July 16, 1942

London, United Kingdom

The night was dark and cloudy, the moon hidden as it was behind the clouds. Even the stars did not deign to make any appearances.

From the crack in the boarded up windows Tom could make out the occasional humid summer breeze. It did nothing to relieve the heat.

It was not the heat that was keeping him awake, however, having become used to it after fifteen summers.

No, it was a persistent uneasiness that no amount of Occlumency practices could stem.

As if he had been waiting for it – a sound broke the silence of the night. High and shrill, so alarming it made him leap up from the flimsy little cot that had accompanied him over the years but now was no longer adequate enough to hold his growing body.

The piercing sound signaled an end to the tense silence just seconds ago as the occupants of the building he was currently in bursted into a flurry of rushed, anxious movements.

In the dark someone collided into him as they made their panicked way down the narrow hallways and towards the exit. Tom's nostrils flared in anger but quickly pushed away the irritation as he followed after the rest of the occupants.

They went tripping down steps, fumbling hands gripping at the walls or each other for balance, and through a door. He could feel the Muggle bodies inches from his. Dozens and dozens, cramming together like sardines.

He wrenched away from the dirty hands. Muggles. He felt both disgust and rage at their touch and odor. Clammy filthy hands and the equally nauseating scent of fear and unwashed bodies that reeked from their pores. Oh, how he would like to blast them a good five meter radius from him.

Soon the door opened and he could see the moon high up in the sky, a sliver of white, cold and indifferent to the happenings on this side of the earth. The air-raid siren was loud – so impossibly loud he could focus on nothing else. The only thing louder was perhaps his own heartbeat.

His surroundings were dark blurs. The muggles were indistinguishable shapes, their movements accompanied by the background music that was the wailing noise of the siren like some grim parody of a ballet.

A stifled cry from a child. Muttered prayers. Hissed, agitated urgings – to move faster.

That ear splitting mechanical scream ringing into the night.

All Tom could think was that he was going to die. An awful Muggle death in this awful Muggle city. With the very beings that he felt loath and contempt for, reduced to nothing but a number on a list of casualties.

He had his wand but what good was a wand against several bombs dropping on his head? How would a shield charm hold up to hundreds of them, all going off at once. Enough to create a ripple that tore miles upon miles, making the entire ground explode.

He could envision it – the dirty cement floor, crumbling and falling apart, and himself cold, bloody, and dead.

A tube station came into vision, already packed with huddling figures, with more joining in. The same routine after the first sound of the alarm as if it had been carried out a hundred times. Maybe it had, but he had been at Hogwarts.

Soft, relieved noises at the sight of the station.

Tom's lips curled in an ugly, sardonic sneer. Hiding under a Muggle construction, the only barrier he had against the bombs, clinging to the illusion of safety. Safe. Never while he was here.

He was going to die in London, crouched on the ground like a beggar, a Muggle. He should never have returned. He should have turned right back around after catching his first sight of the rubbles left behind by the German bombs that had been dropping for months over Britain.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

Staring out into the dark London streets, Tom sat crouched near the entrance, a white knuckle grip on the wand in his pocket the only thing keeping him from completely losing his composure. His mind.

And as he sat there on the filthy ground, penned in by equally filthy, sniveling Muggles, memories flooded him.

He remembered the first time he had heard those sirens barely two weeks ago and how he had scoffed at them. The Muggles' silly inventions were nothing to him. They could never touch him when he was Magical. He had taken the chaos as an opportunity to sneak away, not keen on being herded like sheep towards the nearest tube station.

Very soon, reality slapped him in the face as he had learned that magic would not save him. He was nothing special in the face of death. After realizing just how helpless he was in the face of the destruction left behind by the Muggle weapons, he had barely managed to retreat back to a nearby shelter in time. He would never forget the sight of buildings crumbling as if they were not made of bricks and stone but of paper cards.

In that moment, aside from horror and fear, he had felt anger. Just before the summer holiday began, Tom had asked, once again, to remain for the summer. But just like at the end of his first year, Headmaster Dippet only replied with a sad, pitying smile, "I'm sorry Tom, it's simply not done this way. I can't let you stay over the summer." He had been forced to return to a world in the midst of war, just one of many orphans living under the threat of German bombings. The stung of the rejection was only magnified by the precarious situation he was in.

And as if echoing his thoughts – stone, ash, and fire that fell like rain – the sound of planes could be heard even under the wailing of the sirens and the first bomb of the night dropped over London.

He felt his breathing come faster, nearly hyperventilating as though panic and adrenaline rushed through his veins instead of blood. Tom gripped the stone wall of the station entrance for support as he saw and heard the buildings exploding into rubble and catching in flames that lit up the night. Screams mixed into the cacophony of death and destruction.

Any moment now, the place he was currently crouched in would be hit and he was going to be crushed, to disappear leaving nothing behind but a bloody smear, bits of bones and gore the only proof of his existence. Perhaps if he was lucky a broken body was going to be dragged out of a mass of rubble, halfway intact just like he had seen them do so many times before, to be lined up for no one to recognize and claim rather than just be marked as "missing".

Just as his thoughts descended into buzzing macabre madness, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something that pulled him right out of the spiraling thoughts of his own gruesome death.

Eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the figure, a man – a crazy man – who was currently striding leisurely down the destroyed street, heedless to the falling rubble or the fire that licked at the hems of the dark robes that he was wearing.

Tom blinked his eyes hard at the ludicrous image before him. He could still hear and see the German planes flying above, heralding more bombs to be dropped. It was literally raining stone and fire out there. What kind of person willingly took a walk amidst that instead of tucking into the nearest shelter they could find?!

Tom's brows furrowed.

Wait. Robes?

A closer examination confirmed his conclusion. Those were Wizarding robes. Not of any design he was used to seeing from his peers but they were undeniably Wizarding robes.

Tom's heart started to beat faster at this revelation. What was a wizard doing in the Muggle world? And in the middle of an air raid no less?

It was the first time he had ever seen a magical person in the Muggle world. The shock of his two worlds blurring together when they had been so distinctly separated before distracted him from the nearly paralyzing fear he had been feeling just minutes ago.

In the seconds of his puzzlement, the wizard had already moved closer to where he was currently hiding and Tom was able to catch a clearer glimpse of this mad wizard that had seemed to suddenly appear out of nowhere.

What he saw had Tom letting out an involuntary gasp.

For the first time Tom felt the inadequacy of his repertoire of words as he was speechless to describe the breathtaking sight before him.

In all honesty, he had seen his fair share of good-looking wizards and witches. He saw himself in the mirror everyday after all. Unlike those around him, he was never much interested in physical appearances other than the vague amusement of the effect that his own had on others. And even then, to him it ranked so far below his radar he never understood why others were so obsessed with something as pointless as beauty.

Never until now had he been so affected by someone's appearance and presence alone. By a pretty face that his idiotic peers liked to gossip about.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was involuntarily subjected to an accelerated heart rate, a heated blush that crawled up from his chest to neck and further up to cheeks and the tips of his ears, like some… some… swooning girl.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins once again but this time not in panic but something else. It urged him to do something, anything to quell the strange, intolerable hunger that suddenly overcame him in waves.

He stared unblinking at the wizard who had paused only a short distance away.

He was young. Looked to be only a couple years out of Hogwarts in fact. Maybe not even that as he would surely not look out of place among the seventh years. But Tom had never seen him during his time at Hogwarts. He would have remembered otherwise.

A narrow, slender frame that was by no means short or fragile. In fact, his eyes could trace lithe but powerful muscles partially hidden under plain but elegant robes that appear featherlight despite the layers, like that of the muscles that roll underneath the skin of a leopard. Lithe. Graceful. Deadly.

Moon pale skin that contrasted starkly against his robes and hair, both of which seem to melt into the dark night. The firelight cast from the flaming rubble warmed the otherwise marble cold complexion, softening the striking, ethereal features to something more human and approachable.

But that was only a facade, quickly shattered when confronted by eyes like cut emeralds deeply set in the face of a fallen angel.

Indeed, did it not seem like a scene taken from Dante's Inferno, a fallen angel passing by the fiery pits of Hell, indifferent to the suffering and death he encountered, his dark wings invulnerable to any licking flames?

And that was yet another detail to the bewildering image in front of him. Tom could not identify the type of shielding spell the wizard was employing but it was quite obvious that the wizard had done something to prevent the falling rubble and flames from making any contact with his person. It was like the wizard was standing in the eye of the storm that was the German Blitz, everywhere else was chaos and destruction but for the circumference in which he stood at the very center. It was too coincidental to be anything but the result of intentional magic on the wizard's part. No one was that lucky to avoid even the smallest of falling debris when standing right out in the open like an easy target. And judging by the pristine nature of the wizard's attire not even dust and ash had touched him.

Unlike with a normal shield, the falling sharp rubble did not bounce off an invisible barrier surrounding the wizard; instead, it was as if the rubble had taken on a consciousness and was deliberately avoiding the wizard.

What an absurd notion.

But as Tom watched in disbelief, he saw how a falling firebomb, literally veered away from the spot the wizard was occupying and eventually landing several feet away to blow up a signpost, defying the rules of gravity when by all rights its destination should have been inches from the wizard's left foot.

It was no wonder the wizard looked like he was only taking a walk in his backyard if he was in possession of such unfathomable ability.

As if able to feel the burning gaze latched onto his person, the strange wizard tilted his face in Tom's direction. Cold emeralds locked with dark, almost black orbs.

There was a moment when Tom's brilliant mind completely white blanked and the world became silent and still but for that splash of verdant.

And then everything came back into focus as the wizard moved to stop in front of Tom.

"What's an underage wizard doing in a place like this?"

Warm and mellow, the wizard's voice brought to mind the soulful tone of the cello.

Surprisingly, it was not the familiar British accent he was used to but melodious and exotic. It was not any accent he could pinpoint but seemed to be a blend of several – he could only make out a hint of lilting French and maybe a British crispness when speaking certain words.

"I'm not the only wizard here. But I know I have no intention of being here in the first place." Tom said quietly as he surreptitiously looked at the muggles nearby. What would they make of the eccentric older boy who suddenly appeared looking completely out of place in comparison to everyone else's disheveled and worn appearance? Knowing their mundane little minds, they would probably dismiss the wizard as a crazy escapee from a mental ward, attractive though he might be.

"They won't be able to see anything out of the ordinary." The wizard, noticing Tom's careful look around, offered helpfully. "I also did not intend to wander into a war zone either."

"You sound like that is something that happens often." Tom instantly fixed his attention back on the mysterious wizard crouched in front of him now that he didn't have to worry about the Statute of Secrecy being broken in front of him.

"There is a lot of death at a war zone." As if that answered anything.

Tom observed the strange wizard with unabashed fascination. Envious of how the dirt of their surroundings made no impact on the wizard's pristine robes despite how they were practically dragging through the dirty, debris littered floor.

Inexplicably, Tom felt back to his normal composed self with the stranger next to him despite the fact that he could still hear the whirring and buzzing of warplanes above. He was never one to rely on anyone but himself. And yet, to his own disturbance the feeling of calm and reassurance was definitely a result of the other's presence, loath as he was to admit it.

Tom pulled up his familiar polite and charming mask, "I have never seen you at Hogwarts before. Did you already graduate?"

"Oh, yes, I graduated already. But from Beauxbatons, not Hogwarts." The older boy leaned forward placing a sharp chin on his knees in a rather childish gesture. Thick, sooty lashes lowered as he watched his own long and slender index finger idly roll a rock on the ground. With those intense viridescent pools hidden and sharp arresting features framed by soft unruly obsidian strands, the aggressive nature of his fae-like beauty became forcibly softened into something young and docile. And coupled with his current body posture, the formidable and aloof looking wizard that he had first seen backlit by bonfires and crumbling buildings seem to have melted away impossibly into a sweeter and more defenseless version.

He wondered which was real – the dangerous wizard indifferent to death and destruction or the childish young man too unaware and guileless to remain on guard in front of a stranger.

Inconceivably, the burning hunger low in his belly only flared brighter. Dark eyes appeared lit from behind and almost took on the red sheen of holly berries as he quietly observed his mysterious companion.

Tom was not unfamiliar with desire.

Indeed, he knew intimately the torrid pulses that seared the body in desperate need. He wasn't above desire, and he desired numerous things – power, control, immortality, respect. He craved to achieve greatness, to be the most talented, most recognized. He sought his name to be known among all men, women, children, and creatures, but never before had he desired another witch or wizard.

Yes, he enjoyed controlling them for his own ends; made a hobby of collecting the talented or useful witches and wizards to be a part of his following. But he had never felt such lust and craving to possess another before, both body and soul and not just subordination. He despised physical contact and only felt contempt at the slavering masses controlled by their biological weaknesses. Despite how since third year teenage hormones seemed to have possessed his fellow peers he never participated in any of the crude discussions and passing around of Playwizard copies. He was much too in control of his mind and body to be driven by such trivial things as hormones. He only occasionally suffered a quick hand job in the shower on certain early mornings, a necessary evil to take care of the side effects of puberty. After all, he had much better things to do than waste his time with silly human weaknesses when there was magical knowledge and power to be sought.

So it was rather surprising for him to feel such intense, burning need. A dark, possessive want to take and control and – ruin.

Images flashed through his mind – bright green eyes, shocked and glistening while they peered up through wet lashes, marble white skin flushed with heat and marred in purple-red bruises, ink black silken strands spread out over the Slytherin green comforter of his four poster bed in the Slytherin dorms – and power of a different kind rushed through him like scalding water.

Tom bit discreetly on the inside of his cheek to clear his mind of those unexpected images. Now was hardly the time to become distracted by figments of his imagination when the real object of his fascination was right in front of him.

"I've read about Beauxbatons Academy. Is there really a Fountain of Youth located in the school's park?"

Those stunning eyes glittered in amusement. "Ah, yes, it is often called that but it only has healing and beautifying properties. It can't restore your youth or make you immortal. Its official name is Fontaine de Flamel."

"Flamel?"

"The alchemist, yes. Nicolas and Perenelle part-funded Beauxbatons' beautiful château and grounds with alchemist gold, for they met at Beauxbatons in their youth. Thus, they had a fountain named after them in honor of their contributions." The older boy smiled fondly.

Before Tom could reply, they were interrupted by Muggles getting up from the ground.

"It looks like the Germans have left. It is safe to leave the shelter now." Tom noted, slightly disappointed. He hadn't even noticed the bombs had stopped, so immersed he was in the other's company.

"So it seems." The older boy stretched up to his full height, a good head taller than Tom, to his annoyance. But Tom was younger, and he still had a long ways to grow yet.

Mistaking the frown on Tom's face, the older boy patted his shoulder companionably and quoted, "All feasts must come to an end. But, I can walk you back to your home if you'd like? I am on holiday as well with a lot of free time I have no idea what to do with."

Tom schooled his features to the friendly charming smile he had perfected years ago, only unbeknownst to himself there was a touch of genuineness to it that had never been present before. While he wasn't keen on showing the drab orphanage to the older boy, he was less keen on the other leaving just yet.

"That would be pleasant."

The walk to Wool's was indeed more pleasant than anticipated, despite having to pick their way through crumbled debris and the occasional burning rubble.

"Oh."

The two young wizards stood in front of what had once been Wool's Orphanage but was now nothing more than a pile of charred wood and stone.

The older boy looked at Tom with concern but Tom barely reacted. He was hardly fond of the place he had lived in since birth after all. His trunk was shrunk and in his pocket with his wand so there was no loss to be dismayed about. The only thing he felt was irritation. He needed to find a place to stay for the summer which was a bit of a challenge for a penniless orphan such as himself. He could stay at one of his followers' manor but he wasn't particularly fond of that idea either. No, he had something other in mind—

"Do you have another place to stay? If not, you can come over to my place if it's alright with you." The older boy offered hesitantly.

Tom's attention zeroed in on the wizard at his side. Dark eyes fixed intently on brilliant orbs. There was a moment of silence that seemed to have caused a misunderstanding as the older boy lifted a fist to cough almost self-consciously into, "I assure you, I'm not anyone weird or anything."

Suddenly, the edges of those dark, depthless eyes like black holes crinkled and cupid bow lips curled into a truly angelic smile, "Thank you. I greatly appreciate the offer. I'm Tom, by the way. Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Sooty lashes fluttered over vibes virescent shades like two feathery fans, "Oh! No problem. My name is Hadrian James Peverell. But you can call me Hadrian if you like. I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself earlier." The older boy, Hadrian replied with a sheepish quirk of pale rosebud lips and a slender hand raised to finger comb back inky strands.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Hadrian." Dark, half-lidded eyes followed the path of those slender fingers as it threaded through unruly jet black, startlingly pale in contrast.

Smile widening to show a hint of pearly white, Tom took the offered hand for side-along apparition, staring eyes never leaving the figure at his side.