London, 1939

There were many things Amy didn't like to do, and the list seemed to be growing longer with each day. This was not unusual—with the lack of food and insufferable heat, most of the children at Wool's didn't like to do much of anything other than wish they were somewhere else.

Amy, however, didn't want to do what came easily to everyone else, but not to her, what Mrs. Cole and the other matrons were always on her about doing, which was speak. She was content with never speaking again, at least not within the next five years.

It was not as if she had nothing to say. No, the problem was that Amy had too much she could not say, for he would hear and make her pay again.

She'd once been very vocal, especially toward him. Mad Tom Riddle, she and Dennis Bishop used to taunt. Mental Tom Riddle.

As it turned out, Dennis was the mental one now; they'd come and taken him last month, the asylum workers. He hadn't wanted to speak either, but, unlike Amy, he threw explosive fits and lashed out on the other kids, hitting and kicking them and even the matrons. Yet he was still not as feared as Mad Tom Riddle, though. The latter had a more insidious, secretive way of harm.

A man had come for him, too, but from an asylum. Everyone was praying that oddly-dressed, auburn-haired man would take Tom Riddle the hell away from them. Boy did Wool's let out a collective breath that day last September when Tom had hauled out an old wooden trunk and left seemingly for good. However, Grace Wilson had overheard him telling Mrs. Cole that he was going to a boarding school, from which he'd have to return every summer.

No, he was not gone for good, but anything was better than having him around all the time. Amy felt uneasy even when he was out and about in the streets or vice versa.

Despite her relief that he was no longer around, Amy often why the school had chosen him over anyone else. Gracie speculated that, mad as he was, Tom was brilliant. Amy thought his madness outweighed any brilliance, but if the school was really an asylum, why would they let him return every summer? If they had been in the cave with him like Amy had, they'd lock him up and throw away the key.

It was nearing the end of June. Hopefully he'd never return…

"Amy!" the foul-mouthed and tempered Hattie barked from downstairs. "Get to the washing NOW!"

Reluctantly, Amy wiped her brow of sweat and stood from the cot. With a sigh, she tucked a comic she'd swiped from one of the boys under the worn piece of foam that passed for a mattress and left the tiny room. Unlike the others, Amy usually didn't mind the chores when it wasn't sweltering hot. They took her mind from her terrible past.

As she scrubbed sheets, pillow cases, and baby nappies, hands submerged in warm, soapy water, she let her mind drift into the future, where she imagined herself seated straight at a cool, metal desk, typing away. In this future, there was no Tom Riddle, no chores, no other whiny orphans, just her, a typewriter, and a paycheck that afforded her enough to eat, maybe a few pairs of shoes and dress patterns.

She'd work for Morgenstern's, the thriving law practice on Vauxhall Road. Not only would she learn all the dirty secrets of London's elite, but she wouldn't have to speak a word. All of their secrets would remain between her, the typewriter, and John Morgenstern.

The radio in the washroom was chatting away: "Things are heating up over on the eastside as Adolf Hitler and his army of Nazis kick up quite a fuss. German troops continue across Poland…looking like another Great War, folks…"

Amy did not like to think of war. Grace said that Germany would drop bombs on anyone who didn't comply with Hitler's regime. This Hitler was turning out to be a right pain in the arse; she hoped he wasn't interested in anything to do with Britain. If everyone was poor now, another war would only exacerbate the depression—

"Hello there, Amy," a voice said, stopping her cold. Worry of another Great War vanished instantly. Here was her own, private war if that voice belonged to…

No, he can't be, it's too early…

She slowly turned around, feeling her lungs hardening to lead. Her breath caught in her throat as cold sweat gathered on her skin. Tom Riddle was standing in the doorway, smirking at her. "Missed me, have you?"

Wild-eyed, Amy shook her head. Her wet, soapy hands soaked her skirt, but she barely registered that. Why couldn't he just go away forever?"

"Well, that's not very nice, is it?" he mocked, grinning snidely. "Not when I've brought you back a gift."

Amy stood, dumbfounded, as she watched Tom slip a hand in his pocket and carefully withdraw it, scooping something into his palm.

She should've ran. Damn, she needed to run, but her feet were stuck to the floor, as if one of the younger brats had slapped a layer of glue on the soles of her too-tight Mary Janes. Her whole body was locked, heart and lungs still. Would she ever breathe normally again?

The boy advanced closer. Only 12 years old, a year older than Amy—though he looked and acted much older—he was an expert at instilling fear. Once he was within arm's reach, he extended his hand, and she could see what he was holding: a tiny black snake with a greenish-yellow line down its back. It was simply coiled up in Tom's hand, harmless-looking really, except Amy was terrified of snakes.

She'd only ever seen two—one in the countryside. It was harmless, too, but then Tom had found it, whispered something to it in a hiss, and sent it to bite her. That was what she believed, though Mrs. Cole had dismissed it as ridiculous. "Snakes don't understand English, Amy," she'd scolded.

"But it listened to him," Amy had insisted, back when her voice box worked so easily.

Tom hadn't appreciated being tattled on. The next time they'd gone on a trip, it was to the sea…even picturing it raised the fine hairs on her arms and neck.

Now in front of her, Tom was hissing at the snake, and it was growing, just like last time, getting longer and fatter, plopping out of his hand and onto the floor. Menacing hisses filled her ears as her heart stopped and cold fear raced through her veins. She was frozen; the thing was wrapping around her legs, expanding and squeezing…

She was back in that cold, slimy cave again as icy water soaked her feet and a big, black snake wrapped around her body, Tom egging it on. Beside her, Dennis had fainted, and black fog was beginning to creep into her own vision. The hissing, the thick body constricting her lungs, her breath escaping, the roar of the ocean, the chilly water flooding the cave…

Amy started to howl and thrash, but the blackness consumed her. A jolt of pain seared through her shoulder, hip, and right side of her face as she slammed into something cold and flat. She was being shaken, her head thudding against the hard surface.

"Jesus H. Christ, Amy!" someone was yelling in an oddly familiar voice.

Amy opened her eyes and found herself on the floor next to her cot. Her inner mechanisms had started back up, heart pounding and breaths coming our rapid, uneven.

The glow from the candle in the hall cast in shadow the figure of Gracie Wilson, who'd shaken her out of her nightmare.

"Date!" Amy blurted suddenly, the raspy word cutting through her throat.

Gracie was so stunned, she let go of Amy and fell onto her backside. "Did you just…?"

"Date!" Amy cried again desperately. "What—what's the date?"

Gracie hopped to her feet and leaned over her bed to look at the calendar taped to the wall. "For crying out loud, Amy, the first words since '37, and you ask for the poxy date?"

"You'd better shut the bloody hell up over there before I take off my slipper!" Hattie called from across the hall.

Moving quietly, Gracie crouched down next to Amy. "It's the 11th of June," she whispered. "1939," she added uncertainly, probably wondering if Amy had finally become unhinged like Dennis.

"He's not…he's not…?"

The other girl awkwardly patted Amy's head, knowing immediately who she was referring to. "No…not yet. Maybe they've chucked him in the asylum themselves," she said hopefully.

Just then, a tall, scarecrow-like figure blocked all light as Hattie appeared in the doorway, the slipper in her hand raised threateningly.

The two girls immediately scampered back into bed. Amy realized she was still trembling, that ugly black snake and harsh hissing filling her head. She was safe for now. She could sleep, although she knew her vacation from the constant edginess was coming to close.

For there was a mere nine days until Evil Tom Riddle returned…