Chapter 4. School Years

May 1998, London, Sheltered Home for the Aged.

Finally the snowing stopped. Mrs Cole staggered to other side of the small room. She had spared a bottle of fine gin for a special day. She poured with trembling hands a glass for herself and sat back to her rocking chair, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. The cold breeze had found its way inside from the window's cracks but the alcohol had a warming effect on the old lady.

"You had wanted to get your school supplies by yourself", she muttered and took a large sip of gin, even though she couldn't hold it like when she had been younger. "You hadn't even allowed anyone to accompany you on that windy September when day left to the King's Cross Station."

The glass was empty, and soon the bottle was only half-full.

"Now that I think about that then perhaps I probably should have gone with you." Mrs Cole hiccupped. "You never told anything what had happened at school when you came back for summertime and the longer you studied there – the older you got – the more introverted you became. Polite you were, even more than before, but once in a while I think you on purpose let me see through your façade. I would have wanted to see that side from you more often."

She smiled faintly. "That you were still just a little boy."

September 1941, London, Wool's Orphanage.

It was quite early in the morning. Most children were still sleeping; to them the first of September was just another day of the year. I was in the kitchen, drinking tea and waiting. I knew Tom would come downstairs soon. He wouldn't want to miss the train. It would be his fourth year already.

"Good morning, Tom", I said when I from the corner of my eye saw the young man entering the kitchen. He had already taller than me, and I didn't consider myself very short, and handsome, too. I wondered if he was popular in school. Here, no matter how much he had changed, he was still avoided. Poor Amy couldn't even stay in the same room with him without certain difficulties.

Tom looked at me before replying ever so politely and sitting down. "Morning."

He poured a cup of tea to himself and the kitchen fell into silence. Tom wasn't very talkative. I suspected it was right time to give him his present. We, here in the orphanage, rarely had money for anything pretentious

I hold out a regular book with neutral black covers. It was a diary; I had bought it from Vauxhall Road last Thursday. Tom didn't take it. Instead he glanced at me mistrustfully.

I frowned lightly and urged him to take it. "It's for you."

Tom gave one of his small, polite smiles. "Thank you."

He took the diary at last and placed it in front of himself on the table. I saw him eyeing it suspiciously. But after all, there had been an unusual, slightest hint of honesty in his voice. I don't think he liked being in the orphanage but I wanted him to at least find it tolerable.

I suggested him to write down all the good things. He snorted at the idea then but I saw him after his return writing to it several times. He never left it anywhere.

June 1943, London, Wool's Orphanage.

When Tom came back for the summer holiday he was acting very differently than before. Instead of locking himself up into his room like he usually did – no one could ask him any questions of that private school he attended when he did so – he went to his room and packed everything he would need for a short trip.

When I asked him about it, he told me he had found out where his mother had lived and, as he was very curious about his heritage and family history, he had decided to travel there, in case if he could find any of her living relatives. He asked if he could leave for a while.

I gave my permission to that, and I was sure that even if I hadn't given my permission, Tom would have left that day. His eyes had been filled so full of cold determination when he had asked the permission. He was often like 'no' wasn't an option, had been since he was a little. I didn't forget things like that. He was commanding, and he didn't like being opposed. I think that's why he and Billy never learnt to get along.

I had expected him to stay with his mother's family a little longer but instead he came back the very next day during the dinner. I automatically considered he hadn't found anything. Why else would he have returned already?

"You're back already?" I asked, meeting him at the hall. He merely grunted at me and I frowned a little at his antics. "Did you find your mother's family?"

He ignored me but his right hand automatically moved over his left. There – I caught a glimpse of it – on his finger, was a ring. In my eyes it didn't look anything special but judging from Tom's reaction it must have been something significant. A family heirloom, perhaps? So he would have found his relatives. Were they so bad he didn't want to talk about them?

I was about to ask him about it but he turned around and glared at me.

"I don't want to talk about it!" he hissed, or more likely roared. "It has nothing to do with you, muggle!"

I heard someone dropping a glass in the kitchen. Tom never yelled, never raised his voice. And even though I couldn't understand the last word, from his face I could tell it was meant to be an insult. A terrible insult to be exact.

I froze immediately, retreating towards the nearest wall, my eyes widening in shock. There had been a gleam, like a flare, in his eyes before he swiftly regained his usual composure and calm demeanour. He turned his back at me and marched upstairs. I flinched at the sound of the door being slammed shut.

Martha came from the kitchen and hugged me tightly. "Oh dear", she said.

I didn't know where the tears had come from.

June 1945, London, Wool's Orphanage.

Seven years were over. Tom had graduated from that special school of his and returned back to the orphanage but this time not just for summer.

I couldn't sleep for some reason. I tossed and turned in my bed before finally giving up sleeping and getting up from my bed. A cup of warm milk, that would do the trick. I lit a candle and walked down the stairs. At the hall I halted for few seconds.

"Tom?"

I shook my head a little and went to him, placing my hand on his shoulder. If I hadn't recognized him – if I hadn't known it was him – I would have approached him so carelessly. I should have known Tom wouldn't stay here another day if he wouldn't have to. He had attempted to leave the building in the dead of night when no one would notice.

"Where are you going now?" I asked quietly but in the silent house my voice sounded like a scream. And scream I would have wanted. Scream and tell him to go back to his room.

But there I stood, in my nightgown in the middle of the night, in front of Tom Riddle. The young man didn't falter; he was standing there, tall and calculating. His dark eyes were cold as ice and the flickering candle light didn't honour his handsome features. It was like the boy I had raised for eighteen years wasn't there at all.

"That's none of your business", he hissed rather harshly and pulled the hood on his head. He opened the door, held his hand on the handle, and stood there for a moment. And during that moment he was once again the little boy I knew in my heart.

"Goodbye, Mrs Cole."

The last words sunk in after he was gone and I sunk to my knees. I just stared blankly into the dimly lit street. After these years, if a woman could be sure of anything, I was sure that I most probably wouldn't see Tom ever again.

And would it, after all, be such a bad thing?