Content warning: Swearing and mentions of underage prostitution

The Deep End

July 4, 1943

Tom had made seven sickles over the last several nights, picking up and delivering merchandise at various points around the East End, Whalley on his heels. They never asked what was in the packages, and no one ever asked for their names, which suited him perfectly, even though he knew they were probably being watched. He slept through the mornings, and wandered through Diagon Alley in the afternoons, slinking in and out of shops looking for books and artefacts that he wanted to purchase.

As an added bonus, he didn't see the other muggles as much anymore, not since Stubbs had blown up at him again, this time for being a bad influence on Whalley. The best part was that Tom didn't even have to share his earnings because Stubbs did not want anything to do with their dirty money.

Self-righteous idiot.

Now that he had money to spend, Tom had found an inn that looked promising in Knockturn Alley. Like every other shady character in that side street, the owner reeked of illegal magic, and had glared at Tom suspiciously when the teenager asked for pricing. Thankfully, all the man cared about was whether Tom would be able to afford his stay and nothing else.

If his calculations were correct -and frankly, they always were- he'd be able to afford the place within a week. Just a few more days, and his summer would improve immensely.

The knowledge added a spring to his step as he made his way back to Wool's that evening; not even the thought of having to put up with Whalley for another night dampened his mood.

On his arrival, he heard a commotion going on inside. Muffled voices became clear once he managed to open the front door; it sounded like Stubbs and Whalley were arguing over money again.

"We don't need your bloody money, Eric," snarled Stubbs.

"C'mon, Bill, who cares where it came from? Yer always sayin' we should get a job!"

"Yes! Actual, honest jobs! Not lugging odds and ends for spivs!"

"Nobody's 'iring us, Billy! Just take it!"

"This is all your bloody fault," Stubbs growled, pointing at Tom, who had stopped briefly in the threshold to see what the racket was about. "Everything was fine until you came along!"

Tom looked around the dilapidated building with mock surprise. "Clearly."

Stubbs turned an interesting shade of puce, and Tom could swear smoke might come out of his ears. "That's not what I… I don't have to explain myself to you! Just get out of my way!"

Stubbs took a few steps towards the door, then stopped abruptly and turned around to grab Bishop's wrist.

"Come on, Dennis."

Stubbs pulled Bishop behind him, knocking into Tom with his shoulder on the way out. They heard them stomp up the stairs and slam the door, locking themselves in their room, and leaving Whalley alone with Tom.

Whalley turned to Tom with a sheepish grin on his face.

"Don't even think about it," snapped Tom, making his own way to his room.

With the door firmly locked behind him, Tom pulled out his journal and jotted down the titles and cost of books that had caught his eye. He'd been looking for anything that might help him translate the grimoire, as it had runes and symbols he'd never seen in class or in any book at Hogwarts. The few words he could read were either in latin or in a language he couldn't recognize. Diagon Alley had mainly basic texts on translation, so he would have to look in Knockturn for anything more obscure.

Old, dark families like the Blacks might have useful, banned books in their collection that could point him in the right direction. He'd need to befriend the family if he wanted access to it. Walburga had just graduated, but Lucretia, Orion and Alphard were still around. Lucretia and Orion were of particular interest to him, as they were the heirs of the current patriarch. Besides, rumour had it that Walburga and Alphard were actually their grandfather's children, as their father Pollux had still been at Hogwarts when they were born: it was a family feud waiting to happen, and he was not willing to get caught in the fallout.

Margaret Grimblehawk had once teased Walburga about it, and she had cursed Grimblehawk's teeth to fall off, so she had to have them regrown. Painfully. Nobody wanted to mention it after that.

Brushing aside his thoughts on the Black family, he then wrote down the prices the innkeeper had given him; a sickle a night was not expensive, but if he intended to stay there until September 1st, he would need at least three Galleons. Hogwarts would eventually send him an allowance for purchasing second-hand school supplies, but he didn't feel like buying second-hand this year, which meant he had to milk the muggles for all they were worth. He also needed tickets to Little Hangleton, where the Gaunt family lived. What was left of it anyway.

He looked at the final number and sighed dejectedly. It must be nice being born with a fortune. His classmates had money, but he'd be damned if he asked them for any of it. Those boys followed him because he'd finally proven his heritage with the Chamber, not because they were his friends. He was no beggar, he'd make his own way.

Tom looked at the time and snapped the journal shut, before locking it away with the rest of his things. All that money was not going to earn itself. It was time to go.

"Billy won't talk to me."

"I don't care."

"Didn't even let me in the room. Me stuff's there!"

"I. Don't. Care."

"Am jus' sayin'. This was yer idea, why am I bein' punished?"

"Whalley, shut up!"

The mousy haired boy continued to grumble under his breath while angrily readjusting his satchel, but he stopped trying to make conversation.

Whalley had developed the maddening habit of thinking that he could befriend Tom, just because their interests aligned for a moment. It boggled Tom's mind how the muggle could set aside years of fear after finding out they had something in common. Stubbs thought it was Tom who influenced people to be the worst they could be, that his mere presence had stirred Whalley towards a life of crime. Tom was certain Whalley had always been a little weasel and had just been waiting for an excuse to be his true self. He'd seen it before, in Nott's cruelty, Avery's sadism, Lestrange's ire, Malfoy's bigotry. Traits that had always been there, restrained by polite society, until they found someone they could blame for acting out while they got off with a slap on the wrist.

People like that had to be ruled with an iron fist. They had to know that throwing him to the dogs would be far worse for them than it would be for Tom. By design, he knew enough about each scion to destroy them should they ever turn on him, and he made sure they knew it, too. Their relationship could be mistaken for friendship by an outsider, but it was an unspoken truth among them that their relationship was nothing but mutually beneficial.

Somewhere behind him, Whalley tripped, and Tom dodged, letting the muggle fall face first next to him. His body had reacted before his mind registered what had occurred, it had been busy elsewhere, contemplating how much he could pin on the four purebloods. He could see Whalley's outline on the ground, cursing the darkness and wiping his hands on his clothes.

"Get up, or I'm leaving you behind."

Tonight, Tom was in the lead. They'd had a new moon only a few nights ago, and the way was darker than usual. He didn't trust Whalley to lead anymore, especially since he'd made them late by taking a wrong turn just two nights before; the bloody muggles had docked part of their pay for their tardiness.

"Comin', comin'!"

They'd been told to follow the tracks east, then north. Someone would meet them at the train station. Tom had no reason to believe that tonight would be any different from previous nights, but he was about to be proven wrong.

Nothing looked out of place when the station came into view. As expected, it was dark and seemingly empty; the tracks were fenced off where they had been hit by previous raids, and only splintered wood remained. The rails had been stripped long ago for weapons and ammunition.

"Is that 'im?" said Whalley suddenly, peering through the darkness.

Tom narrowed his eyes in the direction Eric was pointing, and managed to make out a lump darker than its surroundings. They stopped and waited for the usual whistles before moving forward.

Something odd happened then. The lump was indeed a man, and he whistled as expected, but instead of waiting for them, he approached them quickly.

Tom tensed and fingered the handle of his wand, heart pounding, already thinking of a spell, when the man stopped a few paces away to look at them. His features were hidden by shadows, but he was taller than Tom, and twice as wide.

"Not 'ere," he said gruffly, in a surprisingly young voice. "Follow me."

Then he turned around without another word and started leading them away.

Tom and Eric exchanged a look, a silent conversation happening between them.

What should we do?

"Oi!" called the same man that had approached them. "We don't 'ave all night!"

"Riddle?"

Tom swore under his breath. He was of half a mind to turn tail and disappear into the night, but the other half… the other half refused to be spooked by a gang of muggles. More than half. He'd been known to be contrary. "We follow him. We are being watched."

Eric audibly swallowed and nodded.

They set out after the man through an opening in the fencing. He led them through dirt roads and around dilapidated warehouses, and the whole time Tom kept glancing behind him. He could feel eyes on him but couldn't see who was watching them.

Eventually, the man stopped in front of a low, ramshackled building, and rapped a quick succession of knocks on the door. After a few seconds, the door opened, and they were momentarily blinded by a golden light, for whoever was at the door had a lamp pointed at the pavement. It was dim, but after spending such a long time in near total darkness, it felt like they were staring at the sun.

"C'mon, in ye go," said their guide, staring at them expectantly. In the low light, Tom could finally see that it was indeed a young man, barely older than himself.

At that moment, Eric's courage finally faltered, and he took two steps back. As if on cue, two men stepped out of the shadows behind them.

Tom, who was already tense, shot out his arm and grabbed Whalley by the wrist. Eric looked at him reproachfully, but Tom's glare seemed to stabilise him.

"A'ight, a'ight," muttered Eric, shaking off Tom's hand. "Not goin' anywhere."

Their guide scoffed, apparently in amusement, and stepped through the threshold, leaving the two teenagers standing outside, guarded by his cronies.

Eric sighed, defeated. "If it means anyfing, I'm glad I'm 'ere with ye, and not with Billy."

Once again, the muggle managed to surprise him. "How so?"

"Billy's a wimp. Ye can fight."

Tom let out a bark of laughter. "Not sure that's going to be very useful here, moron."

"Ah!?"

"Just let me do the talking."

Tom squared his shoulders and stepped through the threshold, leaving Eric to scramble behind him. He only had a moment to take in the dusty foyer before the door swung shut behind the muggle boy, and was then locked with a finality that chilled both orphans' bones.

Tom's breath hitched. He'd read all the theory on Apparition, he knew what he had to do, he just hadn't actually tried it. If worse came to worst, he could certainly give it a go, and there was a fairly good chance that he would succeed with all his limbs intact. Pity about Eric: side-along Apparition with a muggle was not something he was willing to risk.

They were led down a hall that ended with a heavy curtain. Voices and raucous laughter could be heard on the other side. Tom had been about to push the curtain aside, when the door keeper slid past him and did it for him, jostling him forward and onto a brightly lit room.

Once again the light hurt his eyes, and he was forced to blink several times. The air smelled of tobacco and unpleasant scents he couldn't place. He felt his satchel being pulled off, and then hands patting him down, searching for weapons under his shirt, his trousers, even his ankles. Tom fought the impulse to shove the muggles away while he couldn't see. By some kind of miracle, they didn't think to check under his sleeve, and they missed his wand completely. Had the muggles found it… he didn't even want to think about the mess he would be in.

"All clear, Joe."

"Bring 'em here."

A hand held Tom's upper arm and shoved him forward. He could hear Eric's feet scuffling beside him while he regained his footing. At last, Tom's eyes adjusted and he could look around him.

They were standing before a large table littered with cards, pints, glasses, bottles and overflowing ashtrays. Tom's eyes were drawn to the middle-aged man sitting behind the table, who had a leather eyepatch and a woman with dyed red hair perched on his lap. The contrast between them was jarring. He was dressed in crisp, plain clothes, while she wore an expensive looking dress, a feathered blue cap, and glittering jewels. Everything about her screamed contraband and excess. She looked like a perch he used to display his wealth: an accessory.

However, the message was clear. Be good to me, and you shall be rewarded.

A quick scan of the room revealed they were surrounded by at least eight men, and even a few women loitering around them. With some surprise, he noticed Alcott was among them, playing with an older man's hair. Their guide turned out to be a sandy haired brute that had chosen a spot next to the one-eyed man who was clearly the leader. Tables had been pushed against the walls, and chairs and stools had been pulled to the front. There were no windows, which explained how they were able to keep the room so brightly lit without attracting attention from the outside.

"Apologies for the rude welcome, lads," the leader said in a lazy drawl. "Necessary precautions."

Tom schooled his expression to appear neutral, and said nothing. Any inkling of fear or weakness could be exploited. He'd learned to use his face as a mask, a blank canvas where he could paint whatever he wanted, regardless of the emotions churning inside him. Whalley shifted nervously next to him.

The one-eyed man studied them with a hazel eye, unfazed by the lack of response from the two boys before him.

"Ye just started workin' for me, yeh?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes, sir," replied Tom, a little surprised by how steady his voice sounded. "A week ago."

"I see. And 'ow did ye come ter be in my employment? I don't quite remember recruitin' ye."

Tom paused to evaluate his answer. There was a thinly veiled threat in the leader's question. His answer might be the difference between diffusing the situation, and trying his luck at Apparating away, consequences be damned.

"We received an invitation to work for a night, from someone within your organisation," said Tom, keeping Alcott's name out of it intentionally, lest they peg him for a snitch. "We gladly accepted, as we know you are the only ones we can trust to keep the Italians out of our territory. See, we don't like the Italians moving into the East End, so we volunteered to further our services, for as long as you needed them, of course."

There. Enough truth, flattery, bigotry and a touch of self-deprecation for a convincing lie. If she knew what was good for her, Alcott would keep her mouth shut.

The leader -had someone called him Joe?- leaned forward to stare at Tom more closely, measuring him up. He was ignoring Whalley completely. Suddenly, his eye sparkled and his face lit up with recognition.

"Yer the saucebox!" he cried, clapping and pointing at Tom.

Tom schooled his face into a sheepish grin. "I might have been called that."

Shit. So the story had gotten around; he'd have to spin it into something positive if the muggle wasn't impressed.

Joe laughed, and in seconds everyone was laughing along with him. God forbid that they didn't find amusement in the same things as their boss. Even Whalley was tittering along nervously. Tom patiently kept the edge out of his own smile.

Quite abruptly, the leader stopped laughing and bored his eye into Tom again. His men's laughter trailed off into silence, recognizing the shift in the mood.

"I'm curious," he said in that same lazy drawl. "What's a lad with an Oxford schoolboy accent doin' in the East End?"

Tom's fingers twitched; he had not spoken like a Cockney in years, he refused to, but it was in fact suspicious to speak with any other accents in this area. "I might speak like one, but I was born and raised here," he replied, working hard to keep the revulsion out of his voice.

Joe appeared unconvinced.

Tom's mind was furiously trying to come up with another way to placate the man, when he received help from a most unlikely source.

"Oh, Joe, I'll vouch fer 'em," piped Alcott suddenly, throwing Tom a lifeline. "I told 'em Charlie needed help at the docks."

For the first time, the leader removed his attention from Tom, but the sandy haired brute's eyes landed on him instead. No matter what, someone was always watching him.

"How d'ye know them, Poppet? Clients?" Joe questioned.

Louise snorted. "They wish. We grew up t'gether. That one's harmless, and this one's really one of them geniuses, that's why he talks all posh."

The man with the eyepatch zeroed in on Tom with interest. "Is he now?"

"Yeh, Tom's great with numbers," supplied Whalley suddenly, speaking for the first time. "And letters, and books, and all them smart stuffs. Went t'grammar school an' all."

Tom shot Eric a warning look, and the younger muggle shrunk. He'd gone past scared, and into stupid. The nerve of this idiot, revealing his name so thoughtlessly!

Yes, Tom was as good at muggle subjects as he was at his classes at Hogwarts. If not for his Hogwarts letter, he would have most definitely aced the test to attend one of the nicer schools. Dumbledore had come up with the cover story of the grammar school outside of London to explain Tom's absence while he was away, so as far as the orphans knew, Tom took a train to Yorkshire each year. It hadn't gained him any favours with the others, as none of them had stood a chance at passing the heavily rigged test.

Joe spared Eric a frown, before he turned to Tom again. "Is that true?"

"Yes, sir," replied Tom easily. He needed to focus on his current predicament; he could come up with a way to punish Eric later.

The leader nodded thoughtfully. "All this 'sir' nonsense makes me feel so old. Yer not interested in an old man, are ye, Birdy?" complained the muggle, and then jostled the woman on his lap, making her giggle and her jewellery jingle. Tom almost scowled, the little display made him sick.

"Call me Joe, I insist," said Joe, becoming serious again. "Now I'm goin' to let ye in on a little secret: see, lads, the Italians ain't happy that we're taking over their routes, so they sent some of me boys to sleep. Then a few days ago, Poppet here says to me that she knows some boys who're interested in more… permanent positions."

Tom frowned. Louise had said… had he known the truth all along? Was this whole thing a set-up? He got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been played. The decision had been made long before Tom had made it to the train station, perhaps days ago, all that was left was deciding how he would be most useful to them. The muggles were just putting him to the test. He bit his tongue, hard. How could he have let a dirty muggle play him like this!? He'd been complacent, he'd slipped up, dammit all.

Joe steepled his fingers and examined the wizard, bringing him back to the present. "We could use a new bookkeeper. Think ye can handle that?"

A beat of silence passed. The subtle edge in the muggle's voice rubbed Tom the wrong way. The offer was not really an offer, rather a challenge and a threat. It was clear as water, hidden between the lines. Do as I say, or I'll put you to sleep.

The woman tittered again, making her bracelets jangle when she pushed a fake red curl behind her ear. Do as I say, and I'll reward you.

The carrot and the stick.

Being a bookkeeper for the rest of the summer didn't sound like a bad idea. He'd be off the streets where it was dangerous, and closer to the money, where he wanted to be. A few tweaks here and there, and One-Eye Joe would be none the wiser if a few pounds went missing. Worst case scenario, Tom would be at Hogwarts when they figured it out. If they figured it out.

Tom gave the muggle a winning smile.

"Absolutely."

"Good, good, good," said Joe with a single, resounding clap. "As for the other one… what's yer name?"

Right, Whalley was still standing next to him. He'd completely forgotten about him for a moment.

"Eric, sir. I-I mean, Joe!" stammered Whalley, sweating despite the coolness of the night.

Joe grinned a predatory smile, not unlike Tom's twisted grins. It was uncanny seeing it on someone else.

"Ye look friendly," said Joe, looking anything but friendly himself. "Unassuming. I can see ye selling nylons and watches at the Rainbow Corner. What d'ye think?"

There it was again, that subtle edge that made Tom's hair stand on end.

"I'd like that very much, sir! Joe! I mean Joe!"

Tom almost sighed. How undignified.

"Well then," said Joe, lifting a hand and snapping his fingers. On cue, one of the men, a tall skinny one with small round glasses, broke away from the group and approached Tom and Whalley. "We believe in fairness here. Ye lads delivered the goods, ye get paid for yer troubles," he added, as the skinny man fished out some coins and gave them each their five shillings.

Then his hands went back into his pockets and he pulled out more coins, counting seven and passing them to Whalley -whose eyes went huge- and then counting ten and passing them to Tom.

The bloody hell?

"Yer new salaries," announced the boss, finally leaning back on his chair and hugging the woman to him, setting off another round of that infernal giggling and jiggling.

Tom couldn't stop the look of appreciation that overcame him when he saw the coins. Fifteen shillings were almost a pound. He would be free sooner than he thought.

"Ah, lads, before ye go," drawled Joe, intruding in Tom's thoughts again. "We know where ye live. We know who ye live with. Ye cross us, ye'll be getting a not so friendly visit from Johnny over there. Understand?"

Tom looked up at the blond brute, whose name was apparently Johnny. He'd pulled out a blade at some point during their conversation, and was staring at Tom with a smile as he spun the knife in his hands.

Joe offered them a lazy smile as he twirled one of the woman's curls in his fingers. "See ye tomorrow… Tom."

A shiver went down Tom's spine, unbidden. He fought back the urge to show bravado, that he wasn't scared. He wasn't six years old, hadn't been for a long time. To these people it would be like blood in the water. He'd have to tread carefully. He might have just landed himself in actual danger.

Ok, lots to unpack this chapter:

History Trivia

Accents: The Cockney accent was used predominantly by London's working classes up to the mid 20th century, concentrating on the East End; nowadays you can hear the accent pretty much anywhere in London, as it transcends social classes and has become mixed with other accents. Cockney is known for its rhyming slang that is not easy to understand unless you are a True Cockney: someone born in the East End that has spoken it since birth.

That said, RP English or Received Pronunciation, is considered the standard British English, and it is associated with the Queen's English or Oxford English. Anyone speaking with this accent back in the 1940s had to be someone coming from a rich family or with higher education. Knowing this, it is extremely likely that Tom spoke with a Cockney accent when he was young, and might have even been bullied for it at Hogwarts by his wealthy fellow Slytherins, further cementing his hatred for his origins; hence, he must have adopted the RP accent to fit in better with them, as it was associated with a higher status.

Grammar Schools: Back in the 40s, eleven year olds had to sit the 11+ test, a test that could determine the rest of their lives. A good score could get you a spot at a Grammar School that taught the top 25% students academic subjects that could lead to fields like Law, Medicine, Politics, Economics, etc. The rest that didn't make it into the top spots, would attend a secondary modern school, where the emphasis was on vocational training and basic academics.

The problem was that wealthier parents could afford tutors for their children, so the top spots were constantly snagged by the middle and higher classes. For a kid from the working classes, landing a spot in the top 25% was nothing short of a miracle, as the system was clearly stacked against them, but it did happen from time to time. Tom was always a brilliant student, and I'm sure he would have been one of those kids. This system was abolished in the 1970s. Not so long ago, really.

Rainbow Corner: It was a huge club frequented by the GIs that were stationed in London. Glenn Miller was known to perform there. It attracted spivs because GIs were better paid than their British counterparts and had more money to spend on goods like food, perfume, watches, nylons and other luxury items procured by the Black Market.

Troublesome Vocab

Spiv: A type of petty criminal who deals in Black Market goods. They could be spotted because they usually wore flashy clothing. Typically harmless, civilians didn't rat them out to the police because they procured goods that were difficult to come by.

Additional Notes

The Black Family: Some of the birth years in the Black family tree are nuts, particularly Pollux, Walburga, Cygnus II and Bellatrix. If the dates are to be believed, Walburga was born when Pollux was 13yo, and Bellatrix was born when Cygnus II was also 13yo. While this is likely JK being infamously bad at maths… I have a headcanon that Cygnus I had an affair, and when it resulted in a pregnancy married the mistress off to his son to avoid a scandal, because that's the sort of demented solution I can see the Black family coming up with. Then he did it again when Pollux was 15yo, and we got Alphard. Cygnus II must be Pollux's only child; I did move up Cygnus II's birth a few years because what are the chances of that happening again with Bellatrix?

On Tom: He might not realise this yet because he's too busy hating on the muggles, but he's already picking up attitudes and practices from a man in control of an organisation. He's a teenager, he thinks he knows everything, but he clearly doesn't. His arrogance tends to be his undoing, so we'll see if he ever develops enough self-reflection to avoid the pitfalls.

PS. Ye gads, converting old British currency to wizard currency, and factoring in inflation is hard, guys. I did my best, but the maths might still be a little off.