A Leap of Faith

June 25, 1943

The day that everything changed, Tom's pocket change was down to a single Knut.

Looting over the next few nights had resulted in some useful knick-knacks, but they had found no more food aside from some mouldy bread, and he was not hungry enough to try to eat that, so he had spent the rest of his money in Diagon Alley and Carkitt Market. The tins they had found had to be split between the four of them, and they were long gone. British Restaurants (glorified soup kitchens, really) served cheap meals, but only once a day, and money ran out fast. It had taken those five miserable days for Tom to adjust to the reduced meals; he was still hungry all the time, it had just gotten a little easier to ignore it.

The truce between Tom and Billy had held so far, even if it was being held together by pins and needles. Billy had stopped trying to boss Tom around, and Tom had stopped antagonising the blond, but just barely. Returning to Wool's empty handed night after night kept aggravating their moods, and they were both ready to snap.

Stubbs had gone looking for a job again but hadn't been paid much. Whalley wanted to try breaking into a shop or an inhabited house. Bishop was his usual useless self. Tom just wanted to wake up in his bed in the Slytherin common room, and realise this had all been a nightmare.

Alas, he kept getting the short end of the stick.

That day the four boys had been lounging in the kitchen, even Tom, who had found that it was the one spot where the muggles had hung heavy curtains on the window instead of planks; it had the only reading light in the entire orphanage. Dennis had been fidgeting from the start, still not comfortable with Tom's presence, and kept shooting him terrified glimpses that Tom revelled in; over the last few days, Bishop's constant fear had become his main source of entertainment, much to Stubbs' displeasure. The blond muggle had kept his mouth shut about it, but it was obviously grating on him.

Even if the others were sitting as far away as possible from him, playing some muggle game, this meant that it was only a matter of time before Tom's presence sparked an argument.

Maybe Stubbs thought he was being subtle, but he'd also been glancing over at Tom for a while. Tom largely pretended not to notice, but he kept losing his concentration, and rereading the same lines constantly; it was slowly but surely eating away at his patience, so by the time the muggle gathered the courage to speak, Tom was already at the brink of losing his temper.

"You have loads of books, don't you?" asked Stubbs suddenly.

Tom lifted his eyes from the page to glare at the blond. The muggle tensed, but didn't back down.

"Maybe you should donate some," Billy suggested cautiously, undeterred. Bishop's eyes grew as large as saucers, and Whalley stopped shuffling cards to watch the exchange. "For the cause, y'know?"

Tom furrowed his brows and cocked his head, bewildered by the strange things muggles said. "The hell are you talking about?"

Stubbs squared his shoulders, and puffed out his chest. "The army needs paper for cartridges and artillery. We all pitched in."

The mere idea of his precious books being turned into boxes and wads for muggle weaponry was blasphemous. Hell, the idea of any book being shredded to help perpetuate the muggle conflict disgusted him. Tom defensibly closed the book he was reading and scowled at Stubbs. "Are you out of your mind?"

The blond genuinely looked taken aback. "What? No, we all gave up something to support the troops," he replied, quickly gathering himself and glaring at Tom instead. "Don't you understand? They're dying out there to keep us safe!"

"How is that my problem?"

Stubbs stared at him in disbelief, and then in disgust. "Ah. Of course. How silly of me to expect someone like you to be anything but selfish," he said, poison dripping from every word.

Whalley mumbled something under his breath that sounded like 'not this again', and hid his face in his hands. Bishop began biting his fingernails and rocking in his chair.

Tom could feel a tingle of magic begging him to smash Billy Stubbs' face against the table. "I'm warning you, Stubbs, back off," he hissed. Why couldn't the muggle just leave him be?

"Maybe I'll just take them while you're out, so they can be put to good use."

Tom thought of his locked trunk, packed to the brim with his spellbooks, his journals, his research, and that ancient grimoire he had found in the Chamber. Of all the things he'd found buried at Hogwarts, it was the one item he'd taken with him. It was full of ancient magic he couldn't yet read. It was priceless. And it was his. For a second, he envisioned coming back to finding them all gone. It was one of the worst things he could imagine being done to him.

"Don't. You. Dare," he whispered menacingly, eyes flashing. Right then he didn't care that it would be impossible for a muggle to lay a finger on his possessions, Stubbs was baiting him. They had grown up together, the muggle knew what set him off, how to push him over the edge, and it had been so long since the last time they had argued… it was not natural.

"What are you going to do about it?" challenged the muggle, spreading out his arms in defiance. "Are you going to do me in, like you did my rabbit?"

Whalley and Bishop snapped to attention, directing their pale faces at Tom and Billy as if following a tennis match.

Tom huffed derisively. So much for their truce. "Is that what this is about? You're mad because you miss your rabbit?"

"So you don't deny you did!"

"Don't be ridiculous, I did not kill your rabbit."

Stubbs let out a snort. "'Course you didn't," he replied sarcastically. "I'm sure he hung himself from the rafters."

"I suppose he got sick of being around you," Tom snarked.

"You bastard, it was you! Everyone knows you did it!"

"I did not," insisted Tom, even if it was a bold faced lie. "We were nine. How do you suppose a nine year old hangs an animal from the ceiling?"

The blond boy threw his hands up in exasperation. "I don't know, Riddle, strange shit always happens around you!"

Eric gasped, Dennis squeaked, and Billy paled when he registered his outburst. Tom bit back a laugh at the frightened looks that took over the muggles. It was a well known fact among the orphans that the unexplained occurrences that surrounded Tom Riddle were not to be mentioned. Ever.

"What's wrong, Stubbs?" Tom asked with a grin that was all teeth. "Are you scared of me?"

Billy crossed his arms over his chest and regarded Tom apprehensively, trying to appear braver than he felt. Had he been a wizard, he would have definitely been a Gryffindor, because he ploughed on: "I would be an idiot not to be scared of you, Riddle," he said finally. "Who knows how you do what you do? Devil worship, I reckon."

Tom stared, taken aback by the bizarre answer despite his anger. "I-what? Devil worship? Is Bishop still harping on about that?"

Dennis made a choking sound, and squeezed himself into a tight little ball. Tom scowled at the little idiot before refocusing his attention back on Stubbs. Waste of oxygen if there ever was one, honestly.

Billy spared Dennis a glance, and grimaced. "Leave him be, Riddle. It's not just him, everyone was convinced you were possessed or something. If I believed such things, I'd agree."

Tom frowned at the muggle, fascinated by what he was hearing. True, Mrs. Cole had taken him to a priest as a boy; muggles chalked up everything they couldn't explain to supernatural forces, and Tom's magic checked all the boxes. Obviously, the bemused priest could not find anything wrong with him, and recommended bringing the orphans to Sunday school to ease their fears. It was around that time that the charming woman had started threatening to have him committed.

Because of the matron's actions, the rumour had spread that Tom was either disturbed or possessed; only the bravest or stupidest orphans dared bring it up in front of him, and all of them had quickly and painfully learned to never mention it again. If they had never gotten over the rumour, well that could explain why Bishop was still affected by the cave incident. Tom hadn't expected the effect to last so long. It made him a little proud.

"So then how do you explain it, Stubbs?" asked Tom, snapping out of his daze, and finding a slight academic curiosity in how the muggles viewed him with their limited knowledge.

"I think you're just evil."

Tom deflated slightly. "How disappointing," he sneered. "Truly, I don't know why I expected an intelligent response."

Eric groaned, and ran a hand down his face. "Leave 'im be, Riddle. He's just pissed 'cause he's 'ungry."

Tom bristled. "I'm fucking hungry."

Eric laughed humorlessly. "Well, sure wish we 'ad that juicy bunny now, ey?"

There was a stunned silence between the four boys, and then Stubbs started to chuckle, which was like giving the others permission to do the same, and soon they were laughing, too. Even Tom had to hide a smirk. He'd been so high strung lately that that idiot Whalley had managed to amuse him.

Eric sighed dreamily and began counting with his fingers. "Rabbit stew, rabbit pie, rabbit 'otpot… rabbit roast!"

Stubbs wiped a tear from his right eye. "You're a monster, Eric."

The sudden sound of insistent knocking at the front door interrupted their chuckling and put them all on high alert. Then whoever was at the door whistled, and the muggles relaxed.

"Louise!" cried Whalley, shooting up from his seat.

Soon, the mousy haired boy returned with an older girl Tom recognized.

Over the years, Mrs. Cole had dubbed some of them as 'problem orphans': Charlie Greene was the boy you went to if you wanted smokes or liquor, usually swiped from Mrs. Cole's stash; Johnny Wilson was a petty thief that kept getting dragged to jail by the coppers; Pete Murphy had a violent streak and would often beat up the other orphans or other children on the block; Tom Riddle was the demon child that terrorised the staff and the other children with his devil-given power. And Louise Alcott was the orphan that made Mrs. Cole screech about indecency and scarlet women.

"Hullo, boys," she chirped merrily, swinging a basket for all of them to see. "I got ye a lil' somefing."

"Louise, yer a godsend," moaned Whalley, taking the basket and pulling out a loaf of bread as if it were a newborn babe.

"Thank you, Louise," said Stubbs sincerely, taking the basket from Eric. "You won't get in trouble for this, will you?"

"Course not, silly," Louise gave him a bright smile, and faltered when she finally noticed Tom sitting across the room.

Even amongst the 'problem orphans', Tom was universally feared.

"Riddle, yer 'ere," she said, more to herself than to anyone else.

Tom inclined his head in greeting but remained silent.

Stubbs broke the tension by throwing a loaf of bread at the wizard, who caught it expertly regardless. "Don't mind him, Louise," he muttered. "He's just here temporarily."

The brunette seemed unconvinced but she refocused on her visit.

"I 'ave some news," she said, watching the boys as Billy passed a loaf of bread to Dennis, more gently than he had to Tom. "There migh' be a job at the docks."

The three muggle boys lit up at that. Tom frowned warily.

"S'not a permanent position, mind, s'just unloading some odds and sods," she said hurriedly. "The usual 'ands are busy tomorrow, it's a one time fing."

The boys deflated a little, but the promise of a paid job was something at least.

Tom mulled over the girl's words. What did she mean by the usual hands? Was she part of some operation?

Stubbs didn't look too happy, which was a red flag regarding the nature of the job, but Whalley didn't seem to mind. Of course, just an hour ago he had suggested breaking and entering, so Tom couldn't gauge how much was too much for the younger muggle.

"So where are we s'pposed t'go?" asked Whalley.

Louise gave them directions to a rundown dock away from the public eye, and the time they should show. Whatever it was they would be unloading was probably contraband, Tom deduced, considering they would be doing it away from the main docks, under the cover of blackout.

"So there are four of us," started Stubbs, looking around the room.

"We can't all go and leave our things unattended," quipped Tom suddenly, speaking for the first time since Louise's arrival. He was still a little on edge from Stubbs' threat to take his books. "Bishop, you stay."

Had Dennis had any backbone, he would have bristled at being ordered to do anything by Tom Riddle. Instead, he babbled something intelligible and looked away.

Stubbs glared at him. "I suppose you have a point. Dennis usually stays, and three of us is still better than two," he conceded. "Sorry, Dennis."

"S'fine," Bishop mumbled, startling Tom. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard the wimp speak. Was he finally growing a spine? Because if he thought sharing a laugh over a dead rabbit changed anything, he was sorely mistaken.

After a beat of silence, the muggles slowly eased themselves back into conversation and Tom tuned them out, focusing instead on eating while he could. Atwood had arrived just in time; if not for her, Tom would have backed Whalley's idea to break into a house or a shop. Merlin knew there were plenty of houses barely standing that they could choose as targets.

As the conversation turned to asinine issues about the other orphans, Tom left the kitchen and resolved to hole himself up in his room. They would not be leaving until three in the morning, so he had a whole afternoon to kill. Might as well reinforce his trunk before getting some shuteye.

June 26, 1943

Fuck the war, fuck the Muggles, fuck the Statute of Secrecy, fuck the trace, and fuck the bloody blackout.

Standing in freezing water at 4 am in the morning, after almost being run over by a lorry, had put Tom in a decidedly foul mood. It was at times like these that he missed being able to do magic without fear of consequence. He could have warmed himself up, water-proofed his shoes, levitated crates, but no… he couldn't do any of that because if the muggles saw it, Dumbledore would have him expelled, his wand would be snapped, and his entire future would be ruined.

He might not agree with the finer points of Grindelwald's philosophy, but he couldn't deny the Dark Lord was on to something.

"What is Atwood involved with?" snapped Tom, glancing around him disdainfully.

Stubbs and Whalley exchanged a look.

"Told ye, she's a dish. T'was easier for 'er to find work, if you catch me drift,'' explained Eric, wagging his eyebrows.

Tom grimaced. He'd caught the drift on day one, thank you very much. "How does that relate to unloading barges in the middle of the night?"

Eric shrugged. "S'good business, pimps do all sorts now. Yer a pretty boy, Riddle. If ye wanted, m'sure ye'd find work in a jiffy."

"Piss off," he growled, disturbed.

Whalley guffawed, and even Stubbs tried to disguise a snort as a cough.

There were other five men aside from themselves unloading crates from a barge that had definitely seen better days. They were heavy, and whatever was inside made a clicking noise, so possibly glass bottles. Either alcohol or perfume, as both were difficult to find these days, even in the Black Market.

It took them the better part of an hour to load them all into a lorry. Stubbs had seemed unsure about the job the entire night, the self-righteous prick, but Whalley looked like he couldn't care less. Tom just cursed under his breath about the indignity of it all, and tried not to think about what his fellow Slytherins would say if they knew about his current predicament. Salazar must be turning in his grave.

At last, the man supervising them made them line up, and gave each of them ten shillings. Tom scowled at the coins on his palm, but Stubbs and Whalley seemed content.

The man had just waved them away, and was about to climb on the cabin, when Tom threw caution to the wind and stepped up to him.

"Hold up," he called, with as much authority as he dared. This was a muggle, after all, but a muggle with a weapon glinting by his side. Stubbs and Whalley tried to pull him back by his sleeves, but he waved them off.

"Piss off, lad," the man huffed.

"There has to be more work we can do," said Tom, undeterred by the threatening glare he was receiving.

"Ye deaf? I said, piss off!"

Tom bit back his anger at being addressed so crassly, and pressed on. "You need to distribute whatever is in those crates. No one will look at a teenager twice."

The muggle was now giving him a disbelieving look. "Can ye believe this wanker?" he asked, aiming the question at the driver.

The driver peeked at Tom from his seat. "A bloody saucebox fer sure."

The supervisor let out a string of expletives, but eventually settled back on Tom with a calculating look on his face. "Know the gin fact'ry that was hit in Three Mills?" he asked suddenly.

Tom hadn't the foggiest what the man was talking about.

"Yes," he spat, deciding he could figure it out later.

The muggle grunted. "Be there before blackout."

With that, the driver hit the gas, and the lorry soon disappeared in the fog from the Thames.

Stubbs groaned and smacked his forehead. "What have you done now?"

Tom scowled at the muggle, and started walking down the road the lorry had taken. "I got another job."

"This is dangerous, Riddle. Those men are criminals," argued Stubbs in a loud whisper, as they set out to return to Wool's. The group of older men had started leering at them through the darkness, and it was making Tom's skin crawl. How he wished he could curse them.

Tom ignored Stubbs, hoping that giving him the cold shoulder would shut him up. He was mistaken.

"Look, this is what infantry makes in a week. We can make this money last," continued Stubbs.

"Of course we could, but we will run out eventually, and we're back to scraps and soup kitchens, Stubbs. Don't you want to be able to afford a decent meal, or rent in a building that isn't falling apart? Or running water, for fuck's sake?" replied Tom sharply. "You said so yourself, no work, no money. Nobody cares about bastards like us, and I don't feel like starving because you're feeling righteous."

"It's wrong."

"No one's asking you to join."

"I'll come wif," piped Whalley, interrupting their usual squabble.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. He was cold, hungry, and exhausted. In short, he was in no mood. "Piss off, Whalley."

Whalley looked very much like he wanted to kick Tom, but he wouldn't have dared. "I kno' where the fact'ry is," he said instead.

Tom took a deep breath and released it in an exasperated huff. I will kill them all, I swear.

"Fine," he ground through his teeth.

A twig snapped behind them, and the three turned around at the sudden noise. The sun was beginning to rise, washing the riverbank in an eerie grey light. It was enough for them to see that three of the five men from the docks were following them.

Maybe he was being paranoid, but alarm bells went off in Tom's head. Judging by the ashen looks in his companions' faces, they were picking up the same vibe.

"Let's get out of here," Tom muttered.

He didn't need to tell them twice. They picked up the pace, and stopped their fighting, focusing on getting back to civilization as fast as they could. Maybe they were just headed the same way, or maybe they would be robbed, but who wanted to bet on those odds? Besides, Tom had not woken up at ungodly hours of the morning and gone through all this trouble to have nothing to show for it.

Maybe it had been Tom's tirade about decent meals, or perhaps they felt in a celebratory mood, but for the first time, Stubbs and Bishop had stepped into a shop and brought back meat, potatoes, cheese, salt and tea.

The matches, pots and pans they had found a few days earlier served them well for cooking. Along the wall was a large stove, an oven and a washbasin, none of which worked, so splintered wooden door frames and old newspapers went for kindling. The kitchen had not been hit directly. Still, most of it had been ruined in the resulting fire, but they had found dishes and cutlery, which made them feel a little like civilised humans again.

It couldn't hold a candle to Hogwarts' food, but it was more substantial than anything they had eaten all week, and Tom was famished.

All in all, he was in much better spirits than that morning, even if it was Eric Whalley that walked beside him that evening, as they made their way to Three Mills. They had been forced to walk there as the rubble and craters on the streets made it impossible for any transport to pass through. Few people paid much attention to the two teenagers making their way through bent metal and scattered bricks, being far more preoccupied with guarding their spot in the queues to enter underground shelters before blackout. The entire ordeal had taken them slightly over an hour, and that had passed in glorious silence. Whalley agreed with Tom on making more money, but they could still barely tolerate each other.

The area was deserted and completely dark. Before them was the husk of the gin factory, and several warehouses that stood ominously with their roofs caved in. Yet again, Tom fought down the instinct to pull out his wand.

He was beginning to think the man from that morning had stood them up, but then Whalley pointed at the same lorry they had loaded that morning. He seemed apprehensive, but not scared.

Grudgingly, Tom had to admit that Whalley was made of sturdier stuff than his classmates. He couldn't picture Avery or Nott in the same situation; like most bullies, they were cowards when it counted. Or maybe Whalley had become like this as a natural consequence of surviving the Blitz.

The two boys walked forward, shooting glances around them for any sound or movement. The sun was low and cast long shadows as they approached the lorry, where a lone figure suddenly stood to attention.

"Who goes there?"

Tom and Whalley stopped abruptly, raising their hands in surrender when they spotted the long barrel in the man's hands.

"We are here for the job," Tom called back calmly. Whalley shot him a sideways glance.

Rifle-man stepped forward and examined them in the dying light. He was bald, scruffy, and had unsettling crystal blue eyes. Whatever he saw in the two teenagers seemed to satisfy him.

"Follow me."

They did, but Tom kept his eyes glued on the muggle weapon. He briefly wondered if his shield would be able to withstand it, should he fire it. Furthermore, would he be able to cast his shield faster than Rifle-man could pull the trigger? He hoped he never had to find out.

The man pulled two canvas bags from the truck, and handed one to each.

"Yer going to take these to St. Paul's, Stephen Road. There's a side street next to the church," he explained gruffly. "There's always someone there, he'll whistle twice so ye know it's all good. He'll pay ye for yer troubles."

Tom weighed the bag in his arms before swinging it on his back. It was solid, and quite heavy. It did not make the noise the crates had made that morning, so it was probably something else.

"Sain' Paul's," repeated Whalley. "By Victoria Park?"

Rifle-man grunted. "Aye. Try ter squirrel away, and we'll know. We always know."

Tom pressed his lips into a thin line. He did not like threats. "Alright, then. Best be going," he added, hoisting the bag higher and taking his leave, not bothering to check if Whalley was behind him.

They left the ruined factory as quickly as possible without running.

Soon, they were back on the ruined road. The going was slower, it was nearly pitch black. Tom felt the itch to reach for his wand again and light the way, but doing so would have made them targets. Thankfully Whalley seemed to know where they were going all the time, so he was useful to have around. He would have to learn his way through the broken streets if he wanted to be rid of the muggle.

"Ye've got balls, Riddle," muttered Whalley in awe after a while. "Billy would've never dared."

"Stubbs is a righteous prick," replied Tom. Swearing was not something he ever did at school, but he had no reason to pretend or hold up a pristine reputation here.

Whalley actually laughed. "He is."

Eventually they reached the tracks, and Whalley hopped on them.

"We're sorta close to th'church. What ye'reckon we're carrying?" he asked, giving his bag an experimental lurch.

Even though Tom was curious, he preferred not to tempt fate over something so trivial. "Probably best not to discuss it."

"Righ', righ'… migh' be coppers lurking 'bout."

Much to Tom's relief, the two walked in silence the rest of the way.

The church came into view, tucked between a few dark houses and a park that had been turned into a garden. Tom felt watched.

A dark alley -much darker than the surrounding neighbourhood- led to a side entrance. A figure stepped out of the shadows, bringing Tom to a sudden stop.

They stood in darkness, measuring each other up. Then the figure whistled twice.

The transaction itself was fast. The man took the sacks from them, checked inside, and seemingly satisfied, gave them each five shillings.

"Be at Three Mills tomorrow, same time," grunted the figure, then hoisted the sacks and carried them inside the church without a backward glance.

Whalley stared at the money on his hand in disbelief. "Five shillings a day fer moving stuff? I can git used to this."

Tom looked at his own coins and made the conversion in his head; in just one day, he'd made two sickles and sixteen knuts. He hummed in thought. A few more days of this and he might actually be able to open an account at Gringotts. Tom pocketed the money and looked around. The feeling of being watched had intensified during the transaction, but it was too dark to tell if there was anyone around aside from themselves.

He had not agreed to become a regular mule, but the pay was indeed tempting. Not only could he open the account, he might be able to get his own place after all, and purchase new books and robes for a change. Even so, he knew how gangs worked… once you were in, it was difficult to get out. Both he and Whalley had seen two of their locations; they had become possible loose ends. If he was going to do this, he had to figure out who he was meddling with.

"Whalley," he called, as soon as the church was behind them. "Tell me about Spot."

Eric let out a long whistle. "He's the king of the East End, he is. All the gangs work for 'im. Even the coppers do as he says."

As they walked, Eric painted a picture of a man who had steadily taken over every market in the East End, offering protection to shopkeepers who paid a fee, keeping out rival gangs, selling goods that were hard to find, and paying off the police to look the other way. If Whalley was to be believed, the man was loved by the common people for maintaining order, and was so powerful he could walk in broad daylight without being attacked or arrested.

Tom took in the new information and mulled it over. It didn't matter how influential the muggle was; on September 1st, he would be boarding the Hogwarts Express, and this summer would be nothing but a bad memory. He could get out unscathed. Playing the muggles' game would be a risk, but it was a risk worth taking.

The coins in his pocket jingled as he walked.

With a grimace, Tom realised he had nothing to lose.

History Trivia

Contraband: Most contraband was procured by dockers and railway employees through petty pilfering. While illegal, the Black Market was a response to rationing, and supplied civilians with products that became scarce: mainly clothes, certain food items like eggs and butter, cosmetics, petrol, cigarettes and alcohol. As long as they could afford the higher prices, of course. Anyone caught selling or distributing was subject to a large fine and a jail sentence, but they were hard to catch because civilians were unwilling to tell on them, as civilians themselves would lose access to the products if they did.

Spot's Gang: Jack "Spot" Comer was a Jewish gangster who called himself the Einstein of Crime, and ruled over the East End between the 1930s and 1950s. He pulled together different gangs and their territories and essentially parcelled out power. He was notorious for protecting Jewish shopkeepers and being an anti-fascist. Along with another gangster, Billy Hill -who ruled the West End-, he moved food, petrol, and forged documents for servicemen through the Black Market.

British Restaurants: Essentially soup kitchens that set up in churches or schools to feed people who had lost their homes or jobs. Originally called Community Feeding Centres, Churchill changed the name to British Restaurants because the original name was too 'redolent of communism'.

Paper Salvaging: At the start of the war, the British government established a salvage department to collect recyclable materials, to counter the Nazi blockade. Paper was a material deemed relevant to the war effort: in 1943 alone, 600 million books were recycled and made into shell containers, cartridge wads, mortar bomb carriers, etc. To this day, it's been argued that the campaign caused more damage to Britain's cultural inheritance than the bombs themselves.

Troublesome Vocab

Dish: A pretty girl

Saucebox: A saucy, impudent or cocky person

Author's note

Tom might fear death, but nothing else seems to shake him. Even Harry thought so when Dumbledore showed him the memories in the Pensieve.