"Awake, arise or be forever fallen"
John Milton
XI
Hermione's eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light that seeped through the dusty window. A throbbing pain in her head and a strange emptiness in her chest made her feel uneasy. She looked around, puzzled by the place she was in. It was a tiny and dismal room, with torn wallpaper and broken furniture. The only sign of life was a worn-out poster of a smiling clown on the wall.
Attempting to sit up, the girl was met with a sharp jolt of pain throbbing through her temples. She groaned and retreated, clutching her head. What had happened? Desperately, Hermione tried to recollect any semblance of memory, but her mind was an empty void. She felt like a blank canvas, devoid of any recollections, identity, or purpose.
Footsteps and the creaking of a door diverted her attention. A woman entered the room, bearing a tray with a bowl and spoon. Donning a plain black dress and a stern countenance, she regarded Hermione with a mixture of relief and curiosity.
"Ah, you've finally awakened," the woman remarked, placing the tray on a rickety table. "I was starting to worry you'd never come to. I'm Mrs Cole, the matron of Wool's Orphanage. What's your name, girl?"
Hermione opened her mouth, yet no words escaped. She gazed at the old lady, yearning for some recognition, explanation, or even a shred of kindness. Yet, the the matron's eyes remained cold and indifferent.
"Come on, speak up. Don't be shy. You must have a name, unless you're one of those peculiar types who don't," Mrs. Cole pressed, tapping her foot impatiently.
Anger and fear surged through Hermione. Being an oddity was not her fate. She mattered. A name, a life, a family - she had them all. But they were lost in her memory.
"I... I'm Hermione," she murmured weakly.
"Hermione, huh? Quite a fancy name for someone like you. Did your parents bestow it upon you?" the matron sneered.
A glimmer of hope flickered within the girl. Perhaps the woman possessed knowledge about her parents. Maybe she could assist in reuniting them.
"Yes, my parents. Where are they? Do you know them? Are they here?" Hermione inquired with eagerness.
Mrs Cole burst into a harsh laugh. "Your parents? Don't make me laugh, girl. You have no parents. You're an orphan. Just like all the other children in this place. You were found outside the gates of the orphanage, unconscious and bleeding, two weeks ago. There was an attack on a synagogue nearby. Some madman set off a bomb. Killed dozens of people. Maybe your parents were among them. Maybe not. No one came looking for you."
Hermione felt a wave of despair wash over her. She refused to believe the cruel words. How could she accept that she had no family, no home, no past? She clung to the hope that somewhere, someone was waiting for her. Someone who knew her name, her story, her life.
"No, no, no. You're lying. You're lying. You have to be lying. I'm not an orphan. I'm not alone. I have a family. I have a home… have to. I have to… Please, please, tell me the truth. Please, please, help me. Please, please," Hermione begged, tears streaming down her face.
The matron shook her head and sighed. She stood up and handed her the bowl of porridge. It looked bland and watery, but Hermione was too hungry to care.
"Stop crying. Crying won't change anything. You have to be strong. This is your life now. Now, eat up, girl. And get dressed." The woman tossed a tattered dress on the bed, her voice harsh and cold. It was faded and frayed, but the girl ignored it.
Mrs Cole left the room, closing the door behind her. Hermione's eyes followed her, then moved to the bowl of porridge, the dress, the poster, the window. Hopelessness and fear surged in her chest. This life, this place - she didn't want them. The only thing she had left was her name. The only thing that made her who she was.
As Hermione was about to take a spoonful of the white goo, another set of footsteps and the creaking door opening caught her attention. Looking up, she saw a girl standing at the doorway, who stared at her with curiosity and suspicion.
About the same age as Hermione, the girl looked older. Long, brown hair tied in a messy ponytail framed her thin, pale face. She wore a dress similar to Hermione's, but more worn and patched. Her sharp features and piercing blue eyes gave her a stern expression.
"Who are you?" Hermione asked, nervously.
The girl walked into the room and sat on the other bed. She eyed Hermione with a hint of disdain.
"I'm Amy Benson. And you're the new kid. The one causing trouble for Mrs. Cole," the girl spat, bitterly.
Hermione felt a surge of resentment and fear. The way Benson talked to her was unpleasant. An intruder, an outsider - that's how she felt.
"Can you tell me more about this place? About the orphanage?" Hermione inquired, hoping to change the subject.
The girl snorted and rolled her eyes.
"If you want to survive here, you better keep your head down, your mouth shut, and do as you're told. Be invisible and don't cause any trouble. That's how I survive here. That's how we all survive here," Amy muttered, grimly.
Before she could ask more questions, Hermione was cut off by the girl's sneer. "Don't bother me, you little brat. I don't have time for your whining and whimpering. I have to go and scrub the floors, or else Mrs. Cole will whip me with her belt. You better learn to take care of yourself, or else you won't survive a day in this hellhole."
Benson's voice held a harsh and bitter tone, as if she had consumed a mouthful of vinegar. With contempt, she cast her eyes upon Hermione, treating her as if she were a mere worm or flea. Dark circles marred Amy's under-eyes, and traces of dirt smeared her face. Her ragged dress barely covered her frail frame.
A mixture of anger and fear swirled in Hermione's emotions, threatening to consume her. "Why are you being so mean to me?" she questioned, her words trembling with vulnerability.
Amy's response was laced with disdain. "Because you're just a brat, always whining and complaining."
Determined to defend herself, Hermione retorted, "I'm not a brat, you know. I have my reasons."
Benson scoffed dismissively. "Oh please, like anyone cares about your reasons."
Defeated, Hermione conceded, "Okay, fine. Just leave me alone then."
But the girl didn't leave. She sat down on the bed next to her, and began to talk. "You know, life in the orphanage is tough. We barely get enough to eat. The food is rotten most of the time."
Such a dreadful place was unimaginable for Hermione. "That sounds awful. How do you cope?" she asked softly.
Shrugging, Benson had dull and resigned eyes. The girl had learned to accept her fate and follow the rules. "We have to obey Mrs. Cole or face the consequences. The matron is a real tyrant." she complained bitterly, remembering the times she had been punished for the smallest mistakes.
Hermione felt a pang of pity and compassion for Amy. "I wish there was something I could do to help." she added, looking at her with sincere eyes.
The older orphan shook her head, her expression bitter. She had given up on any hope of escape or rescue. "There's nothing anyone can do. We're stuck here." she muttered, staring at the floor.
What had happened to Benson and her past intrigued Hermione. She pondered if any family or friends still cared for her. "Did you lose anyone you loved?" she inquired carefully, not wishing to offend her.
Amy nodded, her eyes filling with tears. She had lost too many people to count. The war had taken everything from her. Her parents, her siblings, her friends, her home. The girl had nothing left.
Hermione couldn't imagine the pain and grief she had endured. "I'm so sorry." she whispered earnestly, extending her hand to touch hers.
Benson pulled her hand away, her expression angry and resentful. She didn't want Hermione's pity or sympathy. She didn't want her false words or empty gestures. "Sorry doesn't bring them back." she snapped, glaring at her.
Pulling her hand away, Benson's expression was angry and resentful. She didn't want Hermione's pity or sympathy. Nor did she want yet another time deal with any type of false words or empty gestures. "Sorry doesn't bring them back." the older orphan spat out, glowering at her.
Having no words for that, Hermione nodded silently, lowering her eyes and wishing for the girl to end. The girl did end. She rose and exited the room, banging the door shut. Alone with her bowl of porridge, Hermione gazed at the window. The sky was gray and cloudy, mirroring her mood.
Opening the door of her room for the first time since she arrived at the orphanage, Hermione feels a knot in her stomach. The last day had been spent curled up on her bed. She had hoped that someone would come and talk to her, but the only person who shared her room was Amy Benson. After their conversation that morning, the older orphan's eyes were cold and unfriendly whenever she tried to speak to her.
"Leave me alone," Benson had snapped at her the night before. "I don't want to be friends with a freak like you."
Not knowing what had caused Amy's hostility, Hermione chose to ignore her and explore the rest of the building. The smell of food led her to the dining hall, where a long table was occupied by a dozen children of different ages.
Looking for a friendly face, Hermione searched the room, but most of them either turned their heads or whispered to each other. An empty seat next to a little girl with bright red hair, curling over her shoulders, caught her eye. A faint memory stirred in Hermione's mind, but she failed to remember who had those same sparkling green eyes.
"Hi, I'm Hermione," she introduced herself. "Can I sit here?"
The girl nodded and smiled. "I'm Lucy," she replied. "You new, yes? "
Hermione nodded. "I came yesterday. How long have you been here?"
Lucy sighed. "Me not here long. Bad boom boom kill mommy and daddy. They write about war. War bad. Me no like here. Food yucky. Lady mean and scary. Kids bad too. They laugh at me and dolly."
A rush of sympathy filled Hermione for Lucy. Losing all hope and being surrounded by strangers was something she knew well. The small child reached under the table and pulled out a raggedy doll with a faded dress and matted hair. "This Rosie. You play with her?" she asked.
Nodding, Hermione took the toy from Lucy's hands. The doll's features caught her attention and she tried to smooth out her hair. "She's lovely, Lucy. She has your eyes."
A bright smile lit up the kid's face. "You nice, 'Mione. Me like you. You got toys?" she asked.
Hermione shakes her head sadly. "No, I don't. My parents... I don't remember what happened to them."
Lucy gasps. "Bad, 'Mione. Me sad. You play with Rosie. She friend you too."
With a surge of gratitude and emotion, Hermione embraces the little girl and the doll. "You're a good friend, Lucy. Thank you." Tears sting her eyes as she speaks.
Smiling at each other, they start to make up stories about Rosie's adventures. Their game is so engrossing that a tall boy with a sneer on his face walking towards them escapes their notice. Dennis Bishop is his name, and he is the bully of the orphanage. He enjoys picking on the younger and weaker kids, especially Lucy, who he considers a freak because of her hair and eyes.
The older boy reaches their table and grabs the doll from Hermione's hands. He holds it up and laughs. "What is this? A piece of trash? Is this your precious treasure, squirt? It looks like a rat's nest."
Lucy cries out and tries to get the doll back. "No, no, no! My Rosie! You bad, Denny! Give me my Rosie!"
Pushing her away, Bishop starts to rip the doll apart. The dress is torn off and thrown on the floor. The hair is pulled out and scattered on the table. The head is twisted and snapped off. The headless body is tossed to Lucy and he says, "Here, you can have it back. It's worthless, just like you."
A cruel laugh escapes his lips as the child sobs and clutches the doll's remains. Hermione feels a wave of rage wash over her. She glares at Dennis and wishes he would disappear. The same pain he had caused Lucy is what she wishes for him.
Suddenly, Bishop feels a strong force tug at his collar. Dragged towards the window, the boy screams as he flies out of it and smashes into a large tree in the backyard. Unconscious and bleeding, Dennis falls to the ground.
Shock and horror fill the eyes of the other children in the dining hall. Hermione, who is still glaring at the window, catches their attention. A faint greenish glow surrounds her. "She did it. She's a witch. She cursed him." They whisper to each other.
Backing away from her, the orphans run out of the hall. Hermione and Lucy are left alone, with the broken doll. A cold fear fills Hermione's heart. What happened is beyond her understanding.
It was a chilly morning in the orphanage, and Hermione had found a cozy spot by the fireplace to read her favorite book. She was so engrossed in the story that she barely noticed the footsteps of Billy Stubbs, a new arrival who had quickly earned a reputation for being a bully. He sneered at her as he approached, his eyes full of malice.
"Hey, four-eyes, what are you reading?" he taunted, grabbing the book from her hands. "Some fairy tale nonsense? You think you're better than us, don't you?"
Hermione felt a surge of anger and fear as she tried to snatch the book back, but Billy was stronger and taller than her. He held the book above his head, laughing cruelly.
"Let me show you what I think of your stupid book," he said, moving towards the trash can. "Maybe then you'll learn your place."
But before he could throw the book away, a bright flash of light and heat erupted from the pages, setting the book on fire. Stubbs screamed in pain and dropped the book, clutching his burnt hand. Hermione gasped in shock and horror, not knowing what had just happened.
The commotion attracted the attention of Mrs. Cole, the stern matron of the orphanage, who rushed to the scene. She saw the burning book, the smoke, and the crying Billy, and her face turned red with fury.
"What is going on here?" she shouted, looking around for the culprit. The old woman spotted Hermione, who was still frozen in her seat, and glared at her. "You! You did this, didn't you? You're a wicked girl! How dare you hurt another child and destroy property?"
Hermione tried to protest, but Mrs. Cole would not listen. She grabbed her arm and dragged her to the stairs, ignoring her pleas and apologies.
"You're going to the attic, young lady, and you're staying there until you learn some manners and respect," she scolded, unlocking the door to the dark and dusty room. "Maybe some time alone will make you think about your actions."
With a loud click, the matron locked the door behind Hermione after pushing her inside the dark and dusty room. Silence followed her fading footsteps. Tears stung the girl's eyes as she realized she was trapped in the attic, with no one to help her or believe her. What had caused the book to catch fire? Did she have anything to do with it? A strange mix of fear and curiosity filled her, as well as a faint hope that there was more to her life than the orphanage.
Uncontrollable sobs escaped from Hermione as the heavy thud of boots down the wooden stairs reached her ears. The attic was a place of darkness and dust, where discarded junk and cobwebs filled the space. It was her first time had been there, and she regretted ever coming.
Looking around, the girl hoped to find a way out, but there was none. The only window was too small and too high to reach. The only door was locked from the outside. She felt trapped and hopeless.
A movement in the corner of the room caught her attention. Behind a pile of old books, a pair of gray eyes stared at her. She gasped, startled by the unexpected sight. There was someone else in the attic with her. A boy, who looked about her age, emerged from his hiding spot. He had pale skin, black hair, and a thin face. He wore a ragged shirt and trousers, and his feet were bare. With a curious expression, he looked at her.
"Who are you?" Hermione asked, wiping her tears. She wondered who he was and why he was here.
"I'm Tom Riddle," the boy said, his voice cold and sharp. "And you?"
"Hermione Granger," she answered, her voice trembling slightly.
Tom raised an eyebrow, as if he found her name amusing. He scanned her appearance, taking in her slightly bushy hair, freckled face, and worn-out clothes.
"What are you doing here?" he inquired, his tone curious but also suspicious.
"The matron locked me here," Hermione sobbed. "She's horrible. Beating me and making me do all the chores, she treats me like a slave. A freak and a nuisance, that's what she calls me. She hates me."
Riddle nodded sympathetically. "I know how you feel. She hates me too. She locked me up here because I did something she didn't like."
Hermione looked at him with a mixture of awe and fear. "What did you do?" she questioned.
Tom smiled slyly. "I'll show you. Watch this." He raised his hand and pointed at a book on a shelf. The heavy tome flew off the shelf and landed in his hand. The girl's eyes widened in shock. She had never seen anything like that before.
"How did you do that?" she asked. Hermione wanted to know more, but she also felt nervous.
"I don't know. I just can." Tom shrugged. He had this power since he could remember. "Making things move without touching them is easy. Animals obey with a glance. People suffer with a whisper. I can do things that nobody else can do." Riddle was special, and he knew it.
A strange sensation filled Hermione's chest. A connection with Tom, a bond that was new and unique. He understood her, he was the only one who could. She was special too, just like him.
The girl opened her hand and saw a flicker of light. Hermione gasped, amazed by what she saw. There was a small flame in her palm, dancing and glowing. She looked at Riddle, who looked equally surprised.
Disbelief filled his stare, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Nothing like that had ever been with him before. Her secret, how she had created that flame in her hand, he wanted to know. In a whisper, he spoke, his voice full of wonder. "How did you do that?" Tom inquired.
Hermione shrugged, unable to explain what had happened. She had no idea how she had created that flame in her hand. The girl confessed, her voice soft and honest. "I don't know. I just did. I just wished for it."
Riddle reached out and touched her hand. The flame grew brighter and warmer. He looked at her with a confident smile, his eyes shining with determination. "We're different from the others. We're special. We're powerful. Maybe we can make our wishes come true. Together." he declared.
A surge of emotion filled her heart. Happiness and hope blossomed in her chest. She felt like she had found a friend, a partner, a kindred soul. With a smile, Hermione looked back at him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we can. Together," she said.
And so, they became friends in the attic, a place they felt free and safe. There, they could be themselves. There, they could dream. If only it was that simple.