Overnight, Hermione's world had turned on its head. She had gone to bed with the expectation that when she woke her parents would be home from the opera and all would be well. Old Mrs. McCarthy, the widow who lived nearby and who was a regular patient at her parents' practice, would be stopping in through the night to check on her, but otherwise, Hermione was supposed to pass the night peacefully.
Her mother and father came in before bed to plant kisses on her crown and wish her pleasant dreams, and she got to coo over her mother's full-length blue velvet gown and her father's well-tailored tuxedo. They made a handsome pair if she said so herself.
Once they had left, she read for exactly half an hour and turned out her reading light. It was approximately eight-thirty in the evening, and she knew Mrs. McCarthy would be checking that she was properly in bed by nine.
Hermione prided herself on being a practical, responsible seven-year-old girl, and that was precisely the reason her parents could leave her alone while they went out for the night. They knew she was safe, and that she would never do anything so foolish as play with the stovetop or stay up until midnight on her own. No, she would attempt a good night's rest. If she was thirsty, she would settle for cool milk or plain water. If she was restless, she would practice any number of the techniques her parents had taught her to try and fall asleep.
Thus, she was hardly awake when checked in on her the first time, and she slept soundly for some hours.
It was still dark when the sound of doors banging throughout the house woke her from sleep. Usually, her parents were too careful to wake her, so she was immediately on her guard. She jolted upright in bed and peeked out the window to find that her parents' lovely black Wolsley was not in the drive, but there were two emergency vehicles.
Hermione slid out of bed and tiptoed out her bedroom door and toward the stairs, where she could just make out Mrs. McCarthy's back and the legs of two officers.
"Is it really necessary to wake the girl at this hour?" the old woman asked. Her hair was in a long braid rather than properly coifed and she looked as though she had hurried from bed herself, clad only in her dressing gown and slippers. Hermione had never seen her in such a state, as the woman was a notorious insomniac and never went to bed before the midnight hour; on evenings she checked on Hermione, she usually stayed awake until closer to two, when the Grangers would be returned at last.
"I'm afraid so," said one officer. "It isn't our protocol to allow young children to remain alone overnight."
The old woman clicked her tongue. "I'm right next door. I don't see—"
"That's as may be, ma'am, but—"
"I'm awake," Hermione interrupted as she padded down the stairs. "What's the problem, officers? Have my parents been arrested?"
There wasn't a world in which she thought that might happen, though her mother said she'd protested a few unjust events in her youth, but Hermione couldn't think why else a pair of officers would be on her doorstep in the middle of the night.
The older officer's expression softened as he saw the young girl descend. "Miss Granger. Good evening." He removed his cap and Hermione's heart skipped a beat as it realized what was to come; her mind was still trying to catch up with the situation. "Your parents were in a vehicular collision this evening. I'm afraid they didn't make it. I'm so sorry for your loss." He elbowed his younger companion and he, too, took off his cap.
Hermione frowned at the two men as though not able to grasp the words the first officer had spoken. She turned to Mrs. McCarthy, who put a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "What was that?"
There was a curious buzzing in her ears that seemed to drown out what he said next, and then what his partner added to the mix.
"I'll help her," said Mrs. McCarthy, and she guided Hermione back upstairs to begin the process of packing a bag.
That was how Hermione found herself at Wool's Orphanage as the first hush of twilight rose up to preface the sun. She had two suitcases as she had been reluctant to part from her books, and she was assured several times that Mrs. McCarthy would handle all the particulars of the estate, and everything would be stored or held in trust for Hermione when she reached the age of majority.
Hermione stood beside a social worker, Miss Christina Abernathy, as the woman rang the bell. A harassed-looking woman in her middling-to-late years opened the door, her eyes going wide when she took in the state of the child beside Miss Abernathy.
"Good morning, Mrs. Cole. I apologize for calling too early, but we have a new resident here for you. Miss Hermione Granger, this is Mrs. Mary Cole, who manages the daily happenings here at Wool's."
Hermione dipped politely and said, "How do you do, Mrs. Cole."
"What a well-mannered young lady," said the woman, then stepped aside and gestured for them to enter. "Please, come in." She led them to an office where Miss Abernathy took a seat. "Miss Granger, please feel free to have a look around. I'll be with you shortly."
Hermione stood awkwardly in the hall, one suitcase in hand as Miss Abernathy had set down the other. The woman had carried the heavier of the two, the one that contained the books, and Hermione was uncertain whether she wanted to leave her most precious belongings alone.
Then again, she would be living here from now on.
The building itself was stately and square, if a bit rundown. However, both inside and out was well-cleaned and generally cared for. There were no signs of life other than Mrs. Cole, not that she had seen yet, and she surmised the majority of residents would still be sleeping. The matron was probably just rising for the day herself.
She felt a little pang of guilt for interrupting the woman's morning routine, but there was nothing for it. Hermione was much-disrupted herself.
She decided to wander the nearby areas and set down her suitcase with its twin and then stepped into what seemed to be a sitting room. There was a radio, and plenty of chairs and two sofas were situated around it in such a way that a small gathering might partake of listening together. There was a small bookshelf, only three shelves high, but packed with books, most of which were not in the best of conditions, but books nonetheless. It was there Hermione was drawn, slowly removing title after title to inspect and read the covers.
"Who are you?" The words were clipped and the accent rather more posh than she would have expected given the location.
Hermione turned to find herself face-to-face with a handsome young boy. He was around her age, his skin fair as porcelain and his dark hair neatly combed. Near-black eyes combed over her appearance and those eyes then narrowed. "Recently orphaned?" he asked coolly.
Hermione's cheeks burned and she nodded. "Last night, in fact," she said in a hushed voice. It was strange, introducing herself in such a way, but she supposed this was her life now. "I'm Hermione Granger."
"Tom Riddle," he replied, gaze darting to the book in her hand. "Be careful with the books. They're delicate."
Hermione huffed. "I know how to handle books, thank you very much."
He hummed. "I'm sure. You look high-class enough, with those polished leather shoes and brass buttons."
Hermione looked down at her attire and her blush deepened. She looked out of place beside him in his hand-me-down clothes. They were neat, tidy, but the shirt was too loose and the trousers too short. "I happen to like books," she said at last.
"So do I," he replied.
There was a lance of excitement through her grief. She had never had friends her own age, not really, always considered too bossy and bookish for most. She had only just met this Tom Riddle, but already they had something in common. "I have more in my suitcase," she told him. "In one of them, I mean. The other is clothes and other necessities."
His eyes brightened and she realized they were midnight blue, the darkest blue eyes she had ever seen. "A whole suitcase for books?" he asked.
She nodded. "Would you like to see?" Without waiting for his reply, she went back to the hall by the office door and crouched down to unlatch the suitcase and open it up, revealing a collection of neatly packed tomes.
Tom crouched opposite of her and inspected both her expression and the volumes in the case. "These are all yours?"
She nodded. "I'll have more in storage. Mum and dad liked books, too, but these are the ones I had in my bedroom. Mrs. McCarthy said we can always change them out when I'm ready."
"Would you consider trading or lending? I don't have much, but for a good book, I am willing to barter, perhaps in chores?" he asked, his eyes boring into her.
Hermione considered that. She'd never lent her books before, never even been asked, since most children her age didn't have an interest in the same books she did, but if he did, and if he would be her friend… "As long as you handle them with care, I would be open to lending them out," she said at last.
Tom nodded and then reached down toward the case, but paused. "May I?" The question seemed to be an afterthought, but she was happy he even asked.
"You may," she said agreeably.
He plucked one up and looked at the cover, turned it over in his hands, and then flipped through the first few pages. "One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Is it good?"
"Oh yes," she said enthusiastically. "It's stories within stories, and all of them are quite interesting. The main premise is that there's this king whose wife has been unfaithful, so he executes her, then he starts marrying virgins only to execute them after the wedding night so they can't do the same. One day, he marries a woman and she's quite clever. She tells him a story, but leaves it unfinished and says she will tell him more the next night. He becomes so engrossed that he can't execute her before it's finished, and it goes one like that, thus, saving her life through story-telling."
Tom sneered, "Is it a romance?"
"Not really," Hermione said. "There's romance in it, but also quite a bit of action and mystery and adventure. You learn quite a bit about other cultures, too."
He nodded along and then set the book down, picking up another in its place. "What about this one?"
"That's a primer on biology. My parents are—" she grimaced, but pushed through with the correction— "were doctors and thought it would be good to prepare me in case I follow in their footsteps. It's fairly basic, meant to introduce secondary students to ideas they'll study in depth later. I also have one on Latin in here." Hermione parsed through the volumes. "Here. A lot of scientific things have Latin names, so—"
"You're quite the know-it-all, aren't you?" Tom interrupted.
Hermione deflated. This was it. He'd figured her out and now would find her insufferable, just like every other child their age. "I suppose," she murmured softly, tears threatening. It had already been an exhausting day, both physically and emotionally, and now it all was going to spill out and she would ruin any chance of friendship she'd ever have at Wool's and be all alone for the remainder of her childhood.
"I like knowing things, too," said Tom after a brief pause.
She sniffled back her tears and stared at him incredulously. "You do?"
"Yes," he said. "I always receive the highest marks in class, and I would rather read than play silly games of make-believe."
"Me too!" Hermione exclaimed, lighting up as she found more in common with the boy. "I mean, I am always top of my class, and I prefer reading to just about anything else."
Tom glanced down at the books and then up at Hermione, an expression she couldn't read skimming across his features before it disappeared under cool indifference. "Perhaps it will be good to have someone with some sense around."
"Yes," Hermione agreed. "I should like that as well."
One of the most surprising parts of settling into Wool's was finding that she had a room of her own. Mrs. Cole said it was a privilege, not a right, and that only a few of the older, more mature children were gifted with such. Hermione soon found that Tom had his own room, too, yet another thing the pair had in common.
It was a rather small room, perhaps a third the size of the one she'd had at home, with her parents, but it was suitable. There was a small bed along one wall, a tiny desk along the far wall, a plain chair, and a small wardrobe. The bed had white sheets and a scratchy-looking grey wool blanket atop it.
"Might I have a bookshelf?" she asked the matron when she looked around and realized her books had nowhere to live.
The woman frowned thoughtfully. "If one is donated perhaps," she murmured, "though the older children are generally first to receive such things."
Hermione nodded. When Mrs. McCarthy visited, she resigned to see if the woman could bring one from storage, unless the furniture were all sold off for her inheritance.
Hermione instead lined up a few volumes across the back of the desk and stored the remained away in her suitcase. Both suitcases were stacked in the small wardrobe opposite the bed, her clothes laid out there as well, and her toothbrush, soap, and similar items in a little basket provided by the orphanage.
It was such a plain room, austere in its monochromatic colors, and she changed into the grey frock and white shirt that was the uniform for children at the orphanage, sad to put away her finer things.
She supposed it was better to wear the same quality of clothes rather than stand out and feel more herself.
"I shall have to teach you better ways to wear your hair," said Mrs. Cole. "We wouldn't want that hair getting into the food."
"How would that happen?" Hermione wondered.
The matron lifted a brow. "Among the chores is kitchen duty, which includes helping with the meals. All children take a turn in the kitchen, usually every other day for at least before or after noon."
Hermione nodded. She supposed that was fair, and also supposed she would have to do a lot of chores. Her mother occasionally had Hermione help out with small duties, but between Helen Granger and the lady who came twice a week to assist with laundry and other more intensive chores, the house was always cared for.
Thus, Hermione's first week was a culture shock indeed. She learned how to scrub floors and change nappies (what a deplorable chore that was), how to make morning gruel and evening stew. She was surprised to find that the orphanage only had meat on Fridays, otherwise they did without. The dairy was specifically for children under five, and older children got a slice more of bread or an extra roll, but that was only for those older than ten.
She found herself in a middling age that had most of the responsibilities already, but none of the perks of age.
At least she had Tom.
The other children were initially rather friendly and curious toward her until Tom approached her the first evening and asked if he might borrow a book. This led to a discussion on which book he wanted to borrow first, and by the end of it, Hermione found the other children were glancing askance at her and whispering.
Tom, she soon found out, was not popular among the other children. They steered clear of him and barely answered when he had cause to speak to them first.
She couldn't understand why; he was perfectly pleasant to her. Not that he was particularly kind or friendly, but he had his manners and they served him well.
Hermione found out why the other children were leery of him one afternoon when she was reading in the yard. A girl perhaps a year or two older than she approached. Her name was Mary Clarence or some such— Hermione was still working to assign names to faces; she was always much better with the written word— and she sat beside Hermione and murmured, "You seem to get along with Riddle."
"I do," replied Hermione. "He's not a bad fellow."
"You should be careful. Strange things happen around Tom. Bad things. Just ask Billy Stubbs," the other girl informed her.
Hermione frowned and gazed around the courtyard, trying to remember which child was Billy. She thought he was the slightly stocky one who had a grumpy disposition. He didn't seem particularly friendly to her. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you," she said to Mary Clarence.
Mary Clarence nodded and took her leave.
Not twenty minutes later, Tom joined her under the shade of the tree. "What did Mary Clarence want?" he asked as he opened his— well, her, technically— book.
She shrugged and wondered uncomfortably if she should tell him. She didn't want to be gossip or a tattletale, but Tom was her only friend. She should be open with him, yes? "She said I should talk to Billy Stubbs."
"About me?" Tom snorted at her curt nod. "Billy Stubbs is a little bully and he blames me for his rabbit dying."
"He had a rabbit?" She was surprised they were allowed pets.
Tom nodded. "He found it out here. Anyway, we've had our share of disagreements. One day he found his pet rabbit strung up from the rafters and he decided I must've done it."
"From the rafters?" She gasped and tried to imagine how such a thing could happen. "But you couldn't possibly—"
"Exactly," Tom said. "How could I have done such a thing?"
Hermione shook her head at the idea of the children being so cruel to Tom over something he couldn't have done. Although, it was such a strange occurrence… "How do you think it happened?"
"I'm not sure," Tom admitted. "Strange things happen sometimes here at Wool's. Plates shatter or people trip over nothing, and for some reason, they blame me. I think it's because I'm different."
Hermione knew what that was like. She'd often been accused of cruelty or impoliteness for her own eccentricity, though nothing so bizarre and barbaric as the killing of an animal.
"Hermione…" Tom murmured her name so quietly she almost didn't hear it. "If I tell you something, will you keep it a secret?"
"Of course," she said automatically. That was what friends did, after all. They shared secrets and kept them safe for one another.
"I do have something of a gift. A talent you might say." His eyes slyly slid to hers and she felt as though they were boring into her. Tom did that often. It was like he could stare into your soul and learn your secrets on his own. "I can always tell when someone has lied to me."
"That's quite a talent," she replied, confused as to why such a thing had to be secret; surely it was the sort of knowledge that would be useful.
His eyes narrowed and he leaned in closer. "I mean it. It's almost like a special sense. I look at them when they speak to me and I can tell. I can always tell. It's why I despise liars."
He seemed to expect something more from her than her blatant acceptance, like an accusation of exaggeration. Hermione was confused; he had a talent. She happened to have one of her own.
"Can I tell you a secret, Tom?" She gazed around to make sure the two of them were far enough from any of the other children not to be overheard. What Hermione was about to tell him was precious to her, her greatest secret. She'd tried to share it with her parents before, but they'd accused her make-believe and merely applauded her imagination, though they also told her a tale called The Boy Who Cried Wolf.
Hermione had thought the boy from the story was quite silly; no one should lie, especially about something so important. She hadn't seen the lesson in it at all. Instead, she had learned there were some things she couldn't even share with those closest.
Perhaps Tom would prove an exception.
"Yes," he said simply.
Hermione bit her lips and thought of the best way to describe it. "Sometimes strange things happen around me, too. Usually to do with books," she added the second part hurriedly.
"How do you mean?" he asked, leaning his elbow on his knee and his cheek upon his hand as he listened.
"Well," she replied. "One day there was a book I wanted, but it was high up on a shelf and I was quite little, you see. I couldn't reach it even if I'd been able to move the chair; I was only about three or four. Anyway, it was a medical book with all sorts of beautiful drawings and I wanted to look at them so badly I could cry. I started, even, and then the book just— came down from the shelf."
Tom studied her face closely as she finished her little story, his midnight blue eyes piercing to the root of her. He blinked, frowned, and ran a hand through his hair as he digested her words. "Could it have been a coincidence?"
"Well, perhaps, only things like that have happened since," she replied. "Like I'll be walking and reading, but I have something in my hand and the book is large, so I can't turn the page. Then the page will turn itself."
"Have you ever tried to make it happen?" He was getting excited now, color was coming to his cheeks and he was leaning closer again. "Try now."
"I've only been able to make it happen when I've been desperate," she said. "It's something rare."
His visage darkened and he replied, "Try, or I don't think we can be friends anymore."
Hermione's heart sank. He would drop their tentative friendship over something so trivial as to whether she could make an 'accident' happen?
"Try, Hermione," he repeated, then he laid a hand over hers. "I believe you. You can do it."
That bolstered the girl so that she nodded and opened her book to the spot she'd been reading before he sat down with her. She thought about her parents dying and how lonely she was, how every evening she cried herself to sleep because her mother and father weren't there to bid her goodnight. She thought about Tom and how he was the only good thing in her life right now. She thought about his friendship and how terribly alone she would be without it, just a poor orphan girl nobody wanted.
The page she stared at trembled.
Her breath caught in her throat. She was doing it! Hermione's brows pinched together as she reminded herself Tom might think she was telling stories and trying to impress him if she didn't manage this. He would take away his friendship and call her a liar and no one would be friends with bossy, lying Hermione Granger.
The page turned and she turned toward Tom. "I— I did it! Or I think I did."
He was staring at her with a curious expression on his face, something like triumph but different, almost hungry. "You did."
"It could have been the wind," she said, suddenly second-guessing herself. They were outside, after all.
Tom shook his head. "No, Hermione. I think it was you. It seems you're special, too."
Special. He'd called her special.
Hermione was used to teachers and other adults telling her that. Her mother and father had constantly praised her mental acquity, but no one her age had ever praised her. Tears pricked hotly at her eyes and she was suddenly bashful. "I don't think it's nearly as special as being able to tell when people are lying."
Tom smiled and squeezed her hand again. "I think it's impressive. Look at us, a telepath and a telekinetic."
"What's telekinetic?" Hermione asked.
His smile widened; he was happy to have the upper hand for once. "I read about it at the library. It's an ability where people can move things with their mind."
"Oh, I didn't know there was a word for it!" She was excited now. "Can you tell me more?"
"Of course," said Tom.
Tom made Hermione exercise her ability at least once a week. He said that was the only way to grow her ability, and he promised he was working to improve his as well, so they were even. It was exhausting enough to stare at something and will it to move during the summer, but then school came and they tacked it onto her studies.
Hermione was tested by the school and placed with the class a year older than she was, but she was not alone; Tom was also there with her. He was easily the smallest boy, just as she was the smallest girl. They stood out amongst those already going through puberty, and the other children disliked that they were constantly being told how right and how bright they were by the teachers, but as long as she had Tom, Hermione didn't mind.
Her eighth birthday came and went; she was allowed a single sweet for the occasion and a slice of lemon cake procured by Martha, a woman who worked at the orphanage.
Tom's birthday passed with the same little fanfare, except that Hermione gifted him a book of his choice from her collection. She didn't have much, but what she did have, she would readily share with her only friend. "If I had access to the inheritance left for me, I would buy us a cake. It would be just for us, and you could have as much as you wanted; I'd only need a slice," she confided to him.
Tom smiled at that. His smiles were usually reserved for those telekinetic successes she had. So it was a precious thing to her.
The pair passed into 1935 with only a quiet celebration for themselves.
By the time 1936 rolled around, Hermione was surprised to find how well she fitted into the orphanage. She was almost a go-between for Tom and the other children. They found her much more approachable than the boy; she had a way of dealing with him that even Mrs. Cole found astounding. And with her around, he was blamed less for curious incidents.
However, she did notice something strange.
One day, Amy Benson made a rude comment about Hermione's hair and how, with such a big brain, one would think she could tame that rats-nest atop her head. It hurt Hermione because she was trying to learn how to deal with her frizzy curls, but it was difficult, especially without any conditioning treatment like she'd had before the orphanage— that was how her life was divided now. There was Before the Orphanage and the Present. She didn't like to think further into her situation than that.
Anyway, Tom happened to overhear the comment. He sneered at the girl and told her not to speak about Hermione at all, to which she replied, "I can talk about your girlfriend all I like."
Two days later, Amy Benson woke the entire orphanage with bloodcurdling screams. When Mrs. Cole ran into the room expecting to see a fire or a burglar, she instead found Amy's bed writhing with snakes.
Hermione checked her room every evening for weeks after that, just in case.
Everyone looked at Tom after it happened; she could almost hear their thoughts. It was him, they knew it, they whispered. He'd gotten revenge for Amy talking dirty about his friend.
Hermione had shaken her head when she talked to Tom about it. "How could you possibly have organized such a thing? There had to have been a dozen snakes in there!"
"How indeed," he'd replied. "One would need to have the ability to talk to snakes to organize such a feat."
His answer had struck her as odd, but she decided not to remark on it. Their lives were strange enough as it was.