2.

AN owl wakes Dillion from his sleep, far later than he would normally sleep but earlier than he wanted to wake. He shuffles over to the window to let the bird in and, for a brief moment, he clings to the vain hope that it's his family telling him they'd made a mistake. He knows it's not — he doesn't recognise the owl — but he still can't stop himself from doing it. It just makes the disappointment worse when he opens the letter to find a booklist from Hogwarts. On any other year, he would have been excited to receive a new set of books. But, this year, as he looks at the list, he wonders if he can even afford them.

Most of the money his parents had given him had gone towards ensuring he would have this room until Hogwarts. The rest he had been hoping to save for food, because Hogwarts wouldn't matter if he starved before the semester started. Everything would have to be secondhand but he's not sure if that would even be enough of a discount.

These worries are quelled a few lines down, when Dillion realises that Hogwarts seems to be aware of his predicament: 'Hogwarts has provided a small allowance to cover the books, and only the books, due to your circumstances. Please find them on the owl.' It brings an additional layer of reality to the situation, that even Hogwarts is aware of it. In any other circumstances, he might be concerned by how quickly they found out, but now he's just grateful for the money. A quick check confirms that there is a small pouch tied to the owl's leg, hopefully charmed to be lighter for the owl but Dillion can't be sure. He takes the pouch and pockets it, still making a note to visit Gringotts sometime soon. He wants to take what might be left of his allowance before his father has the chance to change his mind.

It was oddly kind of his father to allow him to take his belongings and money. Dillion isn't sure what motivated that — if somehow he tainted it with the darkness or if there was some emotions under his cold exterior. Though cold doesn't quite capture the heated rage he could fly into. Detached is a better term — detached in all the wrong ways, and present when he shouldn't be. Though now he isn't present at all, and Dillion hates it.

With a soft sigh, Dillion heads downstairs for breakfast. The dining area of the Leaky Cauldron has already attracted a few patrons, creating a murmur of conversation that fills the room with life. Dillion ignores it all and instead orders his breakfast, getting the cheapest soup — a 'House Soup Leaky' that he can only wonder what it might be — and sits down in the most isolated spot.

As he waits, Dillion closes his eyes and mutters, "Let Light guide our path through the shadows and protect us from the temptations of darkness."

It feels wrong. Saying the words churn and twist his stomach, and he's not sure if it's the words themselves or the memories of saying it as a family all those times. By the time his food arrives, he's already lost his appetite. But, unwilling to waste the three sickles, he forces it down anyway.

*

Tom stands impatiently before the boundary between the muggle world and the wizarding world, the entrance of Diagon Alley. Waiting for it to open, for the illusion to shift and for him to be granted entry, has always been filled with anticipation. During his first time visiting, Tom hadn't quite been prepared for what was waiting for him on the other side — he had no point of reference, no idea of what a world full of magic looked and felt like. He was curious and that curiosity burnt, but he doesn't think it was any near as bad as the sheer desperation that has rested within him in every visit since. The need to escape the muggle world — the need to be surrounded by his kind. Back then, Tom hadn't known what he was missing; he does now.

Stepping across the boundary brings a wave of static over Tom's form, a tingling sensation that he assumes is the magic. It feels as if he had been inside a bubble, but then the bubble pops and the whole world washes over him in full force. He pauses on the other side for a second, basking in the sensation like a reptile in the sun, before he moves onwards.

As the rush wears off, he becomes aware of just how busy Diagon Alley is, full of other witches and wizards going about their morning shopping. Much like every other year, Tom wishes he had more control over when he did this shopping — he'd much prefer finding a less populated time of the day to get everything. But, that choice is out of his hands.

But how much time he spends here is well within his hands. In the first year, he moved about as efficiently as possible; even without knowing where everything was, he had purchased everything within an hour. The second year, he tried staying for as long as possible, to see if he could avoid returning to the orphanage — someone must have known, because he was eventually collected and returned. Since, he's managed to determine that no one seems to mind how much time he takes, or what he fills that time in with, so long as he's returning to the orphanage by evening and has all his supplies. And even doing nothing here is better than doing anything at the orphanage.

Every stride Tom makes down Diagon Alley looks purposeful and calculated, carried with the air of someone who knows they're important; but, really, he's just taking a casual stroll down the alley. There's no urgency to his actions, beyond getting to the bookstores early enough to have the pick of the secondhand books. Hogwarts never seems to provide enough pocket money to allow Tom to buy everything firsthand, especially not as the list grows longer with every year. He gets as much as possible, especially what people might see, but books are usually easier to just be picky with the secondhand. He's almost certain his robes are secondhand, which he fortunately doesn't have to buy; he's gotten quite skilled at charming them to look as good as new.

Tom enters the second-hand bookstore discreetly, making sure no one that might recognise him will spot him. He's spent five years cultivating a very careful image, and it's not something he's about to lose to a careless slip up.

Most of his books can be found in the store, though the quality is questionable. Tom spends far too long carefully examining each one, deciding how passable they each are, before choosing. Tom might be the best wizard in his year — could be the best in the entire school, even — but having to buy things secondhand is the sort of thing that sticks like gum on a shoe. He knows the other students, and the teachers, already see him as the poor orphan, raised in a muggle orphanage no less. He doesn't need anything feeding that fire he's worked so hard to smother.

Tom isn't able to get all his books at an acceptable condition, but he is able to get most of them. His allowance should be able to cover the rest firsthand, he thinks.

Stepping out into the alley again, Tom takes a few steps before he comes to a halt out of the way of the passersby. He ends up pausing out the front of Broomstix, which manages to gather a few window shoppers as they admire the latest brooms on display. Tom finds it hard to appreciate something that looks like a cleaning tool. But the witches and wizards do, and thus Tom has to pretend he does.

"Tom, mate, fancy seeing you here!" A voice calls out to the young man, drawing his attention from the brooms in the window. Winky Crockett, the Slytherin Quidditch team's captain, is approaching him, one hand raised in greeting. As he comes to a halt, he nods his head towards the broomsticks with a grin. "Thinking of joining the Quidditch team?"

"No, just admiring the brooms." Tom would never admit it, but riding on broomsticks makes him nauseous. He's managed to learn how Quidditch works, can watch a match and maintain an in-depth conversation about it, but playing it is another thing entirely. Fortunately, a lack of interest seems to be an acceptable excuse that no one has ever questioned.

"The Comet 190 is nice, isn't she? She's no Cleansweep Five, but the design is sleeker I think." Winky comments as he looks at the main display, showcasing the latest release of the Comet model.

"I've heard the Comet is the better flyer." Tom repeats someone else's remarks, earning a scowl from the older boy.

"Anyone who says that has no actual skill in flying. The Comets practically flies for you — there's no room for actual technique. In a match, you're going to want a Cleansweep."

"And this is why you're the captain." Tom resigns with a slight smile, which is just eaten up by Winky. The boy responds with a larger smile of his own.

"Anyway, the boys and I were going to get ice cream 'cause Lestrange lost a bet. Want to come? One more isn't going to hurt his wallet." Had Lestrange not been paying, Tom would have still accepted but come up with an excuse to explain why he couldn't buy anything. With Lestrange paying, Tom is all the more eager to fill in his time and accepts. The pair leave the broomstick store to join the small group of Slytherin boys — Mulciber, Lestrange, and Nott. They too seem to have decided to do their shopping today.

"Oh, hi, Tom!" Cessair Lestrange perks up the instant he notices the older boy. Of all the sycophants, the Lestrange boy is the worst, clinging to Tom like a bad rash. But his family and influence makes him useful, so Tom allows him to cling. "I didn't realise you were shopping too."

"Same day every year." Tom responds and he can see Cessair filing that away in his memory. He's almost certain he'll catch Cessair here next year.

"They don't make someone accompany you?" Samael Mulciber pipes up from the side. Tom internally curses him, only because he draws to them — his muggle upbringing. It's inevitable that it will be brought up at one point or another, but he works hard to avoid its mention. They all assumed he was a muggleborn in his first year. His name hadn't helped, with no noteworthy record of a Riddle ever attending Hogwarts. This meant initially he was either a liar or a nobody in the eyes of those that mattered. He matters now, but it would be foolish to grow comfortable in his position. He'd rather not reinforce that association between himself and muggles.

"No, I made it clear I could handle it myself."

"Anyway, I was about to buy everyone ice creams. Do you want one?" Cessair fortunately changes the subject, nodding his in Tom's direction. He quickly adds, "My shout."

Tom's lips curl into an insincerely amused smile, "Winky mentioned you lost a bet." The boys snicker while Cessair smiles sheepishly, a chuckle not far from his own lips.

"I did. What flavour do you want?"

"Surprise me." Tom responds in an effort to hide his lack of a preference, or the fact he's never stepped a foot inside the ice cream store. He's sure he could excuse it away but, once again, those sort of things stick to your reputation. Poor, penniless Tom, who can't even afford an ice cream. The younger accepts this response with a nod and disappears into the shop they're hovering outside.

"Is he going to have enough hands?" Samael asks as they watch the dark boy order five ice creams. Amusement, rather than concern, rests inside his tone.

The musing is interrupted by the recognisable sound of a swooping owl, loud against the chatter of the shoppers. All boys immediately turn around to spot the large owl dropping a letter into another student's hands, before flying back up into the sky. The boy looks just as startled by the encounter, staring at the envelope in confusion.

"Isn't that Lux?" Eric Nott pipes up in a hushed voice.

"Who?" asks Winky.

"Dillion Lux, the Ravenclaw. His family is a really strict Light family, practically worships it. Has an older brother specialising in Defence Against the Dark Arts or something. I think it's a family thing." As Eric provides the profile, Tom begins to recognise the boy as one of his classmates. Not one he's had anything to do with beyond passing in the hall and comparing as competition for the top academic position. The other boy isn't the strongest competition he's faced, but he does excel in certain areas — like Defence Against the Dark Arts.

"How do you know so much about him?" Samael asks.

"Because he's a Pureblood and my father wrote the Pureblood Directory. It's kind of my family's business to know all the proper Purebloods." Tom draws his attention from the boy reading the letter to look inside where Cessair is now attempting to collect the four ice creams. It's definitely too many for his hands.

"I'm going to go make sure Cessair doesn't drop my ice cream." Tom pulls away from the conversation, heading into the shop. The younger boy glances up at the sound of his entrance, noticeably pleased to see him. It makes Tom regret offering his help — while he certainly wants to maintain his friendships, he doesn't want to come across as too friendly.

"This one's yours." Cessair informs him as he hands the older boy a white ice cream with caramel swirls. "I hope you like butterscotch. Could you– uh, grab Crockett's too, please?" Tom takes the pink ice cream as well, earning a thanks from the younger.

When they return to the group, Dillion Lux has gone and the conversation has moved onto something else. Tom passes the pink ice cream to Winky before focusing on his own. Butterscotch, Cessair had said. He takes a careful lick of it, preparing to dislike it. Unfortunately, the ice cream surprises him and he actually likes it. It's easier when he dislikes things. Tom can feel Cessair watching him, likely searching for some sort of approval. So he keeps his attention steeled and continues to ignore the younger boy.

When the ice cream is finished, Tom sticks with the boys for a polite length of time before taking his leave. They all seem quite eager to finish their shopping with him but he, on the other hand, is eager to finish his in peace. While he wants to be a part of their group — of the in group — it doesn't reduce the effort that comes from putting up with them constantly, with maintaining the perfect, most appealing image. What he wants is to be powerful enough to not bother with that, to have his existence alone be enough — people should desire him, chase him. And not like they do in school, where they might love him one second, then push him off that pedestal the second they grow tired or he stops performing how they want. He needs true power. Permanent power.

Until then, he will just have to suffer their insufferable attitudes and make sure his façade never cracks. Soon they'll be the ones performing on his stage.

The orphans at Wool's bring a stark contrast to the Slytherin boys. No one is there to greet him when he returns. No one is pleased to see him — if anything, they're likely sad he returned. The feeling is mutual. If he could leave this orphanage knowing he wouldn't have to stare at their pathetic muggle faces, as they whisper and cower from him, then that could possibly be one of the happiest days of his life. He'd thought that was going to happen when Dumbledore informed him he was a wizard, and that there was a place for him at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, that place closed over the break and he had to return to the orphanage. He wished it had just been destroyed in the bombings. Then, at least, something good might have come from the Blitz.

Tom returns to his room, the same room he has had all these years. As he's grown, it seems to have shrunk. The tiny room is claustrophobic, but it's his only reprieve from the muggles around him. He places his new books and equipment on the end of his bed. Pausing at the window, he stares out at the grey square. There are some children taking advantage of what remains of the day, playing some sort of game. It was always awful that Tom's window had to look out at the designated play area.

There's a scuffle, an outburst of noise — the sound of laughter, followed by abrupt silence. Tom turns to see two boys who would have likely been wrestling down the hall frozen at his door, as if they'd realised their mistake. He stares at them, his face empty.

"Riddle." One of the boys acknowledges him, spitting his name as if it were some kind of curse. It probably is. An unknown in both the muggle and wizarding world. Meaningless. The boys run before he can do anything to them, and he can hear their laughter bounce off the walls in the distance.

Tom stares out the window for a few more seconds. Then he pulls himself away, deciding instead to pack away his books. It wouldn't do for some muggle to go peeking where they shouldn't.

*

Dillion tightens his grip on the keys within his hand as if to confirm that they're still there, they still exist. He stares at the house in front of him — small compared to any house he's lived in before, but still decently sized for one boy spending most of his time at boarding school. The stone-brick cottage, two-storeys with what looks like it might be an attic, is situated deep within some woods, then surrounded by its own overgrown garden, tall hedges closing the property. And it's his. All his.

He had scarcely believed his luck when he'd been ambushed by an owl while shopping. The owl has been from Gringott's, informing him that, with his recent disowning being made legal, he had suddenly qualified for an inheritance. The requirements of such inheritance were just that a child should be disowned from the family, left by a family member he didn't know. Some money came with the house too, enough for him to survive. If he hadn't been in public, he might have cried from relief.

Dillion unlocks the heavy door, before he pushes it open and takes the first step into his new home. A short hallway rests in front of him, continuing the stone interior with tiled floor and exposed brick walls. The foyer looks as if someone still inhabited the house, with shoes lining up against the wall and coats on the hanger, but everything is covered in a thick coating of dust. Someone has clearly not charmed the place.

Despite this, the lights flicker into life as he walks past, flames filling the glass. Further in the house is no better than the foyer. While nothing is damaged by age, it all looks dusty and unclean. The couch, at a glance, looks surprisingly high quality despite being discoloured by the thick layer of dust covering it. This is the same for the tables and shelves. Dillion has a task ahead of him, that's for sure.

He's not even sure he knows how to clean. Surely, this place has a house elf. Something.

Exploring further, Dillion finds the kitchen, dining room, study and bedroom in similar states of neglect. He also finds a painting. In fact, he finds several paintings. Some are still images, still life of inanimate objects, but the noteworthy ones are the ones that are completely blank. There seems to be one in each room, the exact same dark backdrop. He doesn't have explanation for them, beyond the previous owner either being a lover of abstract or possessing a strange taste in decor.

The answer is neither, as he discovers while examining the study. He had been looking at the books that filled the shelves, all various non-magic topics like gardening, interior decorating, cooking. If he didn't know better, he might have suspected the owner of the house was muggle. That is, of course, until he's startled by a sound behind him. Specifically a voice greeting him.

"I suppose you're the new owner then?" Dillion jumps and spins on the heels of his feet, turning to the sound. The blank painting is no longer blank, now filled with an old man. The man looks friendly enough with a pleasant smile on his lips, a happy twinkle in his bright, painted eyes. Fluffy hair rests atop his head in white wisps, a mess of barely tamed curls even in his old age. He's not someone Dillion recognises, either.

"Who are you?" He asks once he's regained his composure, hoping his reaction hasn't doomed his first impression. If the man thinks of him any less for it, he doesn't show it.

"I'm Ambrosio Lux." The only bells the name rings are the ones confirming that this is the man that left him the house. "I take it you've also been cast out? Or did you just stumble across this place somehow?"

"I'm Dillion Lux. I inherited the place."

"What year is it?"

"1942." Disappointment crosses over Ambrosio's face, which turns to something that looks like sympathy. Without him even saying anything, Dillion knows it's for him.

"Then I'm very sorry to hear that." As the old man watches him with sad eyes, Dillion feels oddly comforted by the painting. It's the first time since he was caught that anyone has looked like they might understand him. "As the will likely said, this house is yours now. I left it to ensure the Lux children especially had a place to go should their family remain as stagnant in their ways as they had been during my time. I only ask that, when the time comes, you leave a similar clause in your own will so it can remain for children to come."

Dillion nods once silently. He hasn't really considered wills before, but it's a simple enough request.

"You could've enchanted the place to stay clean or something, when you were setting all this up." Dillion remarks, reminded of the state of the place as he begins to consider sleeping. He's not quite ready for bed but, he knows by the time he's gotten anything to a state where it could be slept in, he will be.

"I think you'll find upstairs not quite as bad as down here. Besides, back in my day, I enjoyed cleaning." Dillion casts him a look, unable to comprehend someone enjoying such a chore. Not that it's a chore he's had to suffer through, but he's certain it would be one. Ambrosio seems to take his expression as apprehension, as he chuckles, "It won't be so bad. The house is imbued with enough magic that you should be able to cheat, if you really want. I wouldn't go spell-crazy, but a few simple charms wouldn't be noticed by the Trace amongst all the ones constantly active."

"That only works if there are other wizards present. The Trace will still be activated if I use a spell and there'll be no other wizards around to explain it away."

"I did set this house up. Just trust that an old man knows what he's doing, won't you?" Dillion isn't sure he does yet. He wants to, but that doesn't mean he does. He's in the home of a man he doesn't know — a painting, no less — that seemed very prepared for the events that unfurled. He could be trying to do anything.

Despite this, as Ambrosio continues to watch him expectantly, Dillion withdraws his wand and gives an experimental flick. The dust on the nearby shelf is blown away, leaving one clean patch of dark wood. He waits, expecting some sign that the Ministry has caught him, for a letter or a knock at the door, the sudden apparition of an official. But nothing happens. Even as he waits past necessary, nothing happens. Ambrosio's grin turns smug.

"What are the limitations on this?" He asks, gesturing at the shelf with his wand.

"So long as it's something that could conceivably be something charmed on the house — repairs, cleaning, airing, and the like — it should be fine. The charms on the house aren't a permanent, one-cast charm. They're constantly being recast, renewing themselves every so often." Ambrosio explains, a type of charming Dillion has never considered. If there is a permanent solution, it would make more sense to choose that option. "I wanted to ensure children could continue to learn here. There are some things a Hogwart's education just doesn't provide."

"You can say that again." Dillion's stomach rumbles and he's reminded he hasn't eaten since that awful soup at breakfast. He rests his hand on his stomach, now uncomfortably aware of its emptiness. "Is the food charmed?"

"Nothing in the cupboards, but there's a garden out the back. You might be able to get some vegetables from it." Dillion briefly considers the dinner that might be made from a vegetable garden and decides it likely wouldn't be substantial enough.

"I think I might go shopping." He decides, glad the knight bus comes out here. This house would definitely qualify as 'out of the way'.

It's late into the evening when Dillion returns with bags full of food, enough to restock the house. He had planned on only getting enough for dinner and maybe breakfast, before he considered the multiple trips on the knight bus and decided to get as much as he could in as few trips as possible. As he fills up the cupboards with his food, he can feel the painting's gaze on him. Ambrosio had moved from the study to the kitchen upon Dillion's return, but has remained quiet since.

Dillion is the one who breaks the silence, asking the questions that have been bothering him since this all began, "Who are you? Why did you set this all up? How did you even know this was going to be needed in the future?" The questions spew past his lips in an uncontrollable wave; the first pulled the stopper out, allowing everything he's been pondering to escape. This receives a light, perhaps endeared chuckle from the older man. This drops as he goes to answer, sobering.

"Much like you I assume, I was disowned from the family for not fitting their expectations, for daring to question. The least of my crimes was marrying a muggle woman, but that came long after and wasn't the cause for them stripping me of my name. The cause is a story for another time, but I knew I wouldn't be the last." Ambrosio pauses for a moment as if lost in his memories. "I had been young when I was thrown out. I had support that helped me get back onto my feet. I was able to rebuild myself and made this home for myself. I was lucky. Others wouldn't be so lucky. I had no family of my own besides my late wife and had outlived most of my friends, so I decided I would make what I left behind useful. When the next child was cast from the family, this would be here for them. And I would be here to greet them."

"Has there been any before me?" Dillion asks, leaning against the bench as he simultaneously begins chopping up some vegetables for dinner. It's more difficult than he expected, each chop not quite as neat as he'd like.

"No. Thankfully, you're the first since. I had almost thought they'd changed." There's another pause, but this one feels more curious. When Dillion looks at the painting, the man inside is watching him. "Why were you disowned, if you don't mind me asking?"

Dillion doesn't answer immediately. He ponders his options — telling the truth, or lying. He doesn't exactly know Ambrosio still, and so can't judge his attitude towards dark magic. The old man hasn't exactly been straight forward with why he'd been disowned, either. Dillion doesn't want to be honest, only to discover a secret 'no Dark wizards' clause on this inheritance. Not that he is a Dark wizard, but it's already been proven that people aren't willing to see the distinction.

"My father and I had a disagreement." Dillion responds simply and hopes Ambrosio doesn't press further. His sentence is punctuated by the knife slamming the chopping board after slicing through a particularly resistant piece of carrot. He narrowly misses cutting the tip of his fingers in the process.

"Try curling your hand like a claw, rather than holding it flat." Ambrosio corrects and Dillion feels his ears begin to burn. He'd been hoping he hadn't looked as incompetent as he felt. Despite this, he does as told; it's uncomfortable, but at least he won't lose a finger from it. Fortunately, perhaps because of the distraction, Ambrosio doesn't push further on the previous topic. The rest of the cooking continues in silence, except for when the old man pipes up with suggestions or instructions.

Dinner ends up, surprisingly, a success. Sausages and vegetables is by no means a masterpiece, but it looks edible. Dillion sits at the table, once again joined by Ambrosio, and watches his food silently.

"You can eat, you know? You don't have to wait on me." Ambrosio prompts. Dillion realises what he was doing and his stomach begins to churn again. Though it feels wrong, Dillion picks up his fork and begins to eat. It is edible. Nothing like what the house elves made, but that was to be expected.

Once he's finished and cleaned up after himself, Dillion is ready to sleep. It's been a long day. He's glad the upper level is, as promised, in a far better state that the first floor. Dillion doesn't even bother examining the bedroom as he falls into bed, asleep not long after settling down. Maybe it's just his tiredness, but there's something comforting about the house, like a warm hug. He's been here one day and he could already call it home.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
As expected, Tom's perspective is hard to write, but I persevered!

More importantly, for clarity, I want to just note two things:
1. I've given the Death Eaters with canon last names (Avery, Mulciber, Lestrange, Nott, etc) first names because it doesn't make sense for Tom to be calling people like Hagrid by their first name & not his actual buddies. But the first names aren't canon

2. I have decided to condense the events around Tom investigating his family & then the Chamber largely into this year, rather than being spread out across the five. He has already begun investigations, but all the substantial stuff will be happening over the early chapters. I won't highlight every time I've consciously broken canon, but this was one I felt benefited from being acknowledged

That's all from me. Thanks for reading!