'The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil, is for good people to do nothing.' (1) ― Edmund Burke.

'If the soul has strength, it conquers and rules thereafter.' ― Charlotte Brontë.

'Are people born bad, or do they become bad? I suspect nurture, over nature.' ― Armando Dippet.

* * * * *

London, 1938. As the storm clouds of war gather over Europe, a brilliant and ambitious boy escapes London's south docks, for the Scottish Highlands. At Hogwarts, Tom Riddle has the opportunity to master magic and put his lean years at Wool's Orphanage behind him. New friendships, experiences and an insatiable appetite for adventure, help him piece together his shadowy past. How will he fare against the Rabisu, persistent nightmares and a jealous, older student? Will the Hogwarts 800 bring humiliation or glory? Slughorn, auror, criminal and a group of loyal friends guide Tom in his choices, but are they the right advisers? Or the right choices?

* * * * *

This is a work of fanfiction. The intellectual property rights to the Harry Potter books, films and existing characters referenced, are owned by J.K. Rowling and her business associates.(2) Consequently, this book is offered free of charge for sharing: on condition that it includes this statement, the original cover and all text — including credits — remains unaltered. If you enjoy the book, please consider passing it on to friends and other Potter fans.

P.E. Seery. November 2017.

* * * * *

(1) 'Men' changed to 'people'. To retain meaning and include everyone.

(2) Bloomsbury Publishing plc, Scholastic Press and Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

The muddy-brown Thames had faded to green along its shore. No breeze ruffled the surface and Deptford's, domino terraces baked in the August sun. The clink of hammers from Westinghouse Brake and Signal Co. were heard but unseen, as workers retreated to shade. Swinging factory windows at Wheens Soap Works, dazzled the pedestrians on Maze Hill and sides of beef at The Royal Victualling Yard, infused the streets with gently-rotting meat.

Not a hundred feet from the river's edge, Tom sat inside on Kit's bed. Although younger than Kit, he was reading a newspaper article to his friend. It spoke of an ambitious new Germany, energised after its recent union with Austria. They were keen to reassure countries such as the United Kingdom, that despite appearances, they posed no further threat. Kit paced around the room, waving his arms.

'It's the same-old, same-old, Tom. We heard it twenty-five years ago. We're all friends, till they march up to your front door, with plans on moving in. I can't believe we're here again, so soon and all!'

'None of us were alive twenty-five years ago,' Tom replied. Intended to soothe, it sounded challenging.

'Grandad were and he paid for it. I never got to meet the man.' Kit ran out of steam.

Kit Trevelyan was born in Redruth, in 1922. His parents moved to London when he was three years old, to find work. They were hit and killed by a tram in Lewisham, shortly after securing digs nearby. Without a family on hand, Kit slipped through the net for two weeks. Locked in a tenement flat, he fended for himself, drinking water from the lavatory and eating whatever scraps he could find. He survived until the rent collector discovered him, dirty and alone. Kit was passed over to Wool's Orphanage, a Victorian building of yellow brick, gone black. With the arched windows of a manufactory, it backed onto the working Thames in Deptford and the street's cobbles sloped into the river, so flooding was common after heavy rainfall. There was a ferry to the Isle of Dogs, which ran regularly from the water's edge. A gangplank was dropped and passengers wobbled aboard, balancing with their arms. If the ferry was half empty and you were coming straight back, Wool's boys could ride for free.

Tom was eleven and had been raised in the orphanage since birth. Kit was five years older and more a brother, than a friend. Parnaby, the orphanage manager, oversaw day-to-day operations and Kit began working for Parnaby once he reached fourteen. He was no longer the institution's responsibility, but they let him keep his old room. Tom's earliest memories featured Kit and although he rarely shared his view of world affairs, he supported him without question. Kit was tall and broad shouldered, with short hair and a tendency to continually nod when thinking. A skilled joiner, his hands smelled of wood shavings and during the day he managed repairs to the orphanage fittings. Being locked up as a child, meant he saw the world as an ocean of opportunity. Tom and Kit fell in together through their many differences.

Wool's was the only home Tom Riddle had ever known. His past was an empty journal with a pen poised above it. Jealousy always accompanied Kit's mention of his dead father, mother, or grandfather; Kit had a past that could be measured, considered and unpacked at will. Tom knew nothing of his history, but believed his destiny lay outside this unpromising patch of London. Tom could make the impossible, possible; it was as natural as breathing to him and he alone possessed the ability. Well, not strictly true. An elderly man had visited him earlier that year and demonstrated that he was not alone in his abilities. Since then: nothing. Tom began to doubt whether the man had visited at all.

As Kit talked and Tom pretended to listen, his thoughts drifted towards his latest diversion. From an early age, he could persuade animals to do as he wished; the barking dog stopped at his silent command, before smacking its chops and sloping off. The blinkered dray horse in the scrapyard, blew and panted, before Tom's gaze pacified her. He graduated quite naturally onto people. If hungry, he would suggest that the orphanage cook look away, then wander into the kitchen, help himself and return to his room. Meanwhile, she would gaze at the scullery skylight, racking her brains and trying to remember what she'd been thinking about.

So Tom spread his wings further than the few streets surrounding Wool's. If the mood struck, he'd cross Deptford Creek and walk up Greenwich High Road; to watch Austins and Hillmans strain up Royal Hill. Once he'd seen an Alvis crest the summit doing more than sixty. A sense of order was developing in his mind. He wanted luxuries he didn't have and felt sure he deserved them; unlike the rich, flaunting their wealth in Kensington and Knightsbridge. They used their advantages; why shouldn't he? Standing beside the boating lake below Greenwich Hill, one Saturday in April, he'd seen a young girl fall in. Her father raced across the park, oiled hair bouncing, as he shouted instructions.

'Don't you move now!'

Tom made the father trip face-first into the shallow water. He hadn't planned it and continued to pretend to himself, that he was nothing more than a passer by. Then a policeman ran to help and was pitched headlong into the lake too. Inside a minute, bedraggled bodies were hauling each other ashore; parents shooing their children towards safety, with canoes and rowboats abandoned. Feeling guilty, Tom headed back to Deptford; looking in shop windows, to ensure no policemen were following him.

* * * * *

Clouds with swollen underbellies, pressed against London's skyline and tarmac slooshed under car tyres, as city commuters skipped for cover. The stoops of buildings smelled of wet, wool suits and skirts, while the crowds watched and waited. A dark shape fell earthwards beside St.Paul's. The shape, momentarily confused, regained its bearings and scanned for familiar landmarks. It spotted Tower Bridge and drew back its wings, pitching into a dive. The river, rain-pitted with peaks of foam, guided the owl, who flicked its wings to rid them of surface water. The plan was to fly low and follow the river east, past the Pool of London, Wapping Basin and over Lavender Pond. The perfume of pineapple and tobacco from West India Dock, mixed with rainwater on its journey northwards. The owl appeared as nothing more than a sidelong glance of movement, to nearby dockworkers. With heavy leather pads protecting one shoulder, they hauled damp sacks of cloves along the quayside.

Octavius spotted the telltale, five-bar pens of the cattle market and veered right from the central channel. He passed the Deptford Ferry before flying over the chimney of Wool's Orphanage; a functional brick building, without embellishments or charm. Using precise timing, honed over decades, he released the letter and it tumbled down the chimney. The letter flew from the unlit hearth, before spinning to a stop in Wool's public entrance. The sideboard and dried flowers, did little to disguise the joyless institution up the stairs. The address read: Tom Marvolo Riddle, Wool's Orphanage, Wharf Street, Deptford, London SE8.

Moments later Ronald Parnaby happened to walk past, though this was no accident; Octavius was a stickler for post arriving precisely when it was needed. In his early forties, Parnaby bent forward to pick up the letter; he winced, then remembered there was no nearby audience. He was healthy enough, but never missed an opportunity to extract sympathy from a bystander. Parnaby turned the letter over several times; mystified how it had been posted through a door with no letterbox.

'Tom...' He paused, puzzled. 'Marvolo? Riddle.' He looked around, expecting laughter from some misbehaving boys. Obviously a joke: Tom Riddle receiving mail. Boys at Wool's didn't receive mail, that was sort of the point. They had no contact outside the orphanage, so this was all very unusual. He carried the letter back to his study, like a bird with a broken wing; then stopped by the kitchen along the way: a high-ceilinged room, with frosted windows facing the river. Parnaby put the letter in his side pocket and took a slice of cooling meat and potato pie. Cook came in, drying both hands on her skirts.

'That's your lunch, Mr. Parnaby.'

'And I'll be having some now.' He left the way he'd come, trailing crumbs behind him. This was Parnaby's kingdom; he did what he liked, not what lowly kitchen staff suggested.

Parnaby's study was oak panelled, with elaborate carvings in the window bay. It gave him a view of Wool's entrance, all the better to oversee its comings and goings. If the orphanage was his kingdom: this was the throne room. Packed with leather-bound books he'd never read, a globe he'd never spun and ledger books he'd never opened. He entrusted all that to his daughter's suitor.

A Bakelite telephone sat on its own table, an arm's length from his chair. It was installed by Mrs Cole, the orphanage owner, but she left Parnaby to run day-to-day operations. He despised the telephone, always expecting it to ring without warning; it also reminded him that he was an employee. Several rungs up the ladder of course, but still in someone's service.

Parnaby took a silver letter opener from the drawer, presented to him by the Aldermen of Deptford and slit the envelope. He read the letter, mumbling as he did so.

'Tom Riddle... Hogwarts... Joining instructions... Platform 9¾...!' He frowned and re-read the first paragraph. 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.' This was so ridiculous, it was very nearly funny; Tom's got in somewhere? A hoax, it had to be. No one knew he was here. Parnaby stood up and admired his mantelpiece, crowded with silver framed portraits. Himself surrounded by local councillors, holding his fists up to a boxer and fawning behind distant royalty. He pulled one of six drawstrings near the hatstand. On the next floor, Slater, the orphanage dogsbody, was summoned and sent to find Tom Riddle.

Parnaby turned, looked up the street and thought of nothing at all.

* * * * *

Sunlight flashed on the wet cobbles. Tom was trying not to stare outside, while he stood with his hands behind his back. It was rare to be called into Parnaby's study during the day; perhaps someone had seen Tom, or found his money cache? No. That was impossible, unless you drilled through the brick in his room, or were familiar with the magical arts.

Parnaby held up the envelope to face him. 'Tom Marvolo Riddle. That you?'

Tom read the address. 'I'm the only Tom Riddle here, sir.'

Parnaby moved on. 'It says you've been accepted to a school of...' He shook his head, smiling in disbelief. 'Witchcraft and wizardry? What do you make of that, eh? Wizardry?'

'I don't know anything about wizardry, sir,' Tom replied.

Parnaby had some tactical manoeuvring to do; he wanted Tom gone, the sooner the better. Reports had come in: independent, reliable reports. Upset boys, items missing, general aggravation he didn't need, some of which implicated Tom. However, he had another problem requiring attention: Jack Yardley and the Cubitt Town Boys. Jack Yardley owed him twenty-five pounds for shifting lumber back in March; a gang of Wool's boys had done the work, with the lion's share coming to Parnaby. Now Jack was cooling to the idea of payment. He suggested there was little Parnaby could do about it, since his muscle were the Cubitt Town dockers. Jack fixed their work rosters in the Poplar and Blackwall basins, so Cubitt Town Boys were guaranteed work. They'd beat up Parnaby on Jack's say so, probably with very little encouragement. Perhaps Tom might do something to persuade them otherwise? Parnaby was beyond desperate and considered Tom worth a shot; rumours were widespread that he was a highly-persuasive young man.

'Look lad, I've no problem with you receiving a bit of schooling. Have a purpose in life and all that business. Right this minute something needs sorting, if you catch my drift?' Parnaby's tongue moistened his bottom lip: a sure sign that someone was being deceived. He shuffled paper on his desk.

'I don't catch your drift, sir.'

Tom allowed his eyes to wander around the room. It smelled of soot and a shaft of sunlight glowed on the hearth rug. The pendulum clock above Parnaby's fireplace, clicked and further up the street, children were playing now the rain had moved on.

Parnaby sighed; he had to spell it out to the boy. 'Jack Yardley owes me this money, see? I need to get it back. If you... assist, then we'll sign you up to your school. Says a late place is available, so there's nothing done and dusted yet. We get the money, you go to school. I can't make it any clearer than that.'

'How,' Tom asked, missing something vital.

Parnaby's eyes narrowed, is he simple? 'I'm a plain speaking man Tom. I've heard the stories; it might surprise you to learn people round here talk. Persuade Jack and you go to school. I've every confidence you'll do the right thing.'

Tom said nothing.

'I know something of your parents, Tom, scraps of information I can't recall right now. Do your bit and chances are, it'll jog the old memory.'

Parnaby was no fool and knew which buttons to press. Tom responded with telltale emotion.

'My parents?'

'All in good time Tom.' Parnaby motioned calm with his downward palms. 'We're all friends here. You can go about your business, I'm sure of it.' Parnaby interlocked his fingers. 'We need to be up The Gun before nine, best place to find Yardley, so have supper and tidy your room. Tell anyone asking, you're on an errand for Mr Parnaby. Yes?'

Parnaby was a liar and a poor one at that, but Tom knew what Hogwarts promised. Education and a new life far from Wool's; Parnaby might release snippets of information about his parents too. He pretended to mull it over, but had already decided.

'What time, Mr Parnaby?'

'Eight pm, visitor's entrance. Off you go now.'

Parnaby watched Tom leave. 'I've just recalled. Your mother was a Merope Riddle, born Merope Gaunt. That's enough for now.'

Tom paused and nodded, absorbing the information before leaving. His outward emotion was now under control, but inside he was blooming. The mother he'd previously imagined, had just become a real person.

* * * * *

Tom returned to Kit's room, but he wasn't there. The room contained a single bed: iron framed with a thin mattress and surplus blanket from the Army & Navy Store. A letterbox window near the ceiling, was the only source of daylight. The locker, just a waist-high wooden box with a swing door, was on one side of the bed; pictures or mirrors were forbidden, but newspaper clippings could be pinned inside locker doors. Providing the content was clean.

When Tom was seven, he'd swept straw at the Foreign Cattle Market with a number of other boys. Several weeks later, Parnaby allowed them into town for a day out. They'd caught the train from Deptford to Charing Cross and walked the Thames Embankments, north and south. Gazed up at the Palace of Westminster, listening to the bongs of Big Ben; then picnicked in St James's Park on apples, luncheon meat and white bread with dripping. It was the first time Tom was aware of Kit always being around. While they walked down The Mall to watch the changing of the guard, Tom became tired, so Kit carried him on his back. There was the thrill of being taller, the marching soldiers, the vast palace, but most of all: the thrill of belonging. Kit wasn't carrying anyone else, just Tom.

Judith — Parnaby's daughter — was there too, in a buttercup-print dress, with yellow ribbons in her hair. She had a way of smiling, with her eyes closed, so you couldn't tell who it was directed at; she was usually smiling at someone else. While on Kit's back, Judith had held Tom's hand, like he was her grown-up husband. He never imagined having a family of his own one day, but people did that all the time; you saw the evidence on a daily basis. Judith would make a good wife, but he had no experience or knowledge of girls, wives or relations. His heart fluttered at the thought of her holding him like a son.