Chapter 2 : Friendships and Acquaintances

Annabeth was quite frankly, very surprised at the ease with which she entered the matron's quarters. She was expecting a bit of a challenge, but as she crept through the dark hallway past shut doors and open ones, she felt as her quest was not doing justice to the zeal with which she had started her search.

She thought that the women here never gave much thought to the possibility that the many children in the building would ever try to break into here. However, locating the private kitchens was proving to be more tedious than entering the place.

Annabeth crept around, evading some people who were still in the halls, she was small enough to squeeze out of their sight, she entered as many open doors as she could have, but she found no place that spoke of food.

When tiredness started to overcome her, she debated postponing her hunt to another night, but her plans diminished as she caught sight of a familiar plump woman and her mind placed the waddling walk belonged to Mrs. Cole.

Annabeth, for whatever reasons, started to follow the head matron. Somewhere in her weary mind, she was hoping that following her would lead her to the kitchens, after all, Annabeth could not be the only person who craved late night snacks, could she be?

Staying in the shadows, she traced Mrs. Cole's footsteps, and was completely taken aback as she was led into a large, fully furnished chamber that seemed out of place in an orphanage as drab as Wool's. Annabeth crouched under a large table as she watched the matron climb into a four-poster bed. Once the lump on the bedding was devoid of movements, she crawled out, and started examining the contents of the table she used as a hiding place.

Annabeth eventually ended up ignoring the fruits in favor of the cakes and loaves that lay tucked away. The girl spared a second to wonder why Tom Riddle would only take the fruits when there was an abundance of options, but then her mind was preoccupied by marveling at the goodies before her. She gathered as much as she could carry, which was not a lot, and once satisfied, she snuck out of Mrs. Cole's private chambers.

Getting back to her room was harder when she was laden with food, but her memory of the path back helped her navigate her way. Once she was safely inside, she hid away her treasures, saving one sweet bun which she ate contentedly as she lay on her bed.

Victory tasted good.

The next morning, she was awoken in the same rude fashion by a different maid, Annabeth trudged down to breakfast, secretly hoping that her life would not fall into this monotonous routine.

The chatter and din in the room mirrored that of the day before, and Annabeth was again pushed into a line and handed out gray porridge. She sighed as she sat surrounded by children. She tried to bring herself to observe the people in the room, one of her favorite things to do was watch a pair talk and try to guess the interests of their conversation by reading their faces and bodies.

Today, however, her mind insisted on imagining what the dark boy's face would look like when she tells him that she had found his secret food stash and that she was going to have a share in it, whether he liked it or not.

Tom Riddle, was however nowhere to be seen. Annabeth distractedly let her eyes roam the perimeter of the room, ran through the crowds, and she could not locate the bright black of his hair. She realized his aversion to the food here as she found herself twirling her spoon in her hands, trying to while away the time.

When the first of the children started to be led away from the room, Annabeth made her escape. She ran back to her room, and pulled out the scarf she kept her food hidden in. This was going to be her real breakfast, something sugary and fulfilling.

As she ate, she thought. Tom Riddle was not to be seen in the dining hall would either mean that he had already eaten and come back, or that he had never come down at all. Annabeth still wanted to boast about her findings, and the more she tried to finish her croissant before she went knocking on his door, the more she wanted to appear at his doorstep, croissant in hand.

Eventually, she slid out of her bed, opened her door, and two steps later, found herself knocking at Tom Riddle's door. The door creaked open slowly, as though he was expecting to be reprimanded, Tom peeked out from behind the door, his eyes narrowing as he saw who his visitor was.

"Annabeth." He greeted coldly, still eyeing her. Annabeth got her desired reaction as his eyes finally landed on the confection in her hand.

"Where did you find that?" His voice was more incredulous than his face.

"Let me in, and I might tell you." Annabeth shot back. She smirked as Tom opened the door a little wider, it was a reluctant invitation.

She awkwardly took a seat at the edge of his bed. The room was bland, just like hers, but so much neater. She self-consciously smoothed out the wrinkles on her gray dress.

"Where did you find it?" The question seemed to be asked towards the dessert in her hands, rather than her.

"You should know, Tom Riddle. It is the same place you got your fruits from."

He shook his head.

"The kitchens do not keep any baked goods other than brown bread." He answered her, still ogling at the croissant.

Annabeth was going to make a remark about his apparent knowledge of the kitchen's inventory, when it dawned on her that the table she had taken the food from had much more of baked goods than simple brown bread. Then she realized that the place she had been to was not the kitchens.

She leered at him, "You do not know where I got this from?"

"I would not be asking you otherwise." His voice was tighter than before.

Her smirk turned into a chortle. It was her turn to keep secrets.

"I do not wish to share my amenities." She responded briskly, taking a mocking bite out of her bun.

"The second corridor, fourth door from the left leads to the matron's quarters." He started, his eyes boring into hers.

"What?" She questioned, but was cut off.

"Then you take a left turn then the right, the third door leads to the kitchens." He continued, paying her no heed. "That is where I got my fruits from."

She raised a brow. "What am I to do with that information?"

"I told you," he explained, "Now it is your turn to tell me."

She rolled her eyes, but she could not steer this in her favor. The boy had his ways, she noted.

"Fine. I got it from Mrs. Cole's private quarters." She retorted, displeased at having to indulge her whereabouts.

It was his eyebrow that elevated this time.

"You were in her quarters?"

"Yes. From the first left turn, you take the right fork, then the end of the hall leads directly to her chambers."

He nodded his head in acknowledgment, falling into apparent deep thought.

Annabeth knew how the events would turn now. She knew that in the company of a stranger more than five seconds of the absence of words made the silence uncomfortable. But she was again taken by surprise when the lack of conversation between them was hardly awkward.

Neither felt the innate need to entertain the other, Annabeth because she was busy observing Tom and his body language, or the careful lack thereof, and Tom because his eyes never left the croissant in her hands.

Her observations told her a few things: no normal person should be so pale their tone bordered on blue, the slight vibrations in his shoulders were clear shivers, and the circles around his eyes unhealthily prominent now that she was seeing him in a clear light.

Annabeth was unexpectedly seized by pity, this lad must have lived here for a long time if he looked so emaciated, and she felt guilty flaunting her food in front of him. Just because he had not directly asked her for it, did not mean he desired it.

"Wait," she said suddenly, bounding out of the room to the one adjacent. Annabeth unrolled her scarf, procuring a fruit cake, she ran back to the room she had come from. She thrust the confection into the dubious hands of Tom Riddle.

Her fingers brushed his for a second, and a shiver ran up her arm. His hands were chilled to the bone, and in one swoop, Annabeth reached out placing the back of her palm to his forehead.

Tom growled and slapped her hand away and fixed her with a cutting glare, but the contact was enough to tell her his temperature was skyrocketing. She now knew why he hadn't come down to breakfast, he probably couldn't walk that far with a fever this high.

"You should tell someone." She quipped, as he ate the dessert. Tom scoffed between mouthfuls.

"And what will they do?" He asked, "Nothing." He answered his own question.

Annabeth widened her eyes, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, this place is content with keeping us only on the brink of life." He snarled, "They do not care about our living conditions."

"Have you fallen ill before?"

"I seem to fall ill every other day."

"Have you ever told someone?"

"Yes, and nothing came of it."

Annabeth twirled a blonde lock between her fingers. She had an opportunity to show him that she meant no harm, and to make up for the time she had spent boasting her food in front of him, when he had no breakfast and was definitely starving.

"My mother fell ill often," Annabeth said, "I used to care for her."

Tom raised a dark brow in question. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I know how to care for a sick person, I could help you Tom Riddle."

"I do not need your help." He replied immediately, avoiding her eyes, his tone now saying that she had clearly overstayed her welcome. Annabeth wanted to press her point, but was stopped very rudely when Tom got up and opened the door, signaling her way out.

She promptly rolled her eyes and stepped out. She could after all, only help him if he wanted to be helped. And she could tell that Tom would gladly starve for a week instead of accept her help without a fight.

"Fine. I hope you know that I know that you just lied…again, the first thing you need is help, and a lot of it, Tom Riddle."

She let these become her parting words as she exited the room.

Oooooooooooooooooo

The day was unbearably uneventful, save for her conversation with Tom Riddle. It was utterly amusing, Annabeth thought as she climbed into bed, how hard he tried to conceal his bodily and facial expression once he found out she could decipher between his words using them.

As though he were hiding something.

Annabeth fell into a deep sleep, one filled with past memories and longings for the life she left behind.

A series of thumping on her door abruptly woke the girl up. Her first instinct was to shrink into her bedcovers, a childish fear of ghouls knocking on her door seized her for a fleeting moment, before she banished such thoughts from her sleep muddled mind.

The knocking persisted, now more urgent than before, as though the person had been knocking for a while now. Annabeth spared a second to wonder what time it was, she guessed it must be much past midnight, though she had no way of knowing the exact hour.

The rattling came again, louder, vibrant with annoyance.

She slid out of bed, taking timid steps towards her door. She opened it a crack, but the corridor was too dark to place the silhouette, she unbolted the door further, and she identified the individual just as suddenly as the figure was overtaken by a fit of coughs.

"…Tom Riddle?"

He looked at her, eyes pleading for help, though no words left him, only hacking coughs. Annabeth's instincts took control of her, she ushered him into the room and sat him down firmly on her bed, wrapping her blanket around his shoulders. She then left for his room and returned with his blanket, enveloping his trembling form in that as well.

"…What happened?"

"You were right," he gasped, "…help," he managed before another convulsion took him.

Annabeth couldn't spare a moment to gloat about her precision, something was obviously very wrong with the boy shuddering with increasing velocity in her bed, and she had to do something to bring his discernible fever down first.

"Stay here," She commanded and was met with a skeptical look.

"I could not go anywhere even if I wanted to." He snapped, and she wondered where he found the energy for the snark when he was having trouble breathing. She didn't reply to his comment, she rushed out of the room, coming back with a glass of cold water from a dispenser down the hall. Annabeth had to make the most of what she had, she pulled out one of her shirts, drenching it in the chilled water.

Tom hissed in displeasure as she touched the cloth tentatively to his forehead. She had done this for her mother several times before, so she knew what she was doing, but Tom's irate reactions were making her doubt herself.

"Stay still!" She chided as he flinched away from the cold cloth. "This will bring your temperature down."

"I know what it will do," He hissed from between his teeth, the fever seemed to sour his usual bitter demeanor much more.

Annabeth ignored him again, continuing to wipe his burning skin, she could feel it start to cool under the cold cloth. She tried to mop his back but her efforts were futile, fever riddled skin concealed by the shirt covering it.

"Take it off," she commanded, gesturing at the garment and Tom gave her the most blatantly livid look she had received from him yet.

"No," he countered resolutely, and that was the moment Annabeth resolved to use force if need be.

"Tom Riddle, are you in a hurry to die?"

The question seemed to bring the boy back to the situation at hand, and he audibly grit his teeth, before he cautiously unbuttoned the garment and removed it only partway through, exposing only a bit of skin at a time.

Now, Annabeth's mother had taught her a lot of things, from bringing a fever down, to tending to sores and blisters, she had also taught the girl to not stare at a person's body, no matter how intriguing their condition might be.

But right then, Annabeth found it immensely difficult to keep her eyes from tracing the painfully prominent dents in Tom Riddle's body, the ribs that threatened to puncture skin, pale canvas stretched tight over his bones, she made quick work of sponging him down, wincing as the cloth slid over the bumps of his spine.

When she was done, the first thing that Annabeth did was go over to her cupboard, pull out her scarf full of food, and then she placed the bundle in Tom's lap.

He was about to ask her what she was doing now, when she said, "You can have it."

He didn't ask why, did not try to return it, he simply secured the knot a little tighter, he had no intention of giving it back, or at the very least, thanking her. Annabeth did not notice, there were heavier things weighing on her mind.

"Do you feel better now?"

He nodded, and for once let her press her fingers against his head and neck, she had succeeded in ebbing his fever, and his shivers had subsided too.

"Why was you mom ill so often?"

The question was sudden, but it was a way to keep another person worth talking to with her. Annabeth hadn't many things she disliked, but lack of interaction was one of them.

Annabeth shrugged, "She was rather weak. Father never was around, so I had to tend to her. She told me a lot about the things doctors do, she always wanted to be one."

"Why was your father not around?"

Annabeth narrowed her eyes.

"Why the sudden interest, Tom Riddle?"

He looked away, "I am naturally a curious person."

She scoffed, "Yes, you are, that is why you asked me of my family before you did my last name."

Tom eyes rounded with the realization that all he truly knew of the blonde girl's identity was nothing but her first name.

"And that would be?"

Annabeth sat up straighter. "I think it is time we formally introduced ourselves, yes?"

She held out her hand, and Tom pretended she didn't, ignoring her handshake. She sighed and withdrew her hand.

"I am Annabeth Irene Demesne." She declared, a slight invitation for Tom's full name.

"Tom…Marvolo Riddle." He sounded almost reluctant as he told her.

"Marvolo? I have never heard of such a name before."

"Neither have I ever heard of a 'Demesne', Annabeth Demesne."

"Hmm…" Annabeth mused. "And how old are you?"

"Why would it matter?"

"Just curious," she smirked.

"Ten."

"Very snappish for a ten year old."

She heard him grit his teeth again. "You should not make comments about your elders."

"Oh?" She challenged him, "How are you so sure I am not older than you?"

"I would guess you are about seven."

"I am nine!"

"That makes me older, does it not?"

It was Annabeth's turn to grit her teeth.

"When is your birthday?"

"I feel like I am being interrogated." Tom jibed.

"You are." Annabeth replied smartly, "Now when were you born?"

"Why would this matter, now?"

"So I could greet you on your birthday…?"

"I do not care for such greetings."

Annabeth heaved a sigh, Tom seemed to have all kinds of ways planned to dodge her questions.

"Mine is on the first of January. A very inconvenient date, if I say so."

"Why?"

"Because everyone is so busy celebrating New Year's, they forget it was also the day I was born."

"Everyone is quite busy anticipating the New Year on mine." Tom said after a pause. Annabeth wanted to groan at the way he spoke in riddles. She smirked at the irony of his name.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Because you just told me your birthday, that is why."

"I have a feeling you were smiling for a different reason."

She rolled her eyes, she seemed to do that a lot in his presence.

"Your birthday is rather close," Annabeth remarked.

"How? Christmas won't be here until next week. New year's eve is even further."

"Still rather close."

"Hm."

"I will nick some croissants for you on your birthday." Annabeth avowed, "You seem to like them."

He chuckled darkly, "And why would you do that?"

"Because friends give their friends gifts on their birthdays."

"We are not friends."

'We are!" Annabeth chortled. "After today, I think we are."

Tom scowled, "At best, we are acquaintances."

"Friends," Annabeth persisted stubbornly.

"Acquaintances." Tom repeated.

"Even after I saved your life?"

"You did not 'save my life'."

"Fine," Annabeth shrugged. "At least acquaintance is a start."

"I do not believe we could be friends, Annabeth."

"Oh Tom, we actually already are."

Tom pressed his lips into a thin line, nothing seemed to deter her.

"And you can call me Anna," she continued, "If I can call you Tom."

"Then I shall continue calling you Annabeth, and you shall continue addressing me by my last name." Tom shot back.

"Hmm, why? Because first names are used by friends?"

"Precisely."

Annabeth's eyes became thinner as she scrutinized him. He would need sleep, she surmised, he was still unwell after all.

"I see. Goodnight, Riddle."

Tom stood up and promptly wobbled on his feet, having to grab the wall to maintain a balance.

"Goodnight, Demesne."

Annabeth did not have time to show her contempt at the use of her last name in the form of her ninth eye roll, as Tom quavered his way out of her room, back to his own.

"Demesne," he said just as he was leaving, "I happen to prefer fruit cake more."

Annabeth stared open mouthed after him.

Only when she curled down to sleep after clearing the glass and her drenched shirt did she realize that Tom had taken her blanket with him when he left. Instant disdain took hold of her, before she noticed a crumpled pile of cloth in the corner of her bed. Upon closer inspection, she concluded it was Tom's blanket which he had swapped for hers in his fever driven haste.

She shrugged at the shadows watching her, before she drew his blanket upon herself, drifting to sleep once more.

A/N:

I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, hopefully you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Please review :)