A/N: This began as a character study for my Tom-centric fic "Into the Dark," and it took on a life of its own. Before I knew it, I had a dozen one-shots about his childhood, and I decided to edit them properly and share them. I am sort of a history buff, so I do a lot of research for my writing. However, if there is anything that I've missed (particularly if you're a Londoner and I got something wrong), please let me know, and I'll fix it.

You can read this as a companion piece to "Into the Dark" or as a standalone. ItD makes some references to O&L but it is not necessary to read this one to understand the other one either.

As a final note, I will be adding trivia at the end of each chapter to shed some light on the more obscure concepts, but they are not required reading to understand the story.

The Bells of Whitechapel

January 8, 1932

He couldn't be sure when he had done it the first time.

One of his earliest memories involved a little toy horse galloping towards him. He'd excitedly chattered at Miss Bessie about the running horse. She patted him on the head and said, "Very good, Tom! Them horsies can run! Now lie down for me, will ye?" Then she turned her attention back to Dotty, who'd wandered off to the window and was busy stuffing her mouth with one of the curtains.

He remembered it because the muslin curtains made pretty shadows on the walls in the afternoon breeze. He'd never slept well, so he'd lie on his cot, fed up, staring at the moving shadows when he was supposed to be having a nap, wishing it was time to get up and play again. There was no accounting for differences, it was naptime and that was that; he had to lie down and close his eyes whether he wanted to or not.

Except that afternoon Dotty had disrupted the curtain, so Tom's eyes had landed on the toy chest across the nursery.

Tom hated doing nothing. He fidgeted beneath the scratchy blue blanket and reached out longingly towards the wooden chest.

The horse had answered.

He'd been scolded for hiding the toy during naptime, no matter how vehemently he insisted that the horse had come to him. It got him an additional talking to about telling lies, and the general feeling that maybe he shouldn't be telling the adults about toys moving on their own.

Ever since then he'd discovered that it wasn't the horse that had come alive, but his own wish to make it move that had called it to him. He'd tried to teach the other children, but they lost interest and sometimes became upset with him when they couldn't do it too, so Tom had stopped showing them.

It didn't work every time, not at first, but he'd tried it again and again until he could move things around without touching them, whenever he wanted to. It became his secret, and his caretakers were left wondering why nothing ever seemed to be where they left it when Tom Riddle was around.

Back in the here and now, Tom was once again bored. He'd been left to his own devices while Miss Martha wrestled Eric and Charlie into their Sunday best, which for Wool's Orphanage meant a starched long-sleeved shirt and a scratchy grey jumper. Everything in Wool's was either stiff or scratchy or grey. Sometimes, if you were particularly unlucky, they were all three.

He sighed and flicked his finger at the pencil again, watching it shoot up on its own, and then slowly roll back down toward him. It was a clunky thing, just like the wooden table in the dining room where he'd chosen to sit. He would have preferred to go outside or to the playroom, but Miss Martha had sniffled and told him to stay out of the way of the adults in the courtyard, and not to go off playing because he would rumple his clothes.

Tom pulled at the stiff collar and rested his cheek on the grainy wooden surface in defeat. He'd dressed quickly, out of habit. He did not like it when Miss Martha or Miss Hetty tried to pull off his clothes, so he'd learned to do it on his own; now getting ready in the mornings was expected of him, as it was of the older boys. He'd even managed to make all the buttons line up, he was rather proud of that.

He flicked his finger again and watched the pencil roll away, almost to the edge of the table, before it stopped and he called it back. Up and down it went, rattling as it rolled. The repetitive motion gave him something to focus on while he waited for the rest of the children to fill in around him for breakfast.

The older ones, particularly the girls, were expected to help out readying everyone. He could hear Alice on the first landing hollering at the younger ones to put on their shoes, and to please, please not take off their jumper again.

Tom huffed as he listened to the ruckus upstairs. It really was not difficult to get dressed and stay dressed, but a lot of his fellow orphans had trouble with it.

He might be little, but he already knew he was different. Everything the others had difficulty with came easily to him. He already knew his letters and his numbers, and he hadn't even started school yet. And, of course, he had an amazing power that no one else seemed to have.

While he didn't fully grasp the significance of his abilities, he felt a sense of uniqueness deep within him. While the other children in the orphanage longed for hugs and kind words that would never come, Tom found solace in the realisation that he possessed something truly remarkable. He clung to this notion, cherishing the feeling of being different and special in a world that seemed indifferent to his existence.

Tom caught the pencil and stretched out his arms. It was bad manners to do so at the table, Miss Clara had said, but Miss Clara was not around to scold him for it at the moment. His thoughts were interrupted as the first group of girls filed into the dining room, mumbling greetings as they took their spots on the long bench. Rosemary made it a point to approach him from behind and ruffle his hair.

"Oi!" he cried in protest, brushing his black locks back into place.

Rosemary giggled. "Sorry, Tom. Yer hair's just so soft!"

Tom scowled and Rosemary cooed. Her friend looked over her shoulder and giggled too.

Bugger all! Tom frowned and turned his face away from the annoying girls. Sometimes they treated him like a living doll and he hated it.

Thankfully, the rest of the children were not far behind. Several boys sat down between Tom and Rosemary, and he relaxed again. The chatter rose around him as the short hand reached the eight on the clock.

Breakfast was bland porridge and lukewarm milk, just as it always was. The older boys went around the tables distributing bowls and spoons, and ladling a large spoonful of gruel from a large pot into each plate.

Tom ate quickly. He'd seen Peter spit a whitish gob on another boy's bowl once, and he was determined not to become his next target.

Conversation lulled as the dining hall echoed with the sound of spoons clinking against pewter. Eric had found the spot in front of Tom, grinning like a fool while he licked his spoon. Tom curled his lip in disgust and pushed his empty bowl away.

The shrill ring of the bell echoed through the dining hall, signalling the end of breakfast. The hall reverberated with the thunderous sound of benches scraping against the worn floorboards as fifty-three children scrambled to their feet. They followed through the motions hammered into them from the moment they left the nursery, picking up their bowls and bottles, making a queue, and dropping them off at the kitchen counter.

Tom was glad he was too little for kitchen chores. The older ones usually complained about having to wash everything after every meal.

However, before the dreaded chores could begin, Sunday brought with it a different routine. It meant seeing Reverend Michaels for another one of his long, boring talks. They formed queues out on the tiled entrance hall, boys on one side, girls on the other. Queuing was second nature at Wool's: they made queues for school, queues for supper, queues for bed, queues for outings. Having watched the older children form queues countless times, Tom felt a surge of excitement as he realised that now, at the age of five, he could finally join them. He found his spot next to Billy and Henry and bounced on the balls of his feet while he waited for the others impatiently.

The toddlers were ushered back to the nursery by a harrowed-looking Miss Bessie, and Tom felt a spark of pride that he was no longer one of them. He looked up in wonder at the stairs winding all around all the way to the top floor, where his new dormitory was, and waited for the roll to be called.

He didn't miss how Claire O'Connor's name wasn't called before his own. Peter Murphy, Claire O'Connor, Tom Riddle, Philip Roberts, Grace Robinson: that's how it always was, but today Miss Ethel had called Peter's name, suppressed a sob, and skipped to Tom's.

Tom looked over at the column of girls. Claire wasn't there. Was she still sick? She'd been in the infirmary with him a few days ago. He didn't have time to wonder for long, because the girls marched out first, in their grey dresses and white ribbons. The boys followed.

The winter chill made Tom hunch his shoulders inside his ratty jumper. His throat, still a little sore after being ill for a week, burned at the drop in temperature.

There were horse-drawn carriages just outside the courtyard. Majestic black creatures. Tom had never seen them up close, he'd only seen them pass from afar on Sunday outings. He wasn't the only one trying to have a look, Billy and Henry were stretching their necks and whispering excitedly between them. There were strange men at the gate, talking quietly to Mrs Cole who was wearing a black frock. The caretaker stood off to the side with his hat in his hands, looking glum.

"Quiet," came Miss Clara's firm voice, shushing the whispers immediately.

Tom ducked his head and swallowed, trying to quench the fire in his throat to no avail. The nurse said he wasn't sick anymore, but it sure didn't feel like it.

His gaze strayed over to the narrow wooden boxes lined up next to the gate, some long, some very short. He peered at them; he didn't remember seeing them yesterday. Tom counted seven. The strange men were pointing at them, and then to the back of the carriages.

Miss Martha was sniffling somewhere in the back of the line, clutching a handkerchief to her nose while Miss Ethel rubbed her back.

Tom frowned. The adults were very weepy today.

The young caretaker allowed the strange men into the courtyard, and began carefully hoisting the larger boxes with their help, sliding them gently into the carriages. They came back and picked up the smaller ones. Each of them could carry a small box apiece.

When the last box was tucked inside, the men closed the carriage doors and Miss Clara finally allowed the children to step forward. At this distance, Tom could see fancy gold markings painted on the black surface. He made out an 'F', a 'U' and an 'N' before the adults spoke and his attention wandered over to them.

"Sad business," said Mr Roland, the caretaker, dusting off his hands as the strange men climbed aboard the carriages.

"Got 'nother round tomorrow, guv'nor," the man replied somberly, picking up the reins and whip. "Stepney lost 'nother five. Eight more in Bethnal. And that's just the homes. The 'ospital keeps churnin them out. Bad winter, this one."

"Can't be helped," said Mr Roland with a sad shrug. "God's will."

Tom frowned at the men. He wanted to ask who Stepney and Bethnal were -such strange names- and why they kept losing things because they ought to be more careful, but Miss Clara had taught them that children shouldn't speak unless spoken to, so he didn't. It seemed, however, that some of the others had yet to learn the lesson.

"Are we riding on the horsies, Miss Clara?" asked Grace, looking up at the animals' shiny coats and feathered headpieces in wonder. The other children, not brave enough to voice the same question, stared up at the tall aide and waited for her answer.

Miss Clara stopped walking abruptly and took a moment before she answered. "No, Grace," she choked. "We'll be walking to church, like every Sunday."

Grace pouted but she didn't protest. At Wool's, protesting only got you a swipe behind the ear or an hour sitting on the stool, depending on how much of a fuss you made.

Tom heard the men click their tongues and swish their whips. With a snort, the horses moved forward. The clipping of their hooves drew the children's attention again, threatening to break the ordered queues as they all leaned over to watch them leave.

Mrs Cole stepped in front of them and banged her cane twice on the ground. It was a testament to how many of them had been subjected to it that everyone stepped back into their spots and quieted down.

"This morning you must be on your best behaviour," she called, her voice carrying over the cold wind. "We will walk to St Mary's in silence and say goodbye to some of our friends today."

Tom looked around and met Billy's gaze.

"Who's leaving?" Billy whispered, glancing at the pale faces around them as well.

Tom shrugged. "Dunno. Claire's not 'ere. Did she leave?"

Billy made a funny face and shrugged.

Both boys turned back to face the front when Mrs Cole took her position at the head of their line, and Miss Clara mirrored her on the girls' side. There were only a few boys walking in front of Tom, so he could make out the matron's stony face, Miss Clara's glossy eyes, and the fancy black carriages just ahead.

He'd never ridden on a carriage before. St Mary's was only a few streets away, but it would have been neat if they'd let them ride.

The sight that met their eyes as they made their way along the road was unusual. Sawdust covered the cobbled street like snow. It muffled his footsteps and his boots were soon covered in the stuff. Miss Martha would surely make him scrub them until they shined.

Unlike the typical bustling activity of neighbours running errands or exchanging gossip on a Sunday, the people stood motionless on their doorways, their eyes fixed upon the procession as if the entire street had transformed into a gallery of statues solely for their passing.

Tom shuddered. It was eerie.

St Mary's appeared to the side, its towering spire rising high above the rooftops. Tom had always liked the distinctive structure, like a guiding light amidst the mundane. However, today, even the cheerful song of the bells had been replaced by a slow, deep toll.

Ahead, the carriages halted, and their drivers disembarked. Mr Roland rushed forward to assist them with the boxes once again. Tom's gaze followed as they disappeared through the side entrance, carrying their burdens with care.

Stepping through the entrance of St Mary's, the atmosphere inside the church instantly shifted. Mrs Cole and Miss Clara took the lead, ushering the children to their designated seats, while Miss Martha and Miss Ethel hurriedly herded the stragglers.

It was the largest building Tom knew. He marvelled at the vastness of the interior, rows upon rows of pews stretching out before him, seemingly infinite in number. And the ceiling was so high! The vibrant windows were his favourite because they kept him occupied while the reverend prattled on. Perhaps he could make colourful glass dance if he concentrated hard enough.

As more people filed in and took their seats, a low murmur filled the space. Tom's gaze darted to the altar, where the simple pine boxes had been arranged, made pretty by garlands of white flowers. The lids had been removed.

A gasp caught in Tom's throat, triggering a series of coughs that aggravated his already inflamed throat. Each cough sent a jolt of pain through his body. Concern flashed in Mrs Cole's eyes, but Tom wasn't the only one making a fuss.

Claire was in a box!

Some of the littlest ones were there too, distressingly still, and Tom averted his gaze before he could recognise them.

All around him, the other children stood on their tiptoes trying to catch a glimpse. They pointed and whispered among them, much to their caretakers' embarrassment. Miss Clara was quick to shush them again.

Death wasn't a stranger. It was a constant companion when you lived in a children's home. Tom knew his mother was dead, that was why he couldn't live with her. So were most of the parents of the other children, hence why they were in Wool's to begin with. Sometimes a baby went missing overnight; it wasn't talked about but everyone knew what had happened.

Yes, he knew of Death. He'd just never seen it. Tom clenched his teeth, bothered by the uncomfortable feeling trapped in his chest. He didn't have the words to describe it.

Later that afternoon Mrs Cole would proclaim that the ceremony had been beautiful; the organ played haunting hymns, the choir outdid themselves, and the reverend spoke of a serene afterlife, where pain and suffering were nonexistent. But Tom couldn't say the same, as his attention had waned, his thoughts consumed by Claire. He had talked to her only days before, lying in a nearby cot, as sick as he'd been. But he was fine now, wasn't he? Why wasn't Claire?

Cold dread gripped him. Why wasn't he in the box next to hers?

Tom looked to Mrs Cole for answers, but the matron had turned away, leaving him to wrestle with his own thoughts. His hand found the pencil he'd hastily stashed in his left pocket, and he squeezed it. The feel of its smooth grain grounded him. He bit his lip, wallowing in the small comfort as his mind churned with questions. Was it because he was different? Was it because he could do things no one else could?

Eventually, the heaviness of his thoughts gave way to sombre reality as they queued to step outside into the graveyard. The aides arranged them in rows, the shortest children in front and the taller ones in the back, which meant that Tom had a first-row view of the vast pit -rather than individual graves- that had been dug in the earth. Men lowered the sealed boxes, one atop the other, as the reverend once again spoke of life after death, of eternal peace and the joy of endless play among the departed children.

Around him, hushed sobs echoed through the graveyard. The bell tolled solemnly in the spire. Billy fidgeted next to him and the adults stood with their heads bowed. Tom clutched the pencil in his pocket. The reverend's words seemed distant and muffled, like in a dream. A bad dream.

Tom was horrified. Claire's motionless face was seared into his memory. Despite the garlands of white flowers, the boxes stacked in the pit looked bare and uncomfortable. It struck him that the dead were terribly lonely creatures. The idea of spending the afterlife alone in the cold, hard ground inside his own tight box sent chills down his spine.

As the first handfuls of earth hit Claire's coffin like a drumbeat and the bell continued its mournful sound, each toll reverberating in Tom's chest, he thought and thought. If his mysterious ability was truly the reason why he stood at the edge of the pit, watching it being filled with earth instead of resting down there with the others, he made a solemn promise to himself. He would practise and improve his ability, whatever it may be, so that he would never, ever be the one trapped inside the box. Ever.

History trivia

Stepney and Bethnal: They are districts located in the East End of London. Before the Blitz, there were children's homes located in these areas, but they were much larger than Wool's, more institutional. Think upwards of 300 children, which would have been too big for Tom's orphanage. Wool's was more likely a smaller Cottage Home (more on that later).

St Mary Matfelon: It was a popular church in the area. Supposedly the original from the 13th century was covered in lime whitewash, and it gave the district its name: Whitechapel. It was destroyed in a fire in 1880 and rebuilt to seat about 1600 people, then it was bombed during the Blitz and later demolished to make way for a park. Currently only the outline of the church exists along with its graveyard.

Funeral processions: In the East End it was common for the neighbours to stand solemnly outside their doors to watch a procession pass. Horse drawn hearses were preferred, and people saved up to have a proper send-off; they would throw sawdust on the road to muffle the sound of horses' hooves and preserve the solemnity of the occasion.

Childhood illnesses: In the 30s the leading cause of death for children under 5 years old were viral infections, particularly diphtheria and pneumonia. Diphtheria was called "the Strangling Angel" because prior to a vaccine being widely available it had a mortality rate of 20% in children under 5 years old. Cramped institutions and overcrowded slums like East London were a breeding ground for these illnesses, so it was not uncommon for diseases to spread among the population and take their share of victims every year.

Additional notes

It's difficult to write from a five year old's perspective, particularly when it's Tom Riddle who is supposed to be brilliant. Children are very perceptive, despite their short attention spans, and they will often surprise you with how deep their thoughts can be if you have a conversation with them. Even if they don't have the vocabulary to express themselves fully.

On a different subject, it's worth mentioning that I will keep religion to a minimum, as this story has nothing to do with it. However, orphanages and children's homes in England were often funded by the church and wealthy patrons, so there will be mentions. Also, during this time the East End had a large Jewish community, and some of that imagery will seep through as it was a part of life. As before, if I get something wrong, let me know and I will fix it.