CHAPTER TWO

  DIFFERENT

  The summer of 1931 was proving to be particularly unpleasant in London. Unlike the storybook summers of sunshine and gentle breezes, this one brought stifling heat that clung to the city like an unwelcome guest, transforming the already grim streets into a purgatory of dust and stench. The global economic crisis that had begun with America's stock market crash two years prior had tightened its grip on Britain, and nowhere was this more evident than in the forgotten corners where institutions like Wool's Orphanage struggled to survive.

  On this particular afternoon, the children of Wool's had been herded into the small courtyard behind the building, not out of any concern for their enjoyment of the weather, but because Mrs. Cole had determined that the dormitories needed airing. The courtyard, a cheerless rectangle of cracked concrete surrounded by brick walls too high for even the most ambitious child to scale, offered little in the way of entertainment. A single, stunted tree provided meager shade for those quick enough to claim it, while the rest of the children were left to make do with whatever games their imagination could conjure from the barren landscape.

  In one corner of the courtyard, as far removed from the other children as possible, sat a small boy of five. Tom Riddle had positioned himself on a low stone step, his back pressed against the sun-warmed brick wall, a battered book open on his knees. Unlike the other children, who despite the oppressive circumstances still managed to generate the occasional burst of laughter or squeal of protest, Tom remained utterly silent, his dark eyes moving methodically across the pages before him.

  He was small for his age, with a delicate frame that belied a surprising toughness. His features, even at five, had a composed, almost aristocratic quality that seemed wildly out of place in the drab surroundings of Wool's Orphanage. His hair, black as coal and neatly combed despite the orphanage's cursory approach to grooming, framed a face of extraordinary paleness. But it was his eyes that most people noticed, and usually wished they hadn't. They were dark, intelligent, and utterly cold, lacking the guileless wonder that should animate a child's gaze.

  "Riddle! Tom Riddle!"

  Mrs. Cole's voice cut through the muggy air, causing a momentary pause in the scattered activities of the courtyard. Tom looked up from his book, his expression impassive. Mrs. Cole stood in the doorway, her thin frame casting an equally thin shadow across the concrete. The years had not been kind to Mrs. Cole, and the current economic climate had only accelerated her decline. Her hair, now completely gray, was pulled back in a severe bun, and the lines around her mouth had deepened into permanent furrows of displeasure.

  "Come here, boy," she called, gesturing impatiently.

  Tom closed his book with deliberate care, tucking it under his arm as he rose and made his way across the courtyard. He walked with an unusual precision for a child, each step measured and controlled. The other children instinctively moved out of his path, creating a corridor through their scattered groupings without seeming to realize they were doing so.

  "Yes, Mrs. Cole?" Tom's voice was soft and clear, his diction surprisingly refined for a child raised in an institution.

  Mrs. Cole studied him with narrowed eyes. Five years had done little to soften her unease around the boy. If anything, her discomfort had grown as Tom himself had grown. Unlike the other children, who cycled through predictable phases of tears, tantrums, and occasional joy, Tom remained eerily consistent in his remote self-possession.

  "There's a delivery of donated clothes," she said briskly. "You're to help Martha sort them."

  It wasn't a request; nothing at Wool's ever was. The older children were expected to contribute to the running of the orphanage, a practice that Mrs. Cole justified as "character building" but which had more to do with the institution's perpetual understaffing.

  "Of course," Tom replied, his tone as neutral as his expression.

  Mrs. Cole felt the familiar chill that often accompanied interactions with the boy. There was something profoundly unsettling about a five-year-old who never argued, never complained, and never, ever cried. She'd been running Wool's long enough to know that children came in all sorts, from the perpetually sniffling to the stoically brave, but Tom Riddle existed in a category all his own.

  "Well, get on with it then," she said, stepping aside to let him pass. "Marthas in the storage room."

  Tom nodded and slipped past her into the relative cool of the building. Mrs. Cole watched him go, one hand absently reaching for the small silver cross she had taken to wearing around her neck. She wasn't a particularly religious woman, but lately she had found herself clutching the cross whenever Tom Riddle was near. There was no rational explanation for this habit, which annoyed her greatly, but she couldn't seem to break it.

  Inside, Tom made his way through the dim corridors with the confidence of someone navigating familiar territory. Wool's Orphanage might be a dreary place, but it was the only home he had ever known, and he had mapped its every corner, every creaking floorboard, and every drafty window in his mind. The building held few secrets from Tom Riddle, who had made it his business to know where everything and everyone could be found at any given moment.

  The storage room was located in the basement, a cavernous space divided by sagging wooden shelves and illuminated by a series of bare bulbs that cast more shadows than light. Martha Jenkins, now nearly thirty and grown somewhat thicker around the middle, was sorting through several large boxes that had been deposited near the door.

  "There you are," she said, looking up as Tom entered. Unlike Mrs. Cole, Martha had developed a certain fondness for the unusual boy. Perhaps it was because she had been present at his birth, or perhaps it was simply her nature to see the best in everyone, even children who made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. "These need sorting by size. Small things on this shelf, medium here, and larger items over there."

  Tom set his book down on a crate and began methodically sorting through the donated garments. Most were worn nearly to transparency, with patches and darned spots testifying to their previous owners' attempts to extend their usability. Even in their deteriorated state, they represented a significant windfall for Wool's, where clothing was typically passed down until it literally fell apart.

  "What are you reading?" Martha asked after several minutes of silent work, nodding toward Tom's book.

  "'Oliver Twist,'" Tom replied, not looking up from his task.

  Martha raised her eyebrows. "Bit advanced for you, isn't it?"

  "I find it instructive," Tom said, folding a threadbare shirt with precise movements.

  Martha suppressed a smile. Tom had always spoken like a miniature adult, using words and phrases that seemed comically formal coming from such a small person. When he had first begun to speak, around eighteen months old, the staff had been astonished not just by his vocabulary but by his apparent understanding of complex concepts. Mrs. Cole had initially suggested that he might be some sort of prodigy, but as time passed, her assessment had shifted from admiration to unease.

  "Well, don't go getting any ideas from it," Martha said, attempting a teasing tone that fell somewhat flat. "No picking pockets or running off to London."

  Tom looked up at her, his dark eyes unblinking. "Fagin and his boys were caught and punished," he said softly. "Their mistake was working with others. Trusting others."

  The matter-of-fact way he delivered this analysis sent a small shiver through Martha. Sometimes she forgot that beneath Tom's vocabulary and composure, there was still a child's undeveloped moral compass, a mind that hadn't yet fully grasped the difference between observing the mechanics of something and understanding its ethical implications.

  "Yes, well," she said, suddenly eager to change the subject, "we've nearly finished here. You've been a good help."

  The corner of Tom's mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile, but before he could respond, the door to the storage room banged open, and a boy of about seven burst in. Eric Whalley was one of the orphanage's more troublesome residents, a stocky, aggressive child with a perpetual sneer and a talent for making life miserable for those smaller than himself.

  "Martha!" he exclaimed, then stopped short when he saw Tom. A flicker of something, not quite fear but certainly wariness, crossed his face before the sneer reasserted itself. "Mrs. Cole wants to know if you've found any shoes in those boxes. Billy Stubbs has outgrown his again."

  Martha sighed. "Tell her we've only just started on the second box. If there are any shoes, I'll bring them up."

  Eric lingered, his small eyes darting between Martha and Tom. "What's he doing down here?" he asked, jerking his chin toward Tom.

  "Helping me, which is more than I can say for you," Martha replied. "Now go on, back upstairs with you."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Eric scowled but turned to leave. As he passed Tom, he deliberately knocked into the smaller boy's shoulder, causing Tom to drop the shirt he had been folding. "Watch it, Riddle," Eric muttered.

  Tom said nothing, simply retrieving the fallen garment with unhurried movements. But his eyes, when they met Eric's, contained something that made the older boy quicken his pace toward the door.

  After Eric had gone, Martha shook her head. "Don't mind him, Tom. He's just a bully."

  "I don't mind," Tom said, resuming his folding. And indeed, his face showed no sign of distress or anger, just the same composed neutrality it always wore. But something had changed in the atmosphere of the room, a subtle shift in pressure that Martha couldn't quite identify but which made her suddenly anxious to finish the task and return upstairs.

  "Well, that's enough for today," she said, closing the box she had been sorting. "You can take your book and go back outside if you like."

  Tom nodded, picked up "Oliver Twist," and left the storage room without another word. Instead of heading back to the courtyard, however, he made his way deeper into the basement, to a small alcove hidden behind one of the massive coal bins. It was a space he had discovered some months ago, a forgotten corner where the foundations of the building had shifted slightly, creating a pocket just large enough for a small boy to sit comfortably.

  In this private nook, Tom settled cross-legged on the floor, his book beside him, and closed his eyes. The incident with Eric Whalley had stirred something inside him, a simmering resentment that had been building for as long as he could remember. Eric was just the latest in a long line of tormentors, children who sensed Tom's difference and hated him for it.

  Tom had always known he was different. It wasn't just his ability to speak earlier than the other children, or his preference for solitude, or even the fact that he had never succumbed to the multitude of illnesses that regularly swept through the orphanage. It was something deeper, a fundamental separation from the mundane world around him. And lately, this difference had begun to manifest in ways that both thrilled and frightened him.

  He opened his eyes and stared at a small pebble on the floor before him. Focusing his mind, he pictured the pebble rising into the air. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then, almost imperceptibly, the pebble twitched. It rose a fraction of an inch, hovered briefly, and dropped back to the floor.

  Tom's breath caught in his throat. He had been practicing this for weeks, ever since the first time he had made a book fall from a shelf without touching it. That had been an accident, a moment of intense frustration when one of the older girls had placed his book out of reach. He had stared at it, wishing desperately that he could reach it, and suddenly it had tumbled to the floor at his feet.

  Since then, he had been experimenting in secret, testing the boundaries of this strange ability. He could move small objects if he concentrated hard enough, and once, when locked in the cupboard under the stairs as punishment for something he hadn't done, he had managed to unlock the door from the inside without touching it.

  Now, he tried again with the pebble. This time, it rose more steadily, hovering about six inches above the floor before he lost concentration and it fell. A small smile, genuine this time, curved Tom's lips. He was getting better, stronger. Soon, he would be able to do more than move pebbles.

  The dinner bell rang, its tinny sound penetrating even to his hidden alcove. Tom reluctantly gathered his book and made his way back upstairs. The dining hall, a long room with scarred wooden tables and benches, was already filling with children by the time he arrived. He took his usual place at the end of a table, apart from the others who instinctively left a gap between themselves and him.

  Dinner at Wool's was a decidedly spartan affair. Tonight, it consisted of a thin vegetable soup and slices of bread that had been charitably described as "day-old" but were in reality considerably older. The economic downturn had hit the orphanage's finances especially hard, and meals had grown progressively more meager over the past year.

  Tom ate methodically, his mind elsewhere. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice Eric Whalley's approach until the older boy was directly across the table from him.

  "Riddle," Eric said, his voice low enough not to attract the attention of Mrs. Cole, who was supervising from her position near the door. "I hear you've got extra."

  Tom looked up, his dark eyes meeting Eric's watery blue ones. "I don't know what you mean," he said coolly.

  Eric snorted. "Martha gave you extra bread. I saw her slip it to you when you were helping." This wasn't true, but Eric had found that accusation was often as effective as evidence when it came to intimidating smaller children.

  "She didn't," Tom replied, returning his attention to his soup.

  "Give it here," Eric demanded, reaching across to grab Tom's plate, which still held half a slice of bread. "Or I'll tell Mrs. Cole you stole it."

  What happened next occurred so quickly that later, when Eric tried to explain it to Mrs. Cole, he found himself stumbling over the details. One moment, he was reaching for Tom's plate, and the next, a wave of scalding soup somehow leapt from his own bowl directly into his face.

  Eric's scream brought the dining hall to a standstill. He fell backward off the bench, hands clutching his face, which was reddening rapidly where the hot liquid had splashed him. Mrs. Cole rushed over, demanding to know what had happened.

  "He did it!" Eric howled, pointing at Tom through streaming eyes. "He made it happen!"

  "Don't be ridiculous," Mrs. Cole snapped, examining Eric's face. "The burns aren't serious. You probably knocked your own bowl over." But even as she dismissed Eric's accusation, her eyes traveled to Tom, who sat perfectly still, his expression one of mild interest, as though observing a mildly entertaining street performance.

  "I didn't touch him," Tom said softly when he noticed Mrs. Cole's gaze. "He was trying to take my bread."

  Several children who had witnessed the incident nodded reluctantly, confirming that Eric had indeed been reaching across the table. None of them mentioned the strange way the soup had seemed to leap upward against gravity, because none of them could quite believe what they had seen, and because admitting such a thing would mean acknowledging that Eric might be telling the truth about Tom somehow making it happen.

  Mrs. Cole's lips thinned to a bloodless line. "Take him to the infirmary," she instructed Martha, who had appeared at the commotion. "The rest of you, finish your meals in silence."

  As Martha led the sobbing Eric away, Mrs. Cole remained beside Tom's table, studying the small boy who had returned to eating his soup as though nothing unusual had occurred.

  "Did you do something to him, Tom?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

  Tom looked up, his dark eyes wide with an innocence that might have been convincing if not for the cold calculation behind it. "How could I? I was sitting here, and he was over there."

  It was a perfectly reasonable response, and yet Mrs. Cole felt that familiar chill crawl up her spine. She had been present for too many strange incidents involving Tom Riddle to dismiss this one entirely, regardless of how impossible Eric's accusation might seem.

  "Finish your dinner and go directly to your dormitory," she said finally. "I don't want to see you wandering the halls tonight."

  Tom nodded obediently and returned to his meal. Mrs. Cole walked away, one hand unconsciously reaching for the silver cross at her throat.

  Later that night, long after the other boys in his dormitory had fallen asleep, Tom lay awake, reliving the moment when Eric's soup had defied physics. He hadn't planned it, not exactly. He had simply felt a surge of anger when Eric reached for his plate, a white-hot flash of rage that had demanded expression. And somehow, that rage had translated into action, had reached out and turned Eric's own meal against him.

  It had been more powerful than moving pebbles, more satisfying too. The look of shock and pain on Eric's face had been, Tom had to admit, deeply gratifying. For once, the tormentor had become the tormented, and Tom had been the cause.

  Rolling onto his side, Tom stared out the dormitory window at the sliver of night sky visible between buildings. Somewhere out there, he felt certain, were answers to questions he hadn't even fully formulated yet. Why was he different? What was this power growing inside him? And most importantly, how could he control it, direct it, make it serve his will?

  A small garden snake had found its way onto the window ledge outside, its slender form silhouetted against the faint glow of a distant streetlamp. Tom watched it, admiring its fluid movements, its perfect adaptation to its nature. Snakes never pretended to be anything but what they were. They didn't apologize for their venom or their hunger.

  "Hello," Tom whispered, more to himself than to the creature outside the glass.

  To his astonishment, the snake's head swiveled toward him, its tongue flicking rapidly as if tasting his words on the air. It slithered closer to the window, pressing against the glass as though trying to reach him.

  "Can you hear me?" Tom breathed, sitting up slowly to avoid disturbing the other boys.

  The snake bobbed its head in what could only be described as a nod, its unblinking eyes fixed on Tom's face.

  A strange sensation flooded through Tom, a recognition so profound that it momentarily took his breath away. This, too, was part of his difference, this ability to communicate with a creature that should have been mindless, driven only by instinct.

  "What else can I do?" he whispered to the snake, not really expecting an answer but needing to voice the question aloud.

  The snake merely watched him, its gaze as inscrutable as his own often was to others. But Tom felt something pass between them, an understanding that transcended words. The snake knew what he was, even if Tom himself did not fully comprehend it yet.

  In that moment, lying in his narrow bed in a decrepit orphanage in Depression-era London, five-year-old Tom Marvolo Riddle made a silent vow. He would discover the extent of his powers. He would learn to control them, to bend them to his will. And he would never again be at the mercy of the Eric Whalleys of the world.

  Outside, clouds scudded across the moon, casting the snake on the windowsill into shadow. When the light returned, the creature was gone, leaving Tom alone with his thoughts and the sleeping forms of children who would never understand what it meant to be truly different.

  In the administrative office below, Mrs. Cole sat at her desk, a glass of gin in one hand and Tom Riddle's file open before her. The file contained the usual documentation: birth certificate, medical records, quarterly evaluations. But it also contained a separate section, begun shortly after Tom's second birthday, in which Mrs. Cole had taken to recording incidents that defied rational explanation.

  Tonight, she added a new entry: "June 18, 1931. Incident at dinner involving E.W. Soup behaved unnaturally. T.M.R. present but not visibly involved. E.W. sustained minor burns. Staff remain vigilant."

  She closed the file and took a long swallow of gin, willing it to dispel the persistent unease that had settled in her stomach. Mrs. Cole considered herself a practical woman, not given to flights of fancy or superstitious dread. And yet, as she prepared to retire for the night, she found herself offering up a small prayer, not for Tom Riddle's soul, which she had begun to suspect might be beyond redemption, but for the safety of the other children under her care.

  Something was growing in Tom Riddle, something that existed beyond Mrs. Cole's limited understanding of the world. All she knew with certainty was that it wasn't good, and that she was powerless to stop it.