A/N: I cannot get this picture out of my mind and it has been absolutely driving me crazy. I wanted something different and so here I am sharing this with all of you from the recesses of my mind.

There will be no full-fledged novel because one, I have way too many stories as it is. Two, people have already done these types of stories so beautifully and Tom Riddle's mind is such an enigma and honestly can be mentally draining for being such a complex character. I'd never want to taint his character as I'm very critical of my writing as it is.

However, I'm not opposed to writing two more chapters to end this. We'll see. So here it is enjoy, don't destroy. I tried my best 😉

I'm a millennial so I grew up with the Harry Potter series and I'm well aware Tom's eyes are brown. However, other actors eyes have been blue and I'm going with that. Such as the actor in the Origins of the Heir. To me, that was Tom Riddle, and played beautifully so.

Reviews show so much love.
Cheersx


Part I

August 18, 1942

Wools Orphanage

LONDON


She knew where she would find him.

As with any day in the summer until they both returned to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This never got any easier. As each year passed, he only withdrew into himself more and more…

In the beginning, they'd appeared as opposites. Yet even as small children, they'd found a commonality: solidarity. Their shared love for books slowly pushed them from their self-introverted complexes to a few social interactions. This, they would come to prefer over the exchange amongst staff at the inferred—and distasteful— identity as a "lone orphan". They'd herd them out as such every year on Adoption Day like branded cattle.

Forced out of their seclusion, it was in each other their common ground was found—quite literally, perched on the cracked, worn steps of Wools Orphanage. For the sake of propriety, they were dressed in their secondhand, presentable attire.

As such a day uneventfully unfolded and the hours dragged torturously on, they'd pass the time reading through a collection of tattered books donated by the local church. Silent but inwardly restless as the winds as they remained ever watchful, while another whisper of a page was flipped. Never scolded and properly postured, her spindly legs were formally folded and his crisscrossed over narrowed ankles.

Once another orphan was sifted they'd appraise their surroundings momentarily. Then once it was over, he'd loosen his tie and she'd shed her ribbons. Together they'd venture up to the rooftops to immerse themselves in worlds much sought from the illustrious authors. They'd discuss the contents of the book and he'd critically condemn any outlandish syrupy endings, especially fairytales. Before long his attention would shift over to the newspaper that kept them involved with the global war as more countries were called into the fight.

Or so it seemed.

The two quickly learned with which war came both personally and economically. Having weathered the hardships of the Great Depression that crested over from the Americas to parts of the UK. The staff alone had become intimately familiar with the financial strife, especially regarding the children's welfare. As the shadow of war loomed it hardened the weathered face of a recently widowed, Mrs. Cole.

Soon their meals were portioned as the daily three servings decreased to two, including their tea. As such the two invented their own system. He'd hand off his stale bread and she an extra dose of her porridge or root vegetable mash. When staff relocated their sleeping quarters to the main commons once their wood deliquesced from the fireplace's hearth—they'd shove extra potatoes in their sacks to keep warm in the dead of winter. From an outsider's perspective, it was hardly considered companionship. Yet such functioning for them—worked.

It wasn't until 1938, a month after her eleventh birthday, their entire world would be flipped on its axis. During a particularly rainy day on the 12th of August, they were introduced to Professor Albus Dumbledore; a peculiar teacher from a supposed magical school mysteriously concealed in the Highlands of Scotland. And thus, such a world was suddenly thrust upon them ripe for such parched knowledgeable minds. Hidden just beyond the charmed bricks of the Leaky Cauldron Alley, the magical wizarding community of Diagon Alley was unveiled upon their askance.

A witch and a wizard they'd come to discover as their truth. Thereafter they were introduced to a Ministry of Magic; a type of magical government slightly similar to Parliament and overseen by a head Minister. Much to their chagrin, they'd observe the strange banking system called: Gringotts Wizarding Bank run by surly goblins handling their financials in the wizarding world. With the professor's twinkling soft eyes and zany robes, she'd kept at ease with the shrewd creatures. Even as they'd speedily tunneled through caverns housing underground vaults on hazardous tracks.

It was after one particular vault that her curiosity was piqued as the wizard retrieved a velvet pouch teeming with startling gold, silver and bronze coins: Galleons, sickles, and knuts. Lent from the Hogwarts financial program vault used for those of less fortune. Much to their overt discomfiture, it was deemed a necessity given their impoverished background.

For a considerable part of the day her friend had taken such mystical venues in stride. Not the overly enthusiastic type—though she could tell he was drawn to each novel element—his disposition would abruptly alter the moment they'd enter a dimly disheveled shop...

"13 ½ long crafted from yew with a phoenix feather core. 11 inches of holly, containing a single feather from the tail of a… phoenix."

A s posted on the shop, The wizened man named Ollivander had peppered sprightly hair that paired with his ostensibly, eccentric persona. As he examined their wands his eyes suddenly widened, considerably. Glancing out the squared window where their professor waited, he leveled them with sharp scrutiny and a steady exhale.

"My, my…" One unruly brow raised in surprise. "How curious, curious indeed. Feathers from the same bird. Siblings… By Merlin's beard…"

As she glanced at her friend, she noticed a strange type of hunger merge with his shrewd gaze and a visibly rigid posture.

Once they'd left Ollivanders they'd tucked their wands safely away to shop for the remainder of their school supplies. However, her friend's concentrated reverie wasn't broken even with their soon-to-be school professor's grotesque toppings at the ice cream parlor he'd treated them to called: Florean Fortescue's Creamery.

If only she could just dispel the chill that-even now-crept into her bones the moment their wands joined...

It came the moment they grasped their wands. A sudden fork of light crackled through their fingertips with a bright flash that eclipsed the darkness. The sheer force blasted boxes from the shelves, startling the wand maker himself—before she'd felt it. A sudden icy tendril coiled around her spine like a serpentine creature of novels. It was as if sharp incisors embedded her flesh, jolting her psyche and fusing her nerves in liquid fire. Hot tears stung her eyes as an agonized cry pierced the air. Yet as quickly as the pain came, the sensation dwindled to a flickering wick only seconds after.

It took several minutes before was she able to drag her quivering limbs up from the floor. Her shallow breathing adjoined with his as he steadily rose himself. Only when their eyes finally met was she unprepared for the searing intensity of his. It was as if he'd suddenly peeled away the very crevices of personal thought she kept buried deep within. Those eyes of cobalt fire left her feeling raw—like he'd stripped the very barriers of her thoughts with a single glance…

After informing the two to be ready for departure by the 1st of September to Kings Cross, the kindly wizard had taken his leave. It sent her friend into a full retreat as he chose to turn a blind eye towards their predicament— after exclaiming about the old man's buffoonery of apparel. His presence remained like a ghostly apparition for the remainder of that night, however. His absence became tangible over meal preps during which he'd remained holed up in his room for a solid week, leaving her to ponder over Mr. Ollivander's words.

Even when Mrs. Cole and Madam Martha escorted the lot to Sunday services, she'd hardly been able to focus in the pews. Partly because she was mulling over her place now that she knew magic existed inside of her, and because of what had occurred between herself and her friend who now sat three rows down by himself.

Alas, the event remained unexplainable.

Little did she know at the time how much Ollivanders word would come to shape her experience at Hogwarts. As she first caught sight of the sprawling castle, the sight nearly stole her breath. The halo of light that emanated from the hooded windows seemed to beckon them closer, the walls of limestone and rounded turrets soaring skyward with imposing grandeur. Stepping into another realm entirely made of magical enchantment and the starry skies infused with mystical energy and honed within its walls. Every sense was attuned to the stunning fortress of Hogwarts. Up until she witnessed the ravenous glint in her friend's eyes that glimmered in the dark. Much like the Black Lake they floated upon like a sea of glass.

It had left a permanent chill fused to her spine like sharp talons; a prominence of his touch that echoed beneath her very flesh. It was as if he'd left his very signature upon her. Even as they found their way into a magical school with a Sorting Hat charmed atop their heads to determine their houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.

A lion. An eagle. A badger. And a serpent.

Bravery. Witts. Loyalty. Ambition.

She had been chosen as a Gryffindor: the house of the noble and brave. While he had been sorted into Slytherin: the house of the cunning and ambitious. Which for Tom, was only natural.

Red and Gold.

Silver and Green.

One a Lion.

One a Serpent.

Such a legacy had its roots in the foundation laid by the Founders themselves: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. These four medieval witches and wizards' strong bloodlines set the premise for the creation of the magical stronghold it would become. Over the decades' brilliant wizards and witches would contribute to the castles' finesse and expand on the academia to its—present—revered prestige, according to Hogwarts A History.

This included The Hogwarts Express, a locomotive steam accessed from platform 9 ¾ at London's heavily trafficked Kings Cross station, located between platforms 9 and 10. She'd delighted in the mechanics of such just as she relished in the oddities of Quidditch. The intense sport entailed flying brooms with goalposts shot through by a ball called a Quaffle. Such a game was not without it's dangers as players had to contend with Bludgers—nasty buggers that could inflict serious injuries, and a flittering golden ball called the Snitch which if caught, could win the game in an instant.

It was considered an uncouth sport in her friend's eyes. Although she became, admittedly, curious enough to consider tryouts—had a woman on the team been more common. Thus, she'd digressed from such temptations, not wishing to draw unwanted attention. With ample time to spare, she eagerly explored the endless labyrinth of mysteries within the castle walls. From a bewitched Enchanted Ceiling in the Great Hall where floating candles ethereally glowed, to the talking portraits upon the walls, dishing prompt greetings as staircases abruptly shifted. However, some corridors were haunted by ghosts of Hogwart's past, such as Nearly Headless Nick: Gryffindor Tower's ghost, whose spectral presence took some adjusting. While other areas remained shrouded in darkness with the entrances guarded by a stern figure, Apollyon Pringle, who favored corporeal punishments for those who dared to defy authority.

It was the familiar comforts of the Gryffindor Tower that calmed her evenings after a particularly grueling study session. The lavish dormitories with it's gilded accents and stained glass windows provided a warm respite from the rigors of academics. The fine maroon drawings she drew at the nights close, offered pillows of feathered down softness that brought her comforts, she'd only ever dreamt of.

However, the most wonderous site to behold was mealtimes in the Great Hall. Coming from an orphanage where food was often cold, soggy, and severely bland, couldn't have prepared her for the elaborate spread laid out before them. Endless variations of food, some even unknown in the muggle world, conjured up on golden plates served by the castle's house-elves, whose culinary skills were nothing short of remarkable. With goblets charmed to refill, never did she leave parched for upcoming classes. Of course, Astronomy was a standout given it was held in an actual tour at night. While Transfiguration was a marvel of intricate mechanics. Broom flight class proved to be an exhilarating experience, while Charms offered lessons in gravity and levitation. Herbology helped her learn the medicinal properties in various plants, while DADA (Defense Against the Dark Arts) focused on dueling skills. Yet it was Potions that held the most intrigue, conjuring up elixirs with a mixture of fascination and trepidation.

Studious breaks led her to finding the vast library sheathed within. Endless bouts of knowledge was to be had in such novelties that she'd often find herself staying late into the evenings. Often, it was where she could find her friend. Especially when it came to holidays which Hogwarts celebrated to the fullest extremity, something the two weren't familiar with. Such a joy was often lost outside the protective wards to their reality, beyond.

Come the rise of a dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald who wished to enslave the race of muggles, left her nervous upon her return to Wool's Orphanage each summer. Living in a homestead chock full of oblivious muggles while he wreaked havoc wherever spotted next. Such startling similarities reflected in both worlds if one took into account the maniacal dictator that ruled outside the wizarding world: Adolf Hitler. A twisted man drunk off his own power, he wished to exterminate Jewish citizens as abominations.

How prevalent evil was even without magic.

Indeed the 20th century would prove to be a grueling period. In the second year of 1939, they'd boarded the Hogwarts Express, as the orphans were evacuated on trains out of London. By whispered prayer as Ms. Cole said, their orphanage was spared from the bombing of London or The Blitz. Their professor had once explained to the head matron their arrangement allowed the two to return from their "studies abroad" at the end of each term. But the London she'd seen coming out of King's Cross wasn't soon forgotten, even years after. Many areas had been smoking husks, further reflecting the villages left to Grindelwald's sieges displayed in the Daily Prophet.

Every two weeks she received reports of Grindelwald's attacks from her few female colleagues through loaned owls. Reading about his next targets often made her ill and she sought solace in the company of her childhood friend in the courtyard.

During their school years, they still made time to share, mostly doing homework by the Black Lake, or observing the constellations in the Astronomy Tower. These simple pleasures reminded her of their familiar dwellings at Wools. However, they were careful to avoid the company of his odious cohorts. Her status as a Gryffindor solidified that indefinitely. Although they'd never been untoward given her friend's intolerance of ill formality. Always composed and straight-laced, she had only seen her friend's composure crack once when she'd become a target to a delinquent orphan named, Billy Stubbs. When Stubb's rabbit was found hanging from the rafters, she bore witness to the malevolent beast that surfaced from the depths as her friend's demeanor darkened.

Naturally, the cave incident came to mind, after.

Per his request she'd kept a fair distance away that day, skipping stones to pass the time. As they'd regrouped on the beach to depart, he'd drawn up a regaling tale leaving no loose ends for further inquiry. The kids' wits hinted at something far darker however judging by their glassy-eyed ashen faces. Subsequently, young Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were institutionalized a day after.

It should've made her flee In the opposite direction. But it hadn't. He was there upon her settlement, a stoic young but observant boy, who would perform the simplest of gestures that would have a lasting impact. Handing off a linen handkerchief with a discontented frown if just to quiet her nightly grief, led her standing against the orphans ridiculing him as a freak that next morning.

Thus, the beginning fragments of their solidified companionship.

To others, their relationship might have been classified as a deformity like knotted tree bark, but he had become her confidante, soon woven into the fabric of her very livelihood. He became her confession booth for all secrets such as her parent's death; a brutal act of violence that haunted her for years after. She'd learned it was a follower of Grindelwalds which he'd discovered through thorough research.

As she unraveled the mysterious boy that grew to encapsulate her life, her sympathy only deepened. Especially when she realized her friend's view of the world had become marred by abandonment while left with nothing but the name of his forbearers. This further reflected how high his trust was regarding her. But just as she'd felt she'd finally cracked through his exterior, his demeanor outside school had recently hardened. Preferring the commons to take their meals alone in a secluded corner where the shadows seemingly leeched to him, cloaking the glacial front directed at others.

To distance himself from his orphaned background, he wielded his wand to ensure even his most worn apparel was suitable. At Hogwarts, he sought perfection and excelled at the top of his classes, earning favor from many teachers including the Potions master, Professor Horace Slughorn.

As they reached maturity, they found themselves venturing more often through town with the afforded freedoms. He'd follow silently as a feigned, disinterested guard, while she endured his occasional detours into the bowels of Knockturn Alley. The dark streets veered away from Diagon Alley into a gritty alleyway, leaving her itching to cast her black swan Patronus. Amid the seedy places along the cobble street an antique hovel had caught his apt attention numerous enough to visit called:

Borgin & Burkes.

Hopefully, as she recalled the lascivious stares she'd received from a few of the peddlers and Mr. Borgin himself—the final visit. As it had been enough to scrap her appetite for the night.

Verging on the precipice of womanhood, a terrifying revelation had recently come to light that left her nerves frayed. Yet, here she was, still climbing the rickety stairway that groaned as if the weight of her burden was reflected in the strain of her shoulder blades and neck.

At least she'd made it past Mrs. Cole. The head matron well into her early forties retained the mannerisms of a 1920s finishing school. Had she been caught it would've forced her to recite the proper etiquette of a woman's sacrilege from such a state of undress. Now that she was becoming of age, she'd been threatened by Madam Martha of being sent to a convent run by Sister Berlinda.

Becoming a nun was not something she aspired to be. Of course, unbeknownst to Mrs. Cole, this wasn't the first time she'd reunited with her friend at a late hour. In the past he'd tutted disapprovingly of the thin nightdress but allowed it to continue. The fraying ends billowed as a warm draft swept through the weathered rafters. Scaling the spiral of stairs with a double stride up the bell tower was quite a daunting task but kept her legs in shape. And always, it was well worth it. The abandoned spire offered the most panoramic view above the sooty haze of smokestacks, boasting the most breathtaking sunsets in all of London.

As she shoved the rusted, metal latch with the pad of her palm, the wooden door fell open with an audible creeeak. Picking up the hems of her nightie, she ascended the ornate stone that chilled her toes to the small landing above. Before her, the skies were a fingerpainted canvas of a Monet painting. The colors were vibrant and a sea of dusty rose clouds as the last golden flares of the setting sun sank into the horizon.

There she found her friend lounging, his long legs dangled off the side without so much as a lick of fear. Dark blue eyes leaden with thick lashes shadowed pallid, angular cheekbones. Meticulous details Michelangelo chiseled into marble sculptures and reminiscent of the older prints of Roman art they'd pored over. The artistry of such an appearance uniquely transcended his physical fifteen-year-old form.

Ebony curls free from a coiffed state fell across furrowed brows. The muscle in his jaw fell slack reminding her how he relaxed just so in her presence, even as he spoke, "Do you know the meaning of the name Harven? It derives from the old Norse name Hrafn. It means raven."

"Raven?"

One brow arched as she settled next to him. The rough texture of brickwork rubbed against the soles of her pinkened, bare feet. In an attempt to engage, she tapped her foot against his fabric Oxfords. "How did you discover this?"

His eyes raised and he looked at her then, a small, quizzical furrow to his brow that spoke from hours of pouring over this information. "Old Norse sagas. Not necessarily history but memoirs. I was reading about the old Scandinavian culture and an excerpt of a wizard's account on runes." He shook his head with a small, chiding smirk. "Not particularly memorable. Not your cup of tea, anyways. But raven… it's rather ironic given the shade of your hair."

Her dark, inquisitive eyes met his, and she couldn't help but tease him with a playful nudge. The deep hue of his gaze only intensified the similarities between them, apt traits inherited from their respective families. "You know, you're starting to sound like Professor Binns," she quipped, although he was anything like the ghostly History of Magic teacher. She was secretly pleased with his unique way of flattery.

It was giving the charismatic Tom Riddle from school.

Nonetheless, he realized her undressed state then and a flicker of disapproval surfaced with a roll of his eyes. "Harven Potter," he chided, "ever quite the scandal this would be if caught. Mrs. Cole would tan your hide for less."

"Oh, Tom, it's not like I'm a lady of the night." She rolled her eyes and crossed her ankles. "This is hardly uncouth given my company since practical infancy." A hushed laugh followed. "You remain ever the perfect gentleman."

"Well, if you're not careful it could tarnish your reputation and mine. And that I cannot allow." He straightened himself and the muscle in his jaw twitched.

She'd, unintentionally, irritated him.

"Are you honestly angry with me? It's not like I'm buck naked for Merlin's sake." She sighed, exasperated. "On the Witchers of the Month, might I dare?"

His eyes flashed with ire as he replied sharply, "Enough to be sent to a nunnery, Harven. We are not mere children anymore; your attributes have certainly changed and it is unbecoming of a lady like yourself. If someone like Billy Stubbs saw you in such dressings—" He inhaled sharply and to Harven's surprise, she sensed an underlying hint of coveting. "Well, your lack of decency would be the least of our problems…"

A shadow fell under his eyes as the last of his words eclipsed, like a dark promise. As if remembering himself he was on his feet, straightening out the worn lapels of his uniformed blazer. A button fell loose from the sewn lining. "We are soon to start our fifth year at Hogwarts and my objective as a Prefect cannot be compromised. You should know better, Harven, especially being of fifteen years."

Ah yes.

A month ago they'd celebrated it. Or as close to a celebration as there would be after he'd recieved his Prefect badge by post. From what little savings she'd suspected off certain school accomplices, he'd treated her to her favorite bookstore in Diagon Alley. There, she'd purchased Tales of Beedle the Bard; a storyteller from the 15th century whose wizarding life remained somewhat of a mystery. Though Tom had looked dismayed at the purchase, he'd paid nonetheless and even listened to one tale before he'd retired for the night.

Harven was instantly on her feet, the hurt like a serrated blade as if she'd been scolded by Mrs. Cole herself. Nevertheless, the icy presence she'd felt as a child coiled around her once more, steeling her features and breathing tenacity into her voice. "So it has not been above your attention then?"

Tom's chin jutted out, tongue against cheek as he mulled over her words. He stared out into the horizon as stars illuminated the coming night skies with tiny pinpricks of light. "You'll need to be more, specific. My patience thins by the minute, Harven."

Harven gathered her courage and took a step closer as her fists clenched at her sides. "What am I to you, Tom? Am I just there for convenience? A fool to believe more than a passing fancy?"

Tom clenched his jaw as if he'd expected this exact answer and averted her gaze. His eyes darkened as they swept past her shoulder, gazing past to avoid meeting the intensity of hers. "If you're insinuating some sort of petty fondness, then yes, you're mistaken," he replied, voice quiet but firm. "Don't be foolish, Harven. My ambitions extend far beyond the conventional life of a laborer, a housewife, or...the responsibilities of children."

His voice as cool as winter's breath, tangled with the summer winds that passed through the decrepit pillars and rustled the cotton fabric of her nightdress. Sweeping back long waves of ebony off one shoulder, it was the only whisper of sound against the silence.

Harven felt the weight of rejection drop into the pit of her stomach. Never had she found herself to be the novelist dark, gothic beauty equivalent to the stapled Blacks, Rosiers, or Lestranges. Nor did she possess the fair seraphim genetics like that of the Malfoys. Although her worst critic, she hardly considered herself vain, either. Possessing her mother's soulful, rounded emerald eyes and characteristic freckles across a pert nose. With thick curls framing a widow's peak and her father's strong chin softly rounded by her femininity, she thought herself quite pretty. Although she wasn't nearly as domineering as his presence, he wasn't the only one to have a wavering perusal.

Even his band of followers stole their share.

Other than the natural grooming Tom had never absorbed himself in vanity. Naturally, girls just fawned over him whether he feigned awareness. But if she somehow lost him she'd never be able to replicate the specific mint-shaving butter and hint of musk that was entirely Tom. The signature of his presence. The comfort of home and dearest to her alone.

It sent a pang through her.

Still, she refused to succumb like a distressed damsel so he could exploit her weakness when tensions were bound to escalate again. Though damned if she did and damned if she didn't, really. "Very well, forgive me. I think I'm going to retire. Goodnight, Tom."

Clenching her teeth she made the decision to retreat, forcing herself from his penetrating stare. Even as she felt those eyes practically burn into her backside. One had to have thick skin to spar with the likes of Tom Riddle. Because of their bond she was the one daring enough to do so.

It was several seconds once the door fell behind her before Harven was bidded with a quieter voice that carried off into the winds, he a silent shadow blending into the darkness of his own making. "Goodnight, Harven."


NOTES:

Time eras such as the 1940s fashion and mannerisms I absolutely tried to follow to a T as I do believe it's important for any timelines explored and makes it much more immersive.

Back then with Toms menial means, and due to the war, clothes were made more simple and cheaper. Leather was scarce then so Tom would've worn fabric oxfords for shoes. Which I find very interesting when researching...

"Lady of the Night." Back then it meant prostitute.

Also, this was before Tom really discovered more of his heritage hence why such details were miniscule.
So Harven is not aware quite yet of his Parseltongue. He's managed to keep that from her quite sneakily.

That's all, I hope you enjoyed. I'm more or less leaning for two more chapters or just one more. Take no credit for photo other than title*
Reviews' are so much love :)