A/N: ARE YOU READY to dive into the 1940s?

I cannot get this picture out of my mind. I wanted something different so here I am. There will be no entirely full fledged novel because one, I have way too many stories as it is. Two, people have already done these type of stories beautifully. Three, my Star Wars fics of Anakin are my first love and priority. HOWEVER that isn't to stay this tale won't be a fleshed out piece. I still want to do it justice.

Looking at 10 or so parts in total.

This chapter starts more as a tell and ends with dialogue so hang tight.

I'm a millennial; I grew up with the Harry Potter series and I'm well aware Tom's eyes are brown. However, other actors eyes have been blue and I'm going with that. Christian Coulson WAS Tom. But, Origins of the Heir anyone? So good! And then there's Tom Hughes...

**Just as J.K Rowling once said, I consider the world of Harry Potter a completely separate world of fantasy from actual occultic practices and/or ties. Given this is in part Tom Riddles life which may veer into dark territory and is strictly a work of fiction. I do not condone any type of practice relating to the actual occult as it something to be taken very seriously nor will I ever. I know former practicers and it's not taken lightly.**

✨222 Kudos thus far on A03 for three chapters. Do give it a try🤍✨

Reviews are as beloved as Dobby. RIP🤍

WARNING
Dark themes
Toxicity
Sensual content

Cheers x

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Part I

August 18, 1942

Wools Orphanage

LONDON

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  She knew where she would find him.

  As with any day in the summer until they both returned to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it never got any easier. As each year passed, he only withdrew into himself more and more...

  In the beginning, they'd appeared as opposites. Yet as small children, they'd found a commonality: solidarity. Their shared love for books slowly pushed them from their introverted complexes to a few social interactions. It was unlike the exchange amongst the staff at the inferred—and distasteful— term given as  "the lone orphans". Each year they'd herd them out as such on Adoption Day like branded cattle.

  Forced out of their seclusion, in each other common ground was found—quite literally, perched on the worn steps of Wools Orphanage. For the sake of propriety they were compelled to wear their secondhand, presentable attire for society to survey out of slim pickings.

  As the day uneventfully unfolded and the hours dragged torturously on, they'd pass the time reading through a donated collection of books from the local church. Silent but inwardly restless as the winds. Even as a whisper of a page was flipped beneath their hands they remained ever watchful. Never scolded and properly postured, her spindly legs formally folded and his crisscrossed over narrowed ankles.

  They'd appraise their surroundings momentarily once another orphan was sifted. It was only when those wrought iron gates closed behind the last visitor with an audible finality, that he loosened his tie and she'd shed her ribbons. Together they'd venture to the rooftops to immerse themselves in worlds much sought after from illustrious authors for which the contents of the book were discussed. However, any syrupy endings were condemned, especially fairytales and evidentially, this would shift his attentions back to their reality. To the local newspaper as the global war became increasingly significant as more countries joined the coalition to fight.

  As the shadow of war loomed, it hardened a recently widowed Mrs. Cole. The two had learned on a personal spectrum after weathering the hardships of the Great Depression that crested over from the Americas to parts of the UK. The staff alone had become intimately familiar with financial strife regarding the children's welfare.

  Meals were soon portioned.

  The daily three servings were reduced to two, tea time included. To combat this they'd invent their own system. As he handed off his stale bread, she dished over an extra portion of porridge and root vegetable mash. As staff relocated their sleeping quarters to the main commons once wood deliquesced from the fireplace's hearth, extra potatoes were shoved in each other's sacks to keep warm.

From an outsider's perspective, it was hardly considered a companionship, yet such a dynamic worked for them.

  1938, a month after her eleventh birthday, their entire world was flipped on its axis one rainy afternoon on the 12th of August. A Professor Albus Dumbledore would greet their doorstep where they'd first learn of a magical school mysteriously concealed in the Highlands of Scotland. Introducing himself as one of the teachers, a new world was suddenly thrust upon their parched, knowledgeable minds. They became further enamored once the charmed bricks in the back alleyway of the Leaky Cauldron, first unveiled the wizarding community Diagon Alley.

  Such a profound truth discovered in their bloodlines—that she was a witch and he a wizard—had left the two in stunned silence. Even as they were introduced to a Ministry of Magic; a magical government slightly similar to Parliament overseen by a head Minister. To the strange banking system: Gringotts Wizarding Bank that upon observation, was run by surly goblins that handled their financials. Without the professor's twinkling soft eyes and zany robes, she hardly would've been kept at ease with the shrewd creatures.

  They'd speedily tunneled on hazardous tracks through the caverns housing underground vaults. But one in particular piqued her curiosity as the wizard retrieved a velvet pouch teeming with startling gold, silver and bronze coins: Galleons, sickles, and knuts. Much to their overt discomfiture it was revealed as part of Hogwarts financial program vaults for those deemed a necessity from impoverished backgrounds.

  For a considerable part of that day her friend had taken each mystical venue in stride. Not the overly enthusiastic type, he'd appeared drawn to each novel element, his disposition shifting just the slightest after one dimly-lit disheveled shop...

  "13 ½ long crafted from yew with a phoenix feather core. 11 inches of holly, containing a single feather from the tail of a... phoenix."

  As posted on the shop, the wizened man Ollivander, had peppered sprightly hair that paired with an ostensibly, eccentric persona. As he examined their wands his eyes widened in considerable bewilderment. Glancing out the squared window where their professor waited, he leveled them with a sharp scrutiny.

  "My, my..." One unruly brow raised in surprise. "How curious, curious indeed. Feathers from the same bird. Siblings... By Merlin's beard..."

  One glance at her friend revealed a visible hunger surface in his glimmering gaze and merge with a sudden rigid posture.

  After they'd departed Ollivanders, they stored their wands in the safety of their pockets. However, her friend's concentrated reverie didn't abate. Even with the grotesque toppings their professor later selected at a parlor he'd treated them called: Florean Fortescue's Creamery.

If she could just dispel the chill that—even now— slithered into the marrow of her bones from the instant their wands connected...

  Flashback.

   The moment they grasped their wands, a sudden fork of light crackled through their fingertips and eclipsed the darkness. The sheer force blasted boxes from the shelves, startling the wand maker himself—before she'd felt it.

Icy tendrils coiled around her spine like a serpentine creature from a novel. It felt as if sharp incisors embedded into her flesh, jolting her psyche as her nerves fused into liquid fire. Her agonized cry split the air, and hot tears trailed a path down her lips. Yet the sensation lasted no more than a second.

  It took a moment to drag her quivering limbs akimbo, from the floor. Their shallow breaths rose in synchrony, their eyes fused on eachother. His eyes practically glowed with the vivacity of cobalt fire; a searing intensity that practically peeled every personal thought, away. It left her feeling raw—like he'd stripped the very barrier of thought with a single glance...

  Before he'd taken his leave their professor had informed the two to depart to Kings Cross train station by the 1st of September.

After, her friend had gone into full retreat.

The days leading up to their departure, his presence became a ghostly apparition, tangible during meal preps, for which he'd kept distance.

  Even when Mrs. Cole and Madam Martha escorted the lot to Sunday services. Hardly had she been able to focus in the pew. While she'd been questioning her salvation and her relationship choices, he'd sat up by the parishioners devoid of expression.

  Little had she known Ollivander's words would come to shape the world that now laid before them. The 1st of September soon arrived, and they found themselves searching for the Hogwarts Express at Platform 9 ¾. They eventually located it between platforms 9 and 10, and she relished the mechanics of the magical platform. Even her first sight of the sprawling castle had completely stolen her breath. The halo domed windows beckoning them closer, the walls of limestone and rounded turrets that soared skyward with imposing grandeur. It was an entirely different realm, the starry skies infused with a mystical element seemingly honed in the walls itself. It was then a visible ravenous glint in her friend's eyes resurfaced, glimmering like the Black Lake they floated upon like a sea of glass.

  The foreboding chill it elicited, fused to her spine like sharp talons; a prominence of his touch that still echoed beneath her flesh. It was as if he'd left his very signature upon her. Even as they made their way to a Sorting Hat charmed atop their heads to determine their houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.

  A lion. An eagle. A badger. And a serpent.

  Bravery. Witts. Loyalty. Ambition.

  She had been chosen as a Gryffindor: the house of the noble and brave. He had been sorted into Slytherin: the house of the cunning and ambitious.

  Ruby and gold.

  Silver and emerald.

  A lion and a serpent.

  The legacy of Hogwarts was rooted in the foundation laid by the Founders themselves: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. These four medieval witches and wizards' strong bloodlines set the premise for the magical stronghold it would eventually become. Over the decades' brilliant wizards and witches would contribute to the castles' finesse, leading to an expansion of academia up to its present, revered prestige.

  According to, Hogwarts A History.

Just as she'd soon learn the oddity of a sport that was Quidditch. The wizarding sport entailed flying brooms with goalposts shot through by ball called a Quaffle. This Hogwarts favorite pastime was not without its dangers, however. Players had to contend with Bludgers—nasty buggers that inflicted serious injuries. The intensity of course, centered on the Seekers catching ahold of a flittering golden ball called the Snitch. Whichever House caught it won the game.

  Her friend considered such a sport uncouth. Admittedly it piqued her interests to consider tryouts—had a woman on the team been common. Thus, she'd digressed for the unfavorable attention it would draw. Instead she explored the endless mysteries of the castle it offered. From a bewitched Enchanted Ceiling in the Great Hall, to the ethereal floating candles held in suspension, and talking portraits upon the walls dishing prompt greetings as staircases abruptly shifted. Some corridors were rumored to be guarded by caretaker Apollyon Pringle who favored corporeal punishments for those who dared defy authority. Further haunted by the ghosts of Hogwart's past, such as Nearly Headless Nick: Gryffindor Tower's ghost. The first time she'd seen his spectral presence it had taken adjusting.

  Gryffindor Tower held most of her many comforts from the rigors of academics, especially after a grueling study session. It was a lavish dormitory with gilded accents and stained glass windows that provided a warm-toned respite of histories. Fine maroon drawings at the nights close offered feathered pillows only dreamt as a luxury.

  Mealtimes in the Great Hall were just as much favored after coming from an orphanage where food was often cold, soggy, and severely bland. Nothing could've prepared her that first evening for the elaborate spread. Endless variations of food, even unknown in the muggle world, suddenly conjured on golden plates. Served by the castle's house-elves whose culinary skills were nothing short of remarkable, with goblets charmed to refill their cups so one was never left parched for an upcoming class.

  There had been Astronomy: held in an actual tour at night that studied the constellations.

  Transfiguration: a marvel of  intricate mechanics.

  Broom flight class: an exhilarating adrenaline high maneuvering a broomstick.

  Charms: defying the law of gravity and levitation.

  Herbology: a class set in a greenhouse housing wondrous medicinal and practical properties founded in various plants.

  DADA (Defense Against the Dark Arts): focused on the skill of a dueling arm.

  Potions: it had held the most intrigue, elixirs conjured with a mixture of fascination and trepidation with a cauldron.

  Those had been just a few standout classes.

  Further curiosities led to the vast library sheathed within the heart of the castle. Endless bouts of knowledge were had in such novelties. Evenings became her preference and where she soon found her friend perusing. Especially during a holiday Hogwarts celebrated to the fullest extremity which was not a common theme for the two with joy often lost outside the protective wards, beyond.

  The rise of a dark wizard, Gellert Grindelwald would put the castle on severe lockdown for a time. It had left her on edge every Summer she was forced to return to Wools, putting her safety into question in a homestead full of oblivious muggles. Grindelwald would continue to wreak havoc wherever spotted, bringing to the forefront startling similarities reflected in both the wizarding and muggle world, his end goal to enslave muggles. A maniacal dictator on the rise called Adolf Hitler wished to exterminate Jewish citizens as abominations bringing the world into a deadly WW2. In 1939 when they'd been boarding the Hogwarts Express, the orphans were evacuated on trains out of London.

The orphanage was spared from the bombing of London or The Blitz. As their Hogwarts professor once explained to the head matron—with suspected magical influence—this allowed the two to return from their "studies abroad" without question. That year would remain a staple in history, the London she'd seen coming out of King's Cross hardly forgotten. Smoking husks left reflected the villages of Grindelwald's sieges displayed in the Daily Prophet.

  How prevalent evil was, even without magic. Indeed, the 20th century proved to be a grueling period.

  Through loaned owls, every two weeks new Grindelwald attacks were reported from her female colleagues. His rise to power had exponentially grown in the year of 1942. When a clipping left her regrettably ill, she sought solace in the courtyards with her friend as she did during their study breaks by the Black Lake, or Astronomy Tower to observe the constellations—when he wasn't surrounded by his odious cohorts.

  With his status despite the fact she was a Gryffindor, never had his posse been outwardly untoward given her friends' intolerance to ill formality.

  It was a very rare sighting when her friends composure did crack. The last time involved a delinquent orphan named, Billy Stubbs who had made her a target for bullying. Stubb's rabbit was found hanging from the rafters that next day, she witness to the dark, malevolent beast that brokered her friends' composure.

  Which naturally brought the cave incident to mind. Subsequently, young Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were later institutionalized.

  She should've fled in the opposite direction, classified their relationship akin to a deformity. But then she was reminded of the boy she'd encountered that first night in the orphanage. She still had the linen handkerchief he'd handed off to her, stoic as he'd been. It would help curb her nightly grief later compelling her to confront the orphans ridiculing him as a freak. Soon he'd become woven into the very fabric of her livelihood. He became her confession booth for all secrets such as her parent's brutal death linked to a former follower of Grindelwald's as his research later confirmed.

  Unraveling the mysterious boy that encapsulated her life, only deepened her sympathy. Her friend's introduction to the world had been marred at birth. He'd been abandoned; a baby with nothing but the name of his forbearers. This further reflected how high his trust was in regards to her. He'd given her a glimpse into his life, enough to follow him into the corners of the commons to take their meals. Even as she witnessed the shadows leech to him, cloaking the glacial front directed at others.

  He'd take great lengths to distance himself from an orphaned background.

  He ensured even his most worn apparel remained suitable. At Hogwarts, he sought perfection, excelling with top marks that earned the favor of many teachers including the Potions master: Professor Horace Slughorn.

  With the afforded freedoms as they reached maturity, they found themselves venturing through town. He'd follow silently as a feigned, disinterested guard. She'd endure his occasional detours into the bowels of Knockturn Alley. The cobblestone streets that veered into a gritty alleyway left an itch to cast the black swan Patronus, especially when an antique hovel had caught his apt attention enough to visit:

  Borgin & Burkes.

  As she recalled the lascivious stares she'd received from a few of the peddlers and Mr. Borgin himself—she always hoped it was the final visit. Verging into womanhood wasn't easy, even as she bodily matured and garnered newfound attentions from the opposite sex. A startling revelation had recently left her emotions on the frayed edge of nerves. Even as she climbed the rickety stairway that groaned as if the weight of her unspoken burden reflected.

  At least she'd made it past Mrs. Cole.

  The head matron well into her early forties retained the mannerisms of a 1920s finishing school. Had she been caught it would've forced her to recite the proper etiquette of a woman's sacrilege. Particularly in her state of undress. She'd become of age where threats from Madam Martha had the substantial reality of throwing her into a convent.

  A nun was not something she aspired to be and unbeknownst to Mrs. Cole, this wasn't the first time she'd reunited with her friend at a late hour. He'd tutted disapprovingly of the thin nightdress in the past but allowed it to continue. The fraying ends billowed as a warm draft swept through the weathered rafters. Scaling the spiral of stairs up the bell tower was quite a daunting task but kept her legs in shape. The abandoned spire offered the most panoramic view above the sooty haze of smokestacks, boasting the most breathtaking sunsets in all of London.

  As she shoved the rusted latch with the pad of her palm, the wooden door fell open with an audible creeeak. Folding up the hems of her nightie, she ascended the ornate stone to the small landing above. The skies became a fingerpainted canvas of a Monet painting. The colors were vibrant, a sea of dusty rose clouds while golden flares of the setting sun sank into the horizon.

  There her friend lounged.

  His long legs dangled off the side without so much as a lick of fear. Dark blue eyes leaden with thick lashes shadowed pallid, angular cheekbones. Meticulous details Michelangelo chiseled into marble sculptures and reminiscent of older prints of Roman art they'd pored through. He retained an appearance that uniquely transcended his physical fifteen-year-old form.

  Ebony curls free from a coiffed state fell across furrowed brows. The muscle in his jaw fell slack as he relaxed just so in her presence, "Do you know the meaning of the name Harven? It derives from the old Norse name Hrafn. It means raven."

  "Raven?"

  One brow arched as she settled next to him. The rough texture of brickwork rubbed against the soles of her bare, chilled feet. In an attempt to engage, she tapped her foot against his fabric Oxfords. "How did you discover this?"

  His eyes raised and he looked at her. A small quizzical furrow to his brow spoke of hours pouring over this information. "Old Norse sagas. Not necessarily history but memoirs. I was reading about the old Scandinavian culture. An excerpt of a wizard's account on runes." He shook his head with a small, chiding smirk. "Not particularly memorable. Not your cup of tea, anyways. But raven... it's rather ironic given the shade of your hair."

  Her dark, inquisitive eyes met his. She couldn't help but tease with a playful nudge. The deep hue of his gaze only intensified their similarities, apt genetics that orchestrated arranged marriages. "You know, you're starting to sound like Professor Binns," she quipped, although he was anything like the ghostly History of Magic teacher.

  His unique way of flattery felt like the charismatic Tom Riddle girls sought at Hogwarts. Yet as he realized her undressed state, a flicker of disapproval surfaced with a roll of his eyes. "Harven Potter," he chided, "ever quite the scandal if caught. Mrs. Cole would tan your hide for less."

  "Oh, Tom, it's not like I'm a lady of the night." She rolled her eyes and crossed her ankles. "This is hardly uncouth given my company from practical infancy." A hushed laugh followed. "You remain ever the perfect gentleman."

  "Well, if you're not careful it could tarnish your reputation and mine. And that I cannot allow." He straightened himself and the muscle in his jaw twitched.

  She'd unintentionally irritated him.

  "Are you honestly angry with me? It's not like I'm buck naked for Merlin's sake." She sighed, exasperated. "Dare I say Witchers of the Month?"

  His eyes flashed with ire as he replied sharply, "Enough to be sent to a nunnery, Harven. We are not mere children anymore; your attributes have certainly changed. It's unbecoming of a lady like yourself. If someone like Billy Stubbs saw you in such dressings—" He inhaled sharply and to Harven's surprise, she sensed an underlying covetousness. "Well, your lack of decency would be the least of our problems..."

  A shadow fell under his eyes as the last of his words eclipsed; a dark promise. As if remembering himself he got to his feet, straightening out the worn lapels of his uniformed blazer. A button fell loose from the sewn lining. "We are soon to start our fifth year at Hogwarts. My objective as Prefect cannot be compromised. You should know better, Harven, especially at fifteen years."

  Ah yes.

  A month ago they'd celebrated it after he'd received his Prefect badge in the post. Certain savings she'd suspected from school accomplices, had treated her to her favorite bookstore in Diagon Alley. She'd purchased Tales of Beedle the Bard; a storyteller from the 15th century whose wizarding life remained a mystery. Though Tom had looked dismayed at the purchase, he'd paid nonetheless. He'd even listened to one tale before retiring for the night.

  Harven was instantly on her feet, the hurt like a serrated blade as if she'd been scolded by Mrs. Cole herself. The icy presence she'd felt as a child coiled inside, steeling her features and breathing tenacity into her voice. "So it has not been above your attention then?"

  Tom squared his jaw, tongue against cheek as he mulled over her words. He stared out into the horizon as stars illuminated the night skies with tiny pinpricks of light. "You'll need to be more, specific. My patience thins by the minute, Harven."

  Harven gathered her courage and took a step closer, her fists clenched at her sides. "What am I to you, Tom? Am I just there for convenience? A fool to believe I'm more than a passing fancy?"

  Tom clenched his jaw as if he'd expected this exact answer. His eyes darkened as they swept past her shoulder from meeting the intensity of hers. "If you're insinuating some sort of petty fondness, then yes, you're mistaken," he replied quiet but firm. "Don't be foolish, Harven. My ambitions extend beyond the conventional life of a laborer, a housewife, or...the responsibilities of children."

  Harven felt the weight of rejection drop into the pit of her stomach. She'd never found herself the novelist gothic beauty equivalent to the stapled Blacks, Rosiers, or Lestranges. Nor did she possess the fair seraphim genetics like that of the Malfoys.

  Hardly did she consider herself vain, possessing her mother's soulful eyes in the hue of emerald with soft ivory skin and a pert nose. Her thick curls framed a widow's peak and her father's strong chin softly rounded her femininity.

  She thought herself quite pretty. In fact, Tom wasn't the only one to have a wavering perusal. His band of followers stole their share. Although Tom  had never absorbed himself in vanity other than the natural grooming, girls still famed over him. The mint-shaving butter he used a pleasant scent; the signature of his presence; the comfort of home and dearest to her alone.

  Still, she refused to succumb like a distressed damsel so he could exploit her weakness when tensions escalated between them again. Though damned if she did and damned if she didn't, really. "Very well, forgive me. I think I'm going to retire, early. Goodnight, Tom."

  Clenching her teeth she retreated, peeling her gaze from that penetrating stare even as those eyes practically burned a branding into her backside. One had to have thick skin to spar with the likes of Tom Riddle. Because of their bond she was daring enough to do so.

  It was several seconds before the door fell behind her. Harven was bidded with a quieter voice that carried off into the winds, he a silent shadow blending into the darkness of his own making. "Goodnight, Harven."

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NOTES:

Time eras such as the 1940s fashion and mannerisms I tried to follow to a T as I do believe it's important for any timelines explored and makes it much more immersive.

With Toms menial means, and due to the war, clothes were made more simple and cheaper. Leather was scarce then so Tom would've worn fabric oxfords for shoes. Which I find very interesting.

When researching,"Lady of the Night," back then it meant prostitute.

Also, this was before Tom really discovered more of his heritage hence why such details were miniscule.So Harven is not aware quite yet of his Parseltongue. He's managed to keep that from her quite sneakily.

*Reviews' are so much love :)

Cheersx