TOM
THIS HOUSE OF SORROWS,
PITY AND STAINED DIGNITY
CHAPTER TWO

mentions of death

THE BOY HAD NOT SLEEP WELL THAT NIGHT, nor had he slept at all. He had grown up over the years, so the bed was not that comfortable or suitable for his height. The studs of his old bed creaked the moment he decided to seize the day by checking if all of his belongings from Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft were at their place. A pointless attempt, as he had been doing that all the previous days, but there he was.

Even though his books were second-hand, they were meticulously placed in his suitcase without a wrinkle or tear. His wand was placed on his wooden desk, and his Hogwarts robes with the emblem of Slytherin House were hung from a peg in his closet ready to be worn. Luckily, the small candle he had lit the previous night was still there. Due to the recent bomb raids by the German Luftwaffe, London had been completely cut off from electricity. The boy had to find other ways to keep himself warm or to find light to study when the orphanage experienced a blackout.

It was not as harsh as the Blitz some years ago, which lasted approximately eight months, yet they still faced hardships.

The Wool's Orphanage, after all this time being crippled by the atrocities of war, had no love left for its children, nor did they have any left for it. The building had not been repaired for ages, and the red paint had started fading away, revealing the bare bricks beneath. It gave the impression of being profoundly abandoned, unsuitable for accommodating children without families. Perhaps this was due to the economic crisis of the previous years, the so-called Great Depression, and of course, the financial predicament the orphanage itself was facing.

It was pointless; their fate was inevitable.

Tom Riddle stared out the window for a moment. He could not see much, as his window had bars, and his room, number 07, faced a nearby wall of the building, blocking any view of the Lambeth district. However, he could smell it. Though the Thames was far away, the stench of decay was noticeable in the air. Bodies and sewage swarmed the waters of the Thames, and through its canals, the odor spread all around the city of London.

It was not the thought of the bodies of dismembered soldiers or civilians that made him sick, but the unbearable stench. His nostrils were not very fond of strong fragrances, although he had no problem wearing them himself. To be more specific, he had stolen some bottles of cologne from a boy, a newcomer by the looks of him, since it was the first time Tom had seen him on the orphanage's grounds (either that or he was unremarkable). This boy had the luck to inherit an exorbitant fortune from his parents, and Tom had pilfered the cologne that the boy had purchased that summer.

Leonel Saldivar could not understand how his cologne had disappeared, and even when he had Ms. Cole, the matron of the orphanage, search for the lost bottles, Tom kept them carefully hidden in his room. Saldivar was quite an exhibitionist, eager to show off his wealth to people who didn't care. He deserved a little lesson like that, to be fair. Tom chuckled at the thought of the spoiled kid crying in the corner of his room, mourning the disappearance of his precious friends, Gallant and Tanbark (the name of the colognes). Life at the orphanage was monotonous, and even though Tom had made a deal with himself to refrain from petty actions against the pitiful orphans, he could not help himself.

The calendar shows the 1st of September, the day when Tom gives annually his humble farewells to the orphanage as he returns to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Scotland was his second home—or, to be honest, his only home. He had spent all summer studying, as he always did, in preparation for the following year, occasionally praying that Hogwarts would not be closed due to a certain incident.

Which incident, you may ask? Well, dear readers, that story is for another chapter.

Although the sky was full of clouds, Tom could tell that the time of departure from the orphanage to King Cross Station was approaching. He woke at dawn and by the time he had rearranged his luggage, it was already 10 o'clock. Tom usually left early for the station and was never late.

Once again, he had not eaten breakfast—not because he was not hungry, but because he refused to eat any stale Muggle food out of pity. He would only come down for lunch and dinner, and after that, he would not leave his room. The city ensured that the orphanage was provided with food through the weekly rations distributed to needy families, mainly in London's orphanages and schools.

He proudly donned his Slytherin uniform with the green emblem of his house gleaming even in lightless rooms like his own. Next to it was another pin that read "prefect". Tom Riddle was the best and brightest wizard of his generation, having finished his fifth year at Hogwarts with near-perfect grades and impeccable behavior. Only he kept terrible secrets about himself from everyone. Tom Riddle's persona was deceptive and shaped so that no one could imagine what he was hiding behind his façade.

Lord Voldemort looked at himself in the mirror and observed his features. His face was still pale, it looked like he had been out of his room more than three times this summer, his eyes were still the same green color, only this time they looked duller. Black circles had formed under his eyes and his cheeks had been sucked in quite a bit. Only his hair had not changed, it remained the same wavy as the waves of the sea, combed in the same usual way, jet black and silky. He observed himself and could not help but see the face of the man he had met in the same summer, some months ago. He did not think a child could be so much like his father, but here is where reality proved him wrong. As it seems, those who said that the first children always resembled the father were right.

He did not like it. Not in the slightest to be more specific. His relationship with the term family was a foundation that never had something to make it stay stable. The question was if there was a foundation to talk about because Riddle was not even that sure. He had learned to achieve things on his own, never depending on a guardian, and if someone ever offered him help he would refuse. He did not want pity from others, he sought respect and he would have it if that meant doing anything to be his property.

A loud noise sounded from his door and his eyes snapped in its direction. The Matron, Ms. Cole, was standing on the doorstep, after entering the room without care if she had interrupted his privacy or not "Look at yourself m'boy," she monologued and from the way her British accent seemed unstable, Tom understood that she had yet to get over her morning drunken episode "You are skin and bones, wimpy even to carry a gun,"

It did not take him long to smell the beer in her mouth when she approached him. His face showed no emotions, even though he could say that the matron could understand every tiny glimpse of his reactions. He despised that woman with every part of his soul.

Ms. Cole, Margaret Cole, was a middle-aged woman who was unfortunately widowed at a young age and worked in Wool's Orphanage in addition to having a better living during these dark times. She was not always so strict and impulsive, as Tom could remember from his younger years, but when her husband died Ms. Cole changed. See, Tom did not like her even before her transformation, because she was so giddy for a London woman. After the death, she just became obnoxious and negligent.

She often engaged in behaviors that were inappropriate and delinquent, such as smoking and drinking, for an individual who has the responsibility of taking care of small children. She had hard features and her skin was tight, neither too thin nor too stout but she was of average size. The children were scared of her because she never used to control her temper. She scolded them a lot with screams that could fill the whole block of East Lambeth. She easily could lose her temper at the slightest thing and in recent years she began to age prematurely which was probably attributed to distress.

"Are you rambling about the army again, you delusional old woman?" Tom sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

She adjusted her stance beside the mirror. "Just because you are away all the time at," she paused, glancing around and whispering, "your school, God willing, does not mean you should forget your purpose, young man. I will prepare your papers for the war," she finally stated.

The wizard's eye twitched and he felt a tightness in his stomach. That lunatic. She was going to send him into the army before his time to serve a country and a people he did not consider his bloodline.

"I tried to talk to you all summer about this decision, but you were not very accommodating,"  Ms. Cole said, trying to leave the room. But the boy was quick and managed to stop her before she could exit.

"No," the word he said was barely heard.

"What did you say, Riddle?"

"I do not belong here, in your world, and you know it. You do not have the right to prescribe my future and determine my decisions by your own will. I will not go, you hear me, woman!" he shouted, his final words echoing with defiance. She looked at him with a gaze that concealed only hatred and nothing else.

"Is this the thanks I get for putting up with you all these years?"

She was a very critical woman, never missing an opportunity to show her disapproval of others. But what bothered Tom the most was her relentless need to control and manipulate everything around her. If someone did not comply with her demands, she would fill them with guilt, playing the victim as if she were some saint who had been wronged by mortals.

"I know what you are, boy. I see it in your eyes every time you come back from your school. That teacher of yours, Dooblemap what is his name I do not remember, he may say you are a model student, but I delivered your mother and it is like having you as my child,"

One step out of the room.

"I know you better than you know yourself. Instead of softening, I can see your soul going wild, and your eyes are the mirror of it. You have done something horrible; there is no other explanation for this otherworldly energy you have."

Climbing the stairs, just a little more to go to the top.

"One time, you went out all summer outside the orphanage and were gone for quite a while. Maybe two or three days without saying where you went, and when you came back, I saw how changed you were. I said he probably got a patriotic feeling and went off to fight, but you do not have such feelings in you,"

The breeze is not welcoming.

She pinned him with her eyes and the woman approached "Then there was a massacre that took place in a village some hours away from London, Little Hangletom. A gentleman by the name of Tom Riddle was found dead with his old parents in his mansion,"

The view seems amazing.

It was as if her eyes were filled with tears, from fear, out of anger, or maybe again because she had not had a beer in the last couple of hours and her serotonin and dopamine levels were too low. Riddle could not tell, but either way, he enjoyed watching her suffer or when the cloak of her strictness was burnt by her uncontrolled human emotions. 

"You are a mistake. I believe you are aware of that as I have highlighted it to you countless of times," she spoke cruelly "But here you stand boy, believing that you are a God, while your hands are steeped into impurity and blood. All I can offer to save your withered soul is now shown to you in front of your very eyes, although you believe that you can survive on your own,"

The oxygen feels wonderful.

Tom debated if he should smash her head against the door or just break her skull with his own hands. Muggle-work, but still.

"You are not capable of anything. You must obey to every-" she did not finish the sentence as a piercing shriek interrupted her, which came from the gardens. Mrs. Cole bounced at her place, as she immediately held her heart because of the fright. Some small sobs sound and then a girl, maybe older than Tom who recently was hired to the orphanage ran into Matron and Tom's direction slightly flushed.

When she crossed with the matron she froze in her place and with a trembling voice she babbled "Mrs. Cole, I swear to dear God, I did not see her, she jumped, I could not stop her, she...,"

The woman watched as if the girl was a lunatic and when the girl broke down into tears, pleading for forgiveness, only then Cole spoke "Child, tell me what happened, and do not cry like an infant," she scolded.

The poor girl tried to gather her thoughts while sniffing and wiping her nose "Elizabeth Thomas jumped from the clock," she finally stated. All this time Tom was just staring at the two women next to him with a cold gaze as if no one had just committed suicide. Well, not exactly...

Elizabeth Thomas was a peculiar child. She was younger than Tom and often was under supervision, because of her odd reactions towards everything. She talked with herself a lot, she hallucinated a lot, and could not talk properly. Darcy had been requested by Mrs Cole to be constantly with her because she had tendencies that often led her to danger.

"The clock?" Cole gasped and the girl mourned with a terrible shriek "You useless girl. Where were you when Thomas left her room? You are supposed to take care of her," she screamed. She was about to kick her, but Riddle was quicker as he prevented this action from being cast upon the girl.

"It is not her fault," he defended "Ms. Darcy, you should have some rest immediately this was harsh to witness. Mrs. Cole is just shocked and you did a great job taking care of Margaret,"

The blonde girl just shook her head in agreement and when Tom held her hand she seemed to loosen a little "Shall I accompany you to your room?" he asked.

He did not have any interest in helping this pathetic girl cope with this traumatic experience or lighten her guilt, but he targeted infuriating Mrs. Cole because he knew that she understood that he was responsible for that accident. It was uproarious to humiliate her in her base, with actions that would remind her that she is not as great in her job as she tends to pretend after all. Mrs Cole was a bubble filled with the most disgusted liquid of all, a miserable person and undeniably a fraud. She deserved everything Tom was doing and this was his alibi.

"You are so kind Mr. Riddle, always God protect you but I believe that I shall have some time alone," she smiled bitterly. She certainly needed someone to reassure her as she walked back to her room but the wizard did not insist.

Besides, it was too late for courtesies when the world's Marias had to come in second place. Tom picked up his suitcase, and since Ms. Cole was still standing there in his room, her eyes analyzing him, he didn't hesitate to humiliate her once again. "I am capable of so many things that I make the Devil look like a lamb. You raised us like wild animals in cages; now watch us free ourselves and burn the world,"

He did not give her a second look. Time was already running out, and if he was not there in time, he might miss the train to Hogwarts.

"At some point," he heard her voice as she left his room, "you will see all your efforts come crashing down. There is always someone stronger than you, a hypochondriac, pulling the strings. It is not only you who are likened to the gods on Earth."

He turned his head slightly to look, the suitcase already tight in his hands. "Power is in the hands of the one who risks it all. Whoever is willing to sacrifice for it automatically has power. Anyone who has money and is in power can easily be undone because they simply have not learned to fight. Remember that I am in the first category,"

Power is a curious thing. In the world of wizardry, like in the muggle world, power is held by people who have a strong family background, who are entangled with policy, economy, or even law, which gifts them the flexibility to make their way easier on the top. The only difference between the power of a wizard and a muggle is however the depth that someone can see in this self-declared potential. Muggles are often targeting things that another man has accomplished earlier, only with a little bit of effort to make it flawless. But a wizard would try to make it invincible, an idea that was previously born turn it into something new and incredible for the human mind to comprehend. Make dreams a reality, make words actions. Everything starts as a material but seldom do they convert as energy.

Riddle did not leave space for her to voice her thoughts. He abruptly left his room with his suitcase behind him, and he did not even spare her a second glance. This woman has made his life a living hell as if it was not already. Unfortunately, Mrs. Cole was the start and the end of everything that he knew and could muster. He had learned as a way of defense all the manipulative methods this woman was casting upon him. Not weird that he could everyone so easily around him.

Cole at the start of their well-called cooperation was deceptive and made the impression that she could be a caring mother for everyone. In reality, she was awful and Tom could not help himself but despise her for that. When he was younger he would be terrified by her monstrous behaviour. Now he was impassive. After all, his days in all these years and probably the future ones are counted in the orphanage, which meant her influence was and never would be again that strong. He could only be thankful to her for how she had turned him.

Only for that and nothing else.

Some children from the orphanage saw him exiting the Hall and moved to make space for him to pass. Riddle was an individual who inspired utter respect but mostly feared others. He may not always be there, wandering around the thick walls of Wool's orphanage, but his presence remained there as a stigma. Making even the room whispering his name, his nature sliding on the walls like a leech, and also having Cole wishing that the next infant who is going to be pushed out of a harassed woman's abdomen would never be like Tom Marvolo Riddle.

By approaching the yard he heard some children talking to each other about how lucky Margaret was for committing suicide by jumping from the clock. 

Sophie, a girl younger than Tom mumbled to her friend "What is the point of living in this world, while the world does not hold any love for you,"

Riddle wanted to reply but he left for a future time. Some other kids, more sensitive, mourned and instead of seeing her action as a way of liberating herself from the cruel vows of this realm, construe it as something tragic.

It was disturbing the fact that these kids were not scared or even disgusted by blood because the ones that had encircled her corpse were staring at her opened skull as if it was a sight that could be seen regularly in their everyday lives. Or after all, maybe it was.

She should have died before her body could hit the ground, as her eyes hold a terrible look. Maybe a heart attack because of the adrenaline? The thick blood hung from all around her head onto the marble floor, it was coming out from everywhere, mouth and ears, Tom also noticed that her leg had broken, as her knee's incline had a terrible turn almost ninety degrees left from where it should be. In a few moments the joint would swell, but did it matter? Of course, it did not, the girl had just died.

He did not take any time longer near the corpse. He had seen many in his life, so it was nothing admirable. People die every day in the sight of God and no one does something to prevent it. Years ago he would feel uncomfortable with the thought he had just killed someone because of spite, but right now he had accepted the fact that he was a remorseless motherfucker, who would pain every breathing being around him to feed his ego. Perhaps he was unfair by selecting Margaret as his victim. Cole would hold the crown next.

Mostly Riddle walked slowly, more like marching, but at that moment he almost ran with his suitcase in his hands through the roads of London. He had only forty minutes before the train for Hogwarts left and that did make him a little paranoid. And, oh, he did not want to imagine how strange it may look to passers-by the view of a boy, nearly close to his adulthood, running through the streets as if a wild pack of wolves were chasing him and also wearing a strange uniform.

All the while, running through the streets of London, smells from local shops were filling the streets, somehow masking the stench of the Thames. It was morning which meant that housewives would still be baking bread, as much as they could, for their families. At Frida's Corner, that lady's shop, who often brought all the starch-related foods, breads, and pies to the orphanage, Tom saw many little children gathering at her doorstep and surreptitiously taking what she had left out for the starved customers. At the same time, the not-so-busy streets of London were filled with children's voices, as a lot of them were working at newsagents to fight labor.

London, with England constantly present in all the wars in Europe, had received refugees from almost all the other neighboring countries. Foreign immigration before the First World War was low, but later during the Third Reich's offensive, the country's citizens lost confidence in Great Britain and decided to migrate to other countries where their safety was still under investigation and of questionable reliability. Tom never had any plans to leave England without a good reason. Few if not non-existent were the times that death knocked on Tom Riddle's door, so he had no intention of leaving.

He had some trips planned in his mind that he would like to take after graduating from Hogwarts to some Balkan countries, but for now, he would just concentrate on his studies and how to gather power in his hands. The muggle and wizarding governments agreed that all living organisms with magic in their blood must be preserved, because after all this was a muggle war that did not involve wizards and witches. In theory, it all sounded appealing, but in practice, the terms of the agreement were often violated as if they had been written in invisible ink.

It began to rain, with the drops falling rhythmically on the floor and his footsteps synchronizing with the soft yet violent sound the drops made as they were touching the earth. Maybe it was not his day. Perhaps nature was still in so much pain that even she could not hold back her tears.

When he arrived at Charing Cross Road the storm had not abated, but fortunately, he had almost reached his destination. The Leaky Cauldron was small, dingy, and welcoming, with a few bedrooms above the public bar for travelers who live a long way from London. It was the ideal spot to catch up with wizarding gossip if one happened to live a long way from the nearest magical neighbor.

The famous wizarding inn was the only getaway for students to buy the necessary supplies for Hogwarts on a road that went by the name Diagon Alley and also the infamous side of it Knockturn Alley in which dark objects were sold as cursed diadems, haunted vases, and myriads of other things that not even darkness could hold them away of the public.

Darkness is not something the surreptitious interwoven with mysticism. It wants to be seen, it asks for an occupant because alone it is a usual maze without purpose or meaning. Resembling a swim of bees if it's not inflamed does not hurt anyone, but when someone decides to play with fire they say it burns you whole. Darkness in this case swallows you from head to toe into a vicious circle of need, avarice, and mayhem of losing yourself and therefore everyone and everything around you.

Tom Riddle could not say he would lose many things, because nothing was certain regarding his possession.

He worshiped darkness, he was fond of the aura it was eructing, feeling more like a god than a mere man when it was flowing through his veins or when he understood that thanks to it he could do and master things that muggle's brain could not even function.

Therefore Leaky Cauldron's building seemed to the muggle view as a toppled alehouse, long-forgotten by time, condemned by fates to tilt to the side like a weeping willow. Riddle looked around before entering the broken door if someone had taken a glimpse of him and then he disappeared into the building.

He did not like crowded places such as Leaky Cauldron and especially this inn as most of the time it had a strong smell of curing, probably they used these types of ingredients to make the tea or the coffee stronger and tasted. Riddle liked the black one with as an accompaniment the absolute nothing; no sugar or caramel, just thick black coffee beans which tasted like charcoal but for Tom was a feast and for the most financial him.

The inn was full of wizards who read the Daily Prophet or other students who were getting ready for Hogwarts like he was. He recognized some faces and of course, their names, but also some were for him unknown. Probably students whose reputation was so low even lower than the Black Lake's bottom.

Posters of Quidditch players adorned the walls, and somewhere out of sight, Riddle noticed a photo of Grindelwald with small knives on it. If someone was shouting them at the Alliance, then it was very likely that they would find the Leaky Cauldron ruffled the other day. But the dark wizard was on the run and the Alliance itself, the organization that had rallied around him, was no longer as powerful as it once was. Fear no longer ruled, but with a little bad luck, disaster came easily.

He did not waste his time trying to strike up a conversation with a classmate but observed the room to spot one of his followers, such as Malfoy or Nott. Perhaps his loyal hounds were waiting for the train at the station. It would not be hard to find them.

Tom Riddle's well-called group was not something arbitrary, a not-so-premeditated combination, but it was a circle of individuals who shared the same irrefutable characteristic; pure blood and all of them heirs of the Sacred Twenty-Eight British wizarding families.

House of Avery, number two. Christopher Avery's family has always been prideful and their nature is deeply rooted in obscurity.

House of Gaunt, number ten. Tom Riddle shares the same blood as one of the founders of Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft, Salazar Slytherin.

House of Lestrange, number twelve. Alexander Lestrange does not like how his family works, but Lestrange has their code of working with things.

House of Malfoy, number sixteen. Abraxas Malfoy came from a House in which treachery is paid with blood.

House of Nott, number seventeen. Dorian Nott's loyalty does not need to be probed as Nott themselves hold deep respect for tradition regarding faith.

House of Rosier, number twenty-one. Edgard Rosier's House may not be fully British, but they surely embrace the principles of the Sacred.

The faces of the wizards and witches that were having as a residence in the Leaky Cauldron were stiff with no colors other than grey covering their features. Not that Tom had ever witnessed any other vibe than melancholy roaming the gloominess of London all these years, but now the atmosphere was rather heavy and for the unpleasant aura, it was as if instead the pieces of furniture or the mortars had something to express regarding all this negative feeling. But Riddle knew the cold truth that everyone was affected by the war and that every breathing being faced its difficulties.

Muggles have a bloodthirsty tendency to seek how the world is going to be material for use. Every day Tom would read about another event happening somewhere in the world and he could only feel his blood boil.

A muggle is nothing more than a body whose soul, the immaterial substance floating inside it, is stagnant and evolves only according to the laws set by its destiny. Stagnant because it cannot evolve into something higher than what it already is, but can only be degraded. A muggle if unlucky can become a vampire or werewolf or if lucky wizard, but that does not mean the soul receives a higher energy. For Tom, that too is a form of stasis. Furthermore, it evolves based on one's mendacity, based on human abilities such as cognition and strength. No magic can offer man what a wizard can master with the art of wizardry.

This may be why Tom finds it to be offensive that muggles have sought in all aspects of history to prevail over all sub-species on Earth. Because they simply do not deserve such an honor.

A humanist would say that such a notion is outrageous to say the least, because humans have always proven that their existence and actions have had a huge impact to this day. From the time Prometheus stole the fire from the gods and became the benefactor of the human race to the moment man began to build his civilization with remarkable works of art, constructions, and poetry collections. They built religions, developed proper systems of economic transactions, and created their languages to facilitate communication between peoples.

If these were all established by human will and virtue, why did Tom continue to regard them as defilement?

Muggles were also weak and a stooge for their emotions, while a wizard with the right research and exercise could rebound this.

Tom looked around the room for a moment and then greeted the bar's receptionist, Felipe, a Frenchman whose story Tom had learned one night, but had only held back that he had left France to avoid getting involved in the war.

The inn except for the rooms it had for the individuals that wanted to stay in had also an inner hall that led to the entrance of Diagon Alley. The entrance was behind the Leaky Cauldron in a small, walled courtyard with a dustbin. Riddle knew the root and had used this archway many times so it was not something new to him. He only had to tap with his wand the particular pattern on the brick wall and then he would be in.

Diagonal Alley was always a bustling place, where no matter what time of year it was swarming with wizards. But always the 1st of September seemed as if the place was about to be drowned by the myriad of students lining the streets.

The boy walked at a brisk pace as the hour had passed and the last thing he wanted was to miss the train to Hogwarts. Sounds of joy and anticipation could be heard from every corner of that road. Hogwarts' first years were showing their parents their new school supplies, while other older students were walking around with their friends talking about the new year. Many of Tom's classmates from other Hogwarts houses were eating enchanted tarts, while others watched a small group of girls (surely from a party school) singing in a choir.

Somewhere in the crowd he recognized that wizard Tom neither wanted nor expected to meet so early in the morning in Diagon Alley. The Transfiguration Professor and perhaps the most hated person after Mrs. Cole for Tom Riddle Albus Dumbledore was walking with a lady beside him.

He tried to ignore him, but every time he did so it was as if Dumbledore had a sensor that calculated every single one of his moves.

"Riddle," his voice was heard and Tom silently cursed for his observation.

Albus Dumbledore was a man around his thirties or so, who was praised by every bright wizard of his age as the most powerful sorcerer after Gellert Grindelwald. A thorn was Dumbledore for the wizarding world that Tom had to destroy at all costs. He did not deny it, Dumbledore was indeed a skilled and outstanding wizard, but not someone to be admired by all and sundry.

"Professor Dumbledore," Riddle's voice was pleasing to hear, a honey-toned sound that sewed and bound the syllables of the words he used with Gordian ties. Stable to the ear,  a sound which made the woman next to Dumbledore turn her head when she heard him.

"Good morning and have a nice month. What an extraordinary surprise to see you here professor. I trust your presence should have been on Hogwarts grounds by this time,"

Dumbledore took off his hat and a warm smile appeared on his lips "Indeed Mr. Riddle, but as you can see we have a new student at Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft who needs a trustful guide around here,"

The woman's cheeks dyed in deep burgundy and with a calm voice she replied "Professor Dumbledore, I told you I would be fine alone, but I could not deny this kind offer,"

Her emerald eyes locked with his and Riddle's face was hit by a benevolent air. Dark locks of acacia. Clumps which resembled the branches of a tree were styled with hairgrips to the side. Soft features, an almost angelic face. Slightly coloured lips, bright cheeks and he could notice that she had dimples. But the area around her eyes seemed swollen for someone so preserved.

She seemed such a cheerful person as behind the scars of misery she had on her face, which seemed fresh, her features looked profoundly upward. Maybe she was mourning or she had mourned someone recently, because she surely did not seem like having a day of anguish in her life. She was wearing a black veil, black gloves, black shoes... indeed, she surely had lost someone.

But her appearance was something appalling. Riddle was not used to seeing people look so fresh or unbiased by the hardships of life.

There were Renaissance paintings depicting women looking forgetful and cheerful, wearing dresses and hats in earthy colors. These were located in green meadows, with the horizon looking out over them in an endless blue. The woman reminded these girls in the way her arms were aristocratically relaxed in front of her chest, clasping one with the other. Her gaze was neither judgmental nor intrusive, but simply calm and proud.

"Oh, but where are my manners," he stated expanding his hand for a handshake "As the Slytherin House prefect I welcome you to Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft.
I hope that the Sorting Hat will make a wise decision regarding your placement,"

She smiled at him and she gave her hand too "Such an impressive introduction, Mister Riddle. I know you from the Daily Prophet. Tom Riddle is a top student and role model for younger generations of wizards. Believe me, our community is very small and we wizards know each other if we are distinguished,"

So she knew him. She was witty, but Tom could not highlight the fact that she had an air of cockiness in her. Something bearable, but still there to remind him of that.

"I am sorry, but I did not quite catch your name, Miss...,"

"Althea Lynch. Delighted to make your acquaintance Mr. Riddle,"

Her skin down her glove seemed smooth and delicate. Althea was her name and Riddle tried to remember from where he had last heard the surname Lynch. Was she a pureblood witch? Perhaps a half-blood? There was no way she was a muggle-born because her surname was a wizard one indeed.

Dumbledore from beside her like an owl observed the interaction between the two teenagers and when he made an exclamation both students looked at him "Great heavens, I have a meeting in ten minutes. Althea, I told you that you have to go to the station alone, but since Mr. Riddle is here, I am sure that he can guide you,"

Tom's face broke but then a charming smile appeared on his lips "Of course professor," he hated that he had to pretend that he was alright with every little stupid thing Dumbledore said to him. But as the witch had noticed and the rest of the magical world, he was a role model for younger generations of wizards. He had to be like that to gain the favor of everyone.

Dumbledore made an impressive bow and then he beamed himself up, disappearing from their view.

The route was quiet through the shops of Diagon Alley. Suffocatingly quiet, as the hustle and bustle of the street seemed to drown them both. The witch had her head held high, while Tom was more serious than he had looked before.

Althea was the first to speak "I was being home-schooled the previous years. I have been pleading with my father to attend Hogwarts for quite a long time, but after some point, all my hopes eventually died,"

"They are resurrected now, are not they?" he was a little sharp on purpose. He did not want to get into a conversation with her under any circumstances.

"My parents had both attended Hogwarts so I knew a lot of things about that school. Pity that my time was belated,"

He did not respond.

"I believe that I would be sorted into Slytherin. Oh, both my parents were so I believe is somehow a family tradition,"

She loves to talk that is the sure.

"Are you a pureblood witch?" he asked her and Althea stared at him.

"Do these ideologies still play a significant role about us as wizards, because I would believe that perceptions like these do belong in the past,"

"This is not what I asked you, Miss Lynch," not a fan of the perception of keeping wizard's blood pure then.

She snapped at him and then she backed as she seemed to keep her composure "Pureblood by both sides. My surname Lynch is, Lintsopoulou, which is one of the twelve Greek families that are still supposed to have pure blood, if that pleases you, Mr. Riddle,"

From the way she said it he could understand that Althea Lynch is a pureblood witch coming from Greece because her father is probably a Greek wizard whose family was moved to the United Kingdom.

"Slytherin is a demanding house. For quite intelligent and cunning people who have goals to achieve,"

Lynch's eyes were wide open in anger "Good to know, because I happen to be excellent in potions and spells. My curriculum was very strict and my professor praised my parents that I am an exceptional student,"

Riddle was calmer than her "The perfect match for Slytherin. But I do not think that anything you learned in your house can exceed my knowledge and skills,"

In the end, the witch was too arrogant. She thought she was special. Of course, this was natural as she had been competing with herself all her life in terms of learning. Perhaps now she would find it hard that there would be him and a dozen students to contend with.

"I think I did not find you on a very good day. Your tone is arrogant and quite insulting I would say. Ultimately the title makes no man and you should note that Mr. Riddle," she wheezed and she stopped in her tracks while he kept walking.

"I am just reminding my dear that the perfection you think you possess is nothing like the perfection you will encounter at Hogwarts. You have to work hard and someone has to prepare you,"

"This is indiscreet. You have only known me for ten minutes or less. It is absurd to think you know me when we have only spoken for a few minutes. Do not tell me you decoded me so quickly,"

"I just refute everything you believe. I ground you back to reality,"

Surely the witch thought that the school would now belong to her because she was new. She was also rich, so admittedly spoiled. Her anger betrayed her, and it seemed that she did indeed have a high opinion of herself. Fury is always a compass of the other person's true self.

Althea was about to respond in anger, but before she did a deafening noise came from a nearby shop as glassware and walls cracked after being hit by what appeared to be black smoke.

"I do believe that your answer needs to wait,"

authors note ::

this chapter ended a little but abruptly, but istg i put a lot of work for tom's story! i hope y'all like it ♥️