England

Greenwich Beach

June 13, 1937

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•Flashback•

  The skies were as ambiguous as her mind. Something had happened, it was a deep-rooted instinct sensed down to her molecular core. It wouldn't abate. Even as spindly, pale fingers smoothed over the jagged, weighted pebble in the fold of her palm to shuck off the cliff face. It cinched her breath as another wave slammed against the cragged, steep embankment below.

  Just seconds before, she'd felt a shift ripple across the foamy crests, the chilled, salty droplets wetting her lips. The buds of her tongue stung with unsavory brine. Even the seagulls had scattered to the winds, leaving a startled screech from an ominous presence as the resonant stirrings of thunder resounded in the distance.

  Truly, she felt like such an oddity, as if attuned to the spirits themselves. Sister Berlinda would just as soon as rap her knuckles raw with a ruler for uttering such blasphemy. Father Benedict would be inclined to perform an exorcism. But how else could she explain it? Surely it wasn't the devil himself coming to steal her soul? Surely God was much more merciful? By the stars, she was starting to sound insane. Certainly, others must have felt that charge in the atmosphere, seen the current of the tides intensify.

  "Don't be ridiculous, Harven," she muttered to herself. A tendril of wind pulled at the ribbon laced through her hair.

  Madam Martha always insisted keeping the orphaned girls prim in stockings, pinafores, and ribbons. The orphanage prided itself on its institutional policies, manner, and propriety. It was of the utmost importance given their source of charitable donations was received from Lambeths Church of Saint Mary.

  "Just stay here and wait for his return..."

  The village of Greenwich was a trip they took once a year, the countryside's scenic outcroppings and verdant vegetation left to be marveled. But her friends absence curled her stomach into a ball of anxiety.

  Where was he?

  "Child! Haven't you heard me call supper? Gracious, it's just about time to tuck in, what has kept you?" Mrs. Cole materialized out of the cloying mist threaded through the stalks of dune grass. Her loose auburn curls were undone from its pinned chignon. A sharp-eyed gaze that demanded respect stressed the set of her jaw, "'Bout to be carried off into the winds with this weather, honestly girl!"

  The head matron deftly unwrapped the thick shawl from her shoulders. Crafted by the same nimble fingers that knotted it promptly around Harven, the hard countenance in the furrow of her brow softened with immediate concern. "Sweet Mary, child—you're as cold as ice!"

  Harven hadn't noticed.

Earlier in the day it had been much warmer, almost appropriate to discard her thin jumper before the abrupt drop in temperature once the storm rolled in. Yet just as her lips had parted to refute—a fork of light crackled across the darkening skies, jolting her and the matron alike.

  Three distinct figures suddenly materialized from the vaporous haze. The breath caught in the matrons throat and stole Harvens in relief as the ashen faces of Tom Riddle, Amy Benson, and Dennis Bishop surfaced.

  He's alright.

  Mrs. Cole's voice had trailed off, her wind chapped face paling considerably as the usually vibrant and spirited Amy broke forward. Shadows cloaked her delicate features, bright eyes glazed over. Bearing a small cut on her freckled nose, her mouth moved with rapid incoherence. "Fallen I did... I fell... fell ... shall never get up again..."

  Harven took note of the fragile state of the young girl, her fair and wispy hair was disheveled, stripped of the delicate ribbon. The subtle lilt in her voice hinted of a wandering child aimlessly lost in her own thoughts as she floated past like a ghostly apparition.

  A hand flew to the matron's mouth, her eyes growing ever wide at the strange ethereal dance as Amy pranced up the hill. "What in the saints madness..."

  Dennis Bishop, the common glutinous foe was seemingly lethargic. His girthy arm was slung around Tom's sinewy frame as if balancing his weight was a cumbersome feat. His pug-faced countenance stared blankly into the distance with a quivering lip, "Please," he stuttered, barely managing to form words, "not the dark... s-so cold... p-please..." The rich hazel of his eyes had lost their usual luster, copper curls matted against a sweaty, ruddy complexion.

  The vulnerability displayed for a tight-fisted chap who stole others' rations with a sneer, sent shockwaves through their matron. Those alarmed eyes narrowed with accusatory suspicion as they swiveled to Tom. "What is the meaning of this, Tom Riddle? Speak now, boy, lest you wish to go without dinner!"

  Harven swallowed hard, her eyes seeking Tom's.

  His gaze flicked to her's momentarily as if he'd finally acknowledged her presence. After a beat, his eyes settled on their caretakers. "I assure you," he began, his voice carrying a syrupy, honeyed tone for an adolescent ten-year-old. "Simple misfortune during an expedition." The indifference in his boyish face shifted, morphing into one of feigned 'remorse'. "I apologize for not being quick enough. We lost track of time after the accident."

  "What accident?"

  "Forgive me for not being clearer. Amy and Dennis took a nasty fall during our trip. A rocky embankment not far from here ."

  "And why did you not call on Martha or myself to accompany you, Tom?"

  "I apologize, mam. I assumed there would be no harm in exploring a cavern.  I did everything in my power to bring them back. But I fear they may catch a cold from the water. It was quite chilling."

  "This is why we do not wander beyond the set perimeters, Tom. It is too dangerous for small children to take a quick fall and catch their death!"

  "I understand, mam. I promise it won't happen again."

  Mrs. Cole eyed him wearily, scrutinizing his eerily calm demeanor for any fault. Despite all her experience as a caretaker, she'd been unable to unravel the enigma of the boy. Even in the pram he'd barely fussed; a remarkable feat for a tot. Yet in the years that followed her unease would root deep into the recesses of her psyche. As her eyes fell on young, naïve Harven Potter, she felt a stir in her soul.

A foreboding.

It ailed her nerves enough to make a haste depart. "Be that as it may, Tom, I am very disappointed—the girl appears concussed! You are to freshen up and stay to your dormitory. Sister Elizabeth will bring in your dinner."

  With a trembling Dennis curled into her side she turned sharply on her heel.

  Harven watched Mrs. Cole's bustling skirts as she fussed with the boy up the cobblestone incline. Wildflowers graced the landscape just beyond the hedge groves. Nestled against the sloped hill were a cluster of stone cottages with a lattice word of climbing ivy and thatched roofs. It drew her back to the pages of folklore; a favorite site of hers. The salty air was laced with hints of flora providing the ideal refuge from the bustling, musty district of Lambeth in the southern parts of London.

  Once the head matron ascended the hilltop, Harven slowed her pace further, seizing the opportunity to walk beside her silent friend. Although his intentions were not of the pure sort, she'd never placed herself as his judge. Already had he faced enough cruelty under Mrs. Cole's hawk-like gaze whose attentions should've been focused on her brutish husband. The nefarious man, likely done with his supervisor run at the mill at this hour, would empty a portion of his earnings in seedy brothels hidden in the gritty alleys of London.

He always came back to the orphanage particularly, sloshed.

  It truly disgusted her. The drunkards actions alone heavily weighed upon Tom's shoulders and implied the affects each time she heard Mr. Cole's footsteps thunder up the stairway. It was seen in the erect posture her friend assumed. To the slight twitch of his eye when threatened.

  Presently, his brow was furrowed, concentrated on the weathered stones that knicked beneath the soles of their practical shoes. The minutes stretched on as he remained submerged in the depth of thought, anchored by the weight of introspection.

  As they crested the hilltop, he resurfaced.

  One by one, calloused fingers wrapped around her wrist, silently conveying his gratitude for waiting. Harven glanced over to her friend, seeing the shadows of Mrs. Cole's scolding recede. The congested clouds yet to shed a single drop of rain, took on an indigo hue as twilight settled, sweeping across the world like an oil canvas of Van Gogh's "Starry Night." Under the flickering lampposts, it painted shadows in the groves of his face, his eyes like glacial pools, deep and endlessly searching hers.

  The corner of her lip curled.

  He expected the questions that addled her thoughts. Squeezing his hand in kind, the taut line beneath his lower lip finally settled.

As she was so young yet and earnestly searched for his trust she whispered softly, "You know I'll be here when you're ready, Tom. Don't worry."

💚I chose Greenwich because I read somewhere it was the most accurate as to where the cave might've been located from Wools. Which makes alot of sense.

💚Can you believe they are already rebooting Harry Potter?? Not sure how to feel about it. Just hope they don't do Winky dirty again or Ron.

Reviews are as beloved as Buckbeak's nuzzles🤍