July 1938 | Thomas Marvolo Riddle and Mary Melusina Riddle are eleven, and have yet to attend Hogwarts.

Tom blew his nose into the raggedy shirt of the man in front of him.

Not even the gutter-gleaners, as those suited men from The Times were called in Oaktun Heath, stooped to visit its back-alley mutt pits. It wasn't their soft bellies that kept them away – many of them travelled halfway around the globe to write up a storm about wars and whatnot – but because the pits were not just gorey, but dreary. Crumbling brick and endless smog rolling in from the tyre factories nearby, that was how it was. And not a soul from the factories nor the honest poor of any kind to show their faces in this leftover slice of Victorian vice. Rather, it was only John Bull's forever scruffy, broke, and leery nephews who came to watch dogs meet their end at Oaktun Heath, just to forget, for a blink, that they were lined up for the same.

The man in front of Tom blew his nose too, into his own shirt. He was one among many of the same type, who Tom always saw when he came to the pits; they smelled of cigarettes and were always black with dirt under their nails, and they would have been missed by no one if they were gone tomorrow except for maybe whores, who counted them among those who paid in full.

Tom Riddle was, by his own reckoning, at the bottom of the pack in terms of age that cloud-covered late summer afternoon; among those punting he was undoubtedly youngest. Playwright Ben, the bookkeeper, had no qualms taking his money; was in fact quite familiar with Tom, the unusually large sums of money he proffered for was so small and shabby a boy; and the eerie precision with which he chose winning mutts. Playwright Ben got his name as a university man who had fallen on hard times during The Slump, and made the best of the base vocation fate had conferred upon him by citing Aeschylus and Apollonius Rhodius in his narration of the dogfights; the derision heaped on him was more jest than venom, but it pricked his pride enough for him to recourse to the quieter, financial side of criminality. Over time, he found himself drawn to rubbing elbows with the sorts his folks and their lot would have scoffed at; he told himself that their savage, drunken ways was the true face of humanity; that he ought to partake in such sincerity. Tom pieced this together not just from the chatter he caught drifting around, but from looking into Playwright Ben's eyes — he learnt a lot that way, thanks to the Devil in him.

"Two quid ten and half a crown from Thomas Riddle on Wilhelm at a tidy 2.3."

It was not just men upon whom Tom exercised the Devil in him.

Wilhelm, a bull terrier about thirty-six inches long and the colour of off milk, looked none too sturdy next to Caliban, a smaller but feisty black pitbull in its prime. Most punters were betting on Caliban. But that was Tom's play – back the underdog, worm through the crowd to a prime spot in the front, and channel the Devil in him to cripple the stronger dog. Tom wouldn't call himself cruel, but he couldn't ignore the rush that zipped through him – like the feeling he got sipping hot mulled cider or cocoa – whenever he made dogs whimper and bleed.

To keep the heat off, Tom made sure his bets were big but not massive, nothing like the stashes those toffs who got a kick out of slumming it would drop, even though he so easily could have. And every so often, he'd take a loss to shake off any remaining suspicious glares. That's how he earned most of his money – the rest came from a bit of pickpocketing here and swag-shifting there. The Devil in him made all that very easy.

Wilhelm the bull terrier was to do in Caliban the pitbull. Caliban would be the holiest of dogs Tom had done in; for with his death, he'd wrap up the £1000 he'd been stashing for his long lost sister –

Mary.

Mary, his only living relation, though his memories of her were fuzzy and more like old tales, but still striking deep like something out of a church sermon – Mary, his reason for everything. He wondered if she had a Devil in her too. Tom couldn't picture her face or anything about her life (only knew her adoptive lot was minted), but he imagined her a heavenly blend of himself – Tom liked his own looks – and those rich girls they called débutantes, daughters of lords and bankers of the like, that he eyed up sometimes in better parts of London; they belonged, after all, to a world intimately opposed to his own, so near and yet so distant. One day he would have them all, through Mary, back where she belonged – and then – then he'd never have to rough up another sorry mutt again.

And with that thought, Tom snapped his fingers.

"Would 'e look at that?! Old Wilhelm's turning back the clock – maybe feeling the nerves takin' on a dark-coated mutt. And there goes its neck! Proper fierce, ain't 'e?"

"Someone's nobbled Caliban! 'E's all over the shop, wobblin' like 'e's peaky. This fight's a stitch-up – Ben, I want me money back."

"Get off it! A loser's always gonna look peaky. We all know that."

"No – somethin' ain't right."

"No refunds, mate. Keep your chin up."

"Keep me chin up? I'll show you a chin up!"

Playwright Ben flinched as the angry punter brandished his fist, but two muscled blockheads in cheap tweed jackets stepped in to violently impede him. Playwright Ben gave them each five bob.

Tom sidestepped the commotion to get to the Playwright before the other punters. Wilhelm was sinking his teeth into Caliban's hind leg while the pitbull shook pathetically from head to tail, trying to free himself. Playwright Ben bent down and spoke quietly in Tom's ear, "You nobble dogs, don't you, boy?"

Tom merely raised his eyebrow at this.

"Well, well. Look who's not denying it. A pint-sized Prometheus, aren't you?"

Tom didn't say anything; Playwright Ben often jostled him like that, but always paid out handsomely. Tom figured Playwright Ben wanted to rile him up and see what sort of response he'd get. He was a writer once, after all.

Playwright Ben smirked. "Clever lad like yourself might think he knows a thing or two about dogs. Might even have a system."

"Don't worry. I won't grass you up. Just between us scholars of the squalid, eh? Wouldn't want word getting out that an orphan's fleecing the mutt pits. Here's your cut, as usual, Thomas." Playwright Ben discreetly handed Tom a few pound notes and a handful of loose change. Then he straightened up to watch the end of the fight. Caliban was dying at last, his rear leg a bloody pulp, and Wilhelm was trotting away like a champion.

Tom counted the money in his pocket and frowned. It wasn't the full five quid and eight shillings.

"Oi!" he protested. Playwright Ben ignored him.

Tom tugged roughly at the hem of Playwright Ben's jacket. The bookkeeper whirled around angrily.

"What?" he hissed. Tom pointed at his palm. Playwright Ben scowled and dug in his pockets for more money. He slapped it into Tom's hand with such force that it fell to the ground. Tom quickly scooped it up and counted it again. Five quid and eight shillings.

Playwright Ben snorted. "There's gratitude for you," he muttered, then turned back to watch the dogfight. Tom tucked the money safely in his jacket, bid Playwright Ben a curt farewell, and headed out of the pit. The sun was setting as Tom weaved through the back alleys and shanty huts that made up his neighbourhood.

Tom often dreamt of hell; the noise, the heat, the stench, and the mob of the pit – it was like a preview of the inferno right here on earth. But sometimes, especially come spring after the worst of the coughing, his dreams shifted to heaven; and his heaven was always marked by a reunion with that soft, warm presence he'd been ripped from before he could even toddle –

Mary.

To lessen Mrs. Cole's guilt over splitting up twins – not just any siblings, but twins – Mary's adoptive father had given her £500 to pass on to Tom. Tom was darkly amused that Mrs. Cole hadn't just sunk the whole lot; Mary's existence, the £500 that could've kept her in cheap liquor for three years. Tom hadn't touched a penny of it. If Mary's pretend father thought £500 would square things, he was as daft and blind proud as Caliban the pitbull. Tom would show Mary he could look after her just as good, no, better than her £500 dad ever could; and as for him, he'd feel the full weight of Tom's pent up fury, just as Mary would make real his dreams of heaven.

In three months, he would be off for Salisbury, where he knew Mary was, from Mrs. Cole's books – he'd make it there before winter clutched hold, before that dreadful coughing began anew. Tom hated and feared that sound more than any other. It was how the grim reaper knocked on the door of the orphanage every year.

"Edward, make her go away, do."

In a bedroom grand enough to comfortably accommodate a grand piano and three full-body mirrors, its extravagant central window arching gracefully to frame the setting sun behind Salisbury Cathedral, eleven-year-old Mary Annett felt herself descending ever deeper into a sullen gloom, perhaps even verging on despair. Her brother, Edward – her favourite in all the world – reclined upon her own bed. He was distant, not through any spoken word but rather in the opaque silence of his thoughts, which Mary perceived not by sound but through the clear, troubled waters of his aquamarine eyes. It was one among many strange things Mary could do; glean people's thoughts, by staring into their eyes. Edward Algernon Annett harboured desires for Barbara Stratley that Mary could never fulfil. And though Mary was well acquainted with the unspoken instincts of nature – understood even from the fleeting glances of strangers that such feelings were not uncommon, and that girls too harboured them – it was the loud, grasping presence of Barbara Stratley that grated. She monopolised the fleeting moments Mary had with her brother, before he was due back at Cambridge.

"Mary, why must you complicate things?" Edward asked gently. "I fail to understand why you scorn her so."

"She is vulgar, and she is a tart, and she wears all those horrid colours – I thought you hated ostentation?" Mary said, sinking into a huge armchair cloaked in dark green velvet. Her Siamese kitten, Philipp Emmanuel, reposed serenely at her feet, engaged in a mild assault on her slightly worn silk slippers.

Edward sighed wearily; his sister had been subjected to Barbara Stratley's presence for a grand total of twenty minutes. "Mary Melusina Annett," he began, "You are being quite unreasonable."

Mary prodded into Edward's thoughts; though they were then rather nebulous, the general idea within them was clear – he was anxious about the possibility that Mary might ruin everything at dinner that night, and forestall Stratley from coming home with him. Mary winced – did Edward really think she was that petty? Very well – she would play on his nerves.

"She thinks me a child, Eddie!" she exclaimed, leaping from her armchair onto the bed, onto Edward, burying her face in his chest and feigning an immense depression.

"Well, that is rather unavoidable, isn't it?" Edward reasoned, running his fingers through Mary's silky black hair. He shifted slightly so that Mary would settle comfortably in the space between his legs; Philipp Emmanuel purred disapprovingly as Mary violently kicked her slippers into the air for them to lend on the other side of the room. "Barbara is six years your senior – it only stands to reason that she views you thus. But she thinks you charming nonetheless –"

"Charming?"

"– and she is very much taken with my charms, so I suggest that you become best friends immediately," Edward finished, punctuating the statement with a quick kiss to Mary's forehead.

Edward's thoughts were firmer, had clearer contours now; he accepted that Mary might not like Barbara Stratley but he would have her try; and if she tried, she may just find that she liked her after all. Mary huffed; Edward's mind could be so boring sometimes.

"Alright, alright, I shall make nice – for you."

Edward beamed down at her; Mary discerned the tension lifting from his thoughts as his eyes cleared. "Thank you, Mary; you are my favourite sister."

"I am your only sister," Mary reminded him, rising to her feet. Philipp Emmanuel retrieved her slippers for her.

"Then you are by default my favourite sister," said Edward, smiling.

Though Edward's good humour as always had an infectious effect, it also grated on Mary. He never took her with sufficient seriousness – he treated her as a child still. Did Edward not realise that if he was not of good humour, Mary's summer would be ruined? No one else in the house was of sufficiently consistent good humour. Father was not; father was rarely home anyhow; and he had been a reticent, pensive man after all what he had underwent in the Great War as a field doctor; as for mother, though she was possessed of a vivacity befitting a woman of society, she often succumbed to melancholy – a not unexpected consequence of her marriage to a man who, once vivaciously intelligent and loving, had been reduced to a phantom in the aftermath of the war.

But that was not the only cause of mother's trouble; in 1923 – having rekindled some lust for existence in her husband – she bore him another child. A daughter named Isobel, who had hair nearly, but not quite as dark as Mary's; Mary had compared photographs of their respective infancies. In 1924 Isobel was taken by influenza.

Julia Annett's melancholy often became that of her adoptive daughter. On more than one occasion Julia, ensconced in a drunken or opiated haze, would talk to Mary of Isobel, and vow, unashamedly, with devilish relish even, that she would never love Mary a fraction of how she loved that dead infant. Julia would illustrate with vicious clarity how Mary's good fortune – her adoption into such an esteemed family as the Annetts – was predicated on the death of a real Annett, even if a very small one. And these were not her most morbid thoughts; Mary gleaned unspoken ones from her lustreless blue eyes that could not be articulated in polite company. So how could Mary not, at times, feel an acute sense of loneliness, of vertiginous isolation, as if she were on the precipice of a cliff beneath a night sky with neither moon nor stars? Once a month these thoughts would reduce Mary to tears, when no one was looking; and so intense was her melancholy in these moments that she wondered whether they were owed not just to her mother's cruelty, but to some suppressed memory of some horrible event at the orphanage that had yet to reveal itself to her conscious mind.

No, all that was folly – Mary's adoption had elevated her from orphanhood to the lower aristocracy. The Annetts were her true family; despite occasional daydreams about her biological relatives, she surmised that they were no more; had they existed, surely, surely they would have sought her out by now.

Mary did not vocalise her tribulations; she disdained the whininess of her peers, whose mothers loved them wholly. Instead, she redirected her dark, frenetic inner energies towards constructive pursuits – playing the piano, where she exhibited prodigious talent; orchestrating soirées with the daughters of prominent Salisbury families; maintaining correspondence with Edward, about things exterior to her soul; and eagerly awaiting the homecomings of her father and Edward, neither of whom were in Salisbury for most of the year. All of these activities were facilitated by her 'Anomalies,' as her father had whimsically dubbed them some years prior (he had affectionately remarked, "Oh dear, Mary – more anomalies in the bedroom?''). When no one was looking, she used her Anomalies to flip piano scores sans physical contact; to flawlessly rectify errors in letters without resorting to unsightly strikethroughs; to ensure that tea pastries remained perfectly warm during her soirées. Life was, by most measures, agreeable for Mary Annett. But the arrival of Barbara Stratley that summer cast an immense pall over her spirits; Edward was her favourite person, and that she was no longer the centre of his world made uncertain the foundations of her own.

That evening Edward escorted three of his most cherished beings – his mother, his adoptive sister, and the increasingly significant Barbara Stratley – to Southampton for dinner at the Langham hotel. Mary liked Edward's Cadillac; with its dark blue finish, it was to Mary's knowledge the best automobile in Salisbury in both pecuniary and aesthetic terms. She was contented, also, that she dressed better than Stratley, whose pink Bolero dress – with its gauzy sleeves and plunging neckline – seemed designed to draw Edward's eyes to her décolletage. Mary's own outfit was an elegant black tea dress, with silver brooches adorning the hem of her collar, and a matching headband that held back her long black hair.

Nonetheless Stratley extended her customary flattery to Mary, exclaiming, "But you are so striking! One might mistake you for a Romanov princess in exile!"

Mary smiled in return and bore into Stratley's over-obviously warm brown eyes, she listened into the older girl's thoughts, seeking evidence of duplicity. But to Mary's amazement, Stratley was genuine in her compliment. Mary felt abashed. Nonetheless she persisted in her telepathic espionage. Stratley's inner monologue consisted mostly of mundane self-assurances, and Mary could glean no profound secrets or insights about her character; however, she discerned some pertinent facts: Stratley harboured a desperate desire to secure Edward hand in marriage, and firmly believed that she stood a strong chance of doing so; furthermore, she held Mary in high regard and hoped to win her favour. Mary decided that she would offer Stratley a half measure of her benevolence.

"Thank you," Mary responded, mustering a smile. "I too like your suit; it is so... vibrant."

Mary did not like Stratley's attire, but she did not hate Stratley either. Stratley's motivations, though supercilious, were transparent; Mary had expected to find malice, not merely vanity. Moreover, Stratley evidently liked Edward; Mary concluded that Stratley was worthy of Edward, at least for the night.

Barbara Stratley beamed, taking Mary's hand in hers and squeezing it. "It's Chanel, you know. My father sends it from Paris. Perhaps when you're older we might shop together – I'm sure I can find something divine for you."

"I should like that. I think we might be friends."

Barbara Stratley released Mary's hand. "Now that is a relief – Edward was concerned that you didn't like me!"

"He needn't have worried," Mary's mother chimed in, in her typical flat tone, "Mary is terribly fond of new people – aren't you, darling?"

"Yes, mother."

Barbara Stratley then engaged Julia Annett in light banter concerning Salisbury, and particularly the lack of fashionable restaurants in the town. Mary, bored by the conversation, gazed out the window, observing the countryside bathed in the orange glow of the sunset.

Mary observed Stratley throughout dinner; she was a vivacious conversationalist, and she drew laughter from even her mother, who was so disposed to taciturnity with Edward's male peers. Stratley did not speak to Mary much; Edward monopolised her attention, and Mary did not begrudge this. Upon returning home, she and Edward retired to his bedroom with a bottle of cognac to continue their merrymaking. Mary retired to her bedroom to read a volume of Chekhov, feeling a strange mix of contentment, growing melancholy, and – dare she admit it? – envy. Immense, immense envy. One day, she, too, would share a bottle with cognac with a boy she loved, in his bedroom, whereupon they would together satisfy their unspoken instincts – but this boy would not be her brother – and somehow, this was terribly unjust. No longer in the mood for reading, Mary decided to sleep early, or at least attempt such.

She later awoke to the sound of Edward's footsteps outside her bedroom; glancing at the grandfather clock across the corridor, she deduced that it was close to midnight. Philipp Emmanuel stirred at her feet, having been roused from slumber. Edward entered the room, somewhat unsteady; he had clearly spared little of that cognac.

"Hello Eddie." Mary greeted her brother sleepily. "I knew you could come."

Edward sat on Mary's bed, causing her to jostle slightly. "Hello, my sweet," he whispered.

Mary shifted, allowing her brother to lay down beside her. "Did you have a good time?"

Edward's answer was redundant; Mary was already peering into his thoughts, and beheld Stratley's naked form atop Edward's own. "Yes. Barbara has returned to her aunt's."

"I think she is very nice."

"Oh?" Edward whispered, wrapping his arm around Mary's waist. "What changed your tune?"

Mary nuzzled against her brother, breathing in the scent of cognac on his breath. "She loves you Eddie. Very much."

Edward hummed in response, apparently contemplative. Mary continued. "She thinks me pretty, though of course I am not nearly as pretty as she, but that matters not. You will marry her, won't you Eddie?"

Edward laughed. "Why, Mary Melusina Annett, are you playing matchmaker?"

"Eddie?" she murmured, tugging at his sleeve. "Don't marry her."

Edward grew silent, and Mary, trying to peer into his thoughts, found that his eyes were closed – he was falling asleep.

"Don't marry her, Eddie." Mary repeated. Philipp Emmanuel purred disapprovingly; Mary prodded him away with her foot, and he leapt from the bed, glowering at Mary before slinking off into the night. Edward continued to quietly heave.

Mary was suddenly overcome with fury; she violently extricated herself from Edward's embrace. "Eddie, are you not listening to me? I do not want you to marry her!"

"Mary, go sleep," Edward, ever the patient brother, groaned in protest, attempting to pull Mary back to him. "I'll listen to you in the morning, I promise."

Mary was stricken with panic; she desperately sought the right words to convey her all the strange feelings that had coursed over her through the course of the last few hours, but could find none. Tears began to flow from her eyes, and she struggled to choke out a sentence. "Eddie, I don't want you to leave me," she managed to whisper, before dissolving into sobs.

Edward was now awake, and he pulled Mary back into his arms, stroking her hair soothingly, albeit with some clumsiness owing to his inebriation. "Mary, dearest – what's wrong?"

It was, indeed, the first time Mary had cried in her brother's presence since they were eight. Inconsolable, Mary buried her face in Edward's chest, her tears dampening his nightgown. "Eddie, please don't marry her. Please. I beg you."

"Mary, I don't understand..." Edward began, but Mary interjected.

Mary wiped her eyes so she could more clearly look into Edward's; she gleaned in them a violent disturbance – a strange guilt that he could not explain to himself, wracking his nerves. This pleased her immensely; she relished Edward's unease, and knew that she now wielded power over him. In that moment she decided on the boldest of strategies to employ; one that was, at any rate, strategic.

"Eddie, I can hear people's thoughts," Mary confessed.

Edward stiffened at this; Mary feared that she had crossed a line, but persisted; Edward was now recalling various frivolous employments of Mary's Anomalies; he did not find this claim so incredulous.

"Eddie, I know what Barbara Stratley thinks – I can hear her thoughts Eddie, and I can hear yours too. And Eddie, I love you, and I don't want you to marry Barbara Stratley because she does not love you like I do."

Edward's shame deepened; Mary had quickly displaced Stratley in Edward's affections, and he was now, inexplicably to himself, plagued with remorse and self-disgust.

"And Eddie, I know you are angry with me, but please don't be – I only wish to be loved Eddie, and I need you," Mary said, intoning all the right words with just the right measure of helplessness. "I can't bear it when you are away – I am so alone, and mother hates me, and I don't know who I am or who my birth parents are, and I am scared, Eddie. I am so scared Eddie, because I feel like there is a hole inside me that no piano, or novels, or parties at Mildred's or any of the things I like can fill. I am going mad because I think sometimes I might be able to control things with my mind Eddie – I can make Philipp Emmanuel come to me without so much as gesturing, and I think I can move things too – I am so scared Eddie, because I feel like I am becoming something monstrous."

Mary now clung desperately to Edward, as if he might spontaneously dematerialise at any moment, even though his mind assured her otherwise.

Edward placed his hands on Mary's shoulders, pushing her slightly away from him so that he could look her in the eyes. "Mary, you must calm yourself. You are my sister, and I love you dearly, and I will always be here for you. Do you understand?"

Mary nodded, wiping tears from her eyes.

"And you must never tell anyone else of this," Edward continued. "Do you understand? Only our parents know of your powers, but you must never share this with another soul."

Mary saw that Edward was reconsidering Stratley's position in his life; she darkly observed that his having relieved his carnal urges with Stratley earlier that night lowered his immediate need for her – but nonetheless it was unambiguous; Edward was not ready to abandon her yet; because to abandon her was to abandon the childhood they shared. He would not be able to forgive himself if he did. Nonetheless he did not reveal the wholeness and decisiveness of his convictions; Edward did not like to make declarations of affection explicitly, and Mary gleaned that Edward felt some pride in the fact that he could hide so much from her.

"I won't tell anyone," said Mary, feeling much relieved, as though she had just played the entirety of two Chopin études without a single misplaced note.

"Good. Now Mary, I implore you to sleep. I shall stay with you and you can cuddle me all you like, and we can talk about Barbara Stratley and your Anomalies tomorrow – we shall have a picnic by the valley. How does that sound?"

Edward hugged Mary tightly. She enjoyed the softness of his cheek against hers. "Okay, Eddie. Can Philipp Emmanuel come with us?"

"Why of course – he's part of the family, after all."