Tom Riddle's orphanage called Mrs Cole? God, they're all mad; bloody lunatics the lot of them.
"You were required at breakfast," Mrs Cole's tone was clipped and sharp as she reprimanded Tom. His eyes were blazing with an unknown emotion, and when he answered her he was obviously containing his anger at her.
"I am sorry, Mrs Cole. I was merely helping our new arrival," he said, his tone so fake and sugary it made me cringe. The matron, however, did not appear to notice. Instead, her beady eyes moved to me, and she made no attempt at hiding her disgust.
"You!" she suddenly barked. "Did I not tell you last night to remain in your room until I summoned you?!" I think I vaguely recalled her telling me something along those lines, but I kept my face impassive. I caught Tom Riddle smirking at me from over Mrs Cole's shoulder, and I narrowed my eyes at him to show that I wasn't impressed at him diverting the old hag's attention to me.
"Get back to your room this instant! I do not want you influencing the other children with your wicked ways girl!" Mrs Cole had grabbed my arm with bruising force, and I was dragged back along the corridor, Tom Riddle being left behind.
I sat on the tiny bed, my back resting against the wall and my knees pulled up to my chest. I still couldn't understand what was going on. Why was I here? Why did that policeman seem determined that it was 1942, and why was everyone dressed as though it was? Where was Grace? And why the bloody hell was everyone named after Harry Potter characters? So what if the books are a global phenomenon, there's a limit on far a fan can go without bordering on lunacy.
Mrs Cole seemed to hate me, although I couldn't recall doing anything to offend her the night before. Apparently, I was to stay in my room until the Police sent an Official to the orphanage to assess me and my situation and decide what to do with me. I had asked Mrs Cole, before she had rudely flung me into my room and locked the door, whether I could have some clean clothes, or at least some water to clean my injuries and freshen up. That had to wait until after the Official had seen me, apparently. Mrs Cole said something about not wanting me to give false impressions.
I just wanted to go home. Seriously, whatever was going on here was weird, like someone was splaying a sick joke on me by trying to get me to believe it was 1942. The orphanage matched descriptions I had read about the mid-20th century establishments for unwanted or orphaned children, everyone talked strange, and dressed like my grandparents. The whole Harry Potter thing just furthered my conclusion that this whole thing was a wind up. I just hope the culprit came clean soon so that I could go home.
I had been in this room for an hour so far, and no one had come for me. I was beginning to think I would waste away and be forgotten about, when the lock clicked and the door creaked open.
"You. With me, now," Mrs Cole ordered. I got up and followed her, still barefoot and wincing as a splinter off of a floorboard caught my toe.
The orphanage was quiet as I followed her down the stairs. The floor below was another corridor full of bedrooms, and then the ground floor seemed to hold a recreational room, dining room, school room, and Mrs Cole's office. I caught a glimpse of a small, redheaded child peering through the crack in the door that said 'Recreational Room', and I gave her a small wink. She giggled and shut the door quickly.
"Don't you interact with my children, girl! In there, now!" Mrs Cole snapped, shoving me into her office. I was forced into a hard backed chair opposite the fireplace, and then she headed towards the door.
"The Official from the police is in my private sitting room. He requested to speak to you alone. Don't disgrace yourself more than you already have!" I was warned, and then the matron left, and I was all alone again.
I was staring into the dirty fire grate when I heard a noise to my left. The door next to the mantle opened, and I jumped. I hadn't noticed that door before, but it only made sense that the entrance to Mrs Cole's private sitting room was in her study. A man in an old fashioned black suit jacked and trousers entered, a cane in one hand and a bowler hat in the other. His greying, auburn hair was shaggy and long, past his shoulders, as was his beard. He cleared his throat, discarding his cane and hat on the nearby table, before turning to me, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half moon spectacles.
"Hello there, Jessica. It is ever so nice to finally meet you. I have heard so much about you, yet I expect that you know much more about me," he held out his hand. Slightly confused, as I had never met this man in my life and I certainly didn't know anything about him, I stood and cautiously shook his hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, and as he withdrew his hand he seemed to notice me staring completely and utterly confused at him.
"Oh, excuse my manners, Miss Harrows," he said in his soft tone. How does he know my surname? I never told Mrs Cole or that police officer. He straightened his jacket and gestured for me to sit back down, which I did, slowly. I suddenly felt very exposed in the presence of someone who seemed to know more about me than I them. He seemed to sense my unease, so he cleared his throat and continued to speak.
"Forgive me for being so rude, I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, and it is a pleasure to meet you at long last, Miss Harrows."
A/N – So, what do you think? The next two chapters will see everything revealed, to an extent. I still want to keep some mystery but it will all become a lot clearer. After that I am hoping to move the story along a little quicker, as I am very aware that I have spent four chapters and only a night has passed, but I wanted everyone to get a feel for Jess's character. I want to get onto more interactions with Tom Riddle, and especially to get onto how they cope together at Hogwarts. Although, I believe it will be interesting to see how he copes with another magical person at the orphanage. Hope everyone's enjoying, and keep reviewing!
Thank you very much to geekyassangie and Theta-McBride for your reviews – they are keeping me motivated! I hope you have enjoyed this chapter :).