♱ Prologue
London, 1936.
Wool's orphanage was cold, colder than even the grey sky above it. Yet somehow, it managed to stand out amongst the rows of identical brick houses teeming with despair and misery. Somehow, it managed to look even worse.
Around it the air was dry, as if it were about to snap, a warning of the storm to come. Her small fingers gripped the hem of her skirt even tighter, her nails digging into the flesh of her hand. Benedicte Holmes loathed the place and everything it stood for.
She hated the grime, hated the filth and the utter sense of despair emanating from its dust covered walls. The floors creaked, the windows rattled and the grey wallpaper had begun to peel. Barely had she been there for a minute, Benedicte was already desperately awaiting the trip home.
If it weren't for her father, she would never even have found herself here in the first place. Benedicte loved her father very much, but in these moments she often wondered if he felt the same way.
Edmund Holmes, despite her complaints, was quite fond of his daughter. It was why he was always so insistent she accompanied him on his trips to the orphanage. She failed to see it now, but he knew that one day, these visits would serve to build her character and soften her heart. Yet Benedicte was, after all, still a child, and she could not be blamed for her ignorance.
If it were up to her, she would still be in the warm, glowing comfort of her home, sitting in her mother's lap with a cup of hot coco in her hands. But children weren't often handed their own way. Instead, her father's firm grip on her wrist and unwavering determination dragged her past the gates of hell. Benedicte had inherited his stubbornness.
The way to Mrs Cole's office was the same every time; straight up the stairs, down the hall, to the left. She had walked it often, hiding in her father's shadow, but had never dared to stray from its path. She feared the unknown the dark and musty hallways offered, though her pride would never let her admit it.
The office itself was as numb as the rest of the orphanage; yet it lacked the smell of dust and despair that hung so heavily in the empty halls. Often, her father would sit her down in a corner and ask her to listen. These were supposed to be important lessons if she ever wished to become a kind and gracious leader.
She never did.
Not when outside, she could hear the wind whistling. Not when the old bookshelves whispered her name.
But this time was different. She knew it would be the moment her father stopped in front of the office without knocking, which he never did.
"Bennie, I have to go in alone today," she gave him a look— ungrateful and bored, "so, why don't you go play with the other children. They're usually out in the courtyard at this time."
Benedicte knew they were. She could see them kick balls and climb the dead tree from the window in Mrs. Coles office. She was always jealous of their freedom, in those moments. As if she had any reason to be jealous of them.
Though, she had spent so long as an observer, the thought of participating herself had never even occurred to her. These were orphans; they did not belong in the same world. She, in every sense, was superior. If not for her father's money, the orphanage would have shut its doors long ago.
"But I don't want to," came her small voice, defiant and stubborn. Benedicte was a sweet girl, but a privileged one nonetheless. She did not yet know the truths of this world, still living in her own.
"I fear you misunderstood me: it wasn't a question," he gave her a stern look. "Now run along. You do not have to play with the other children, but do not let this become a waste of your time. Explore the rooms or play outside, I couldn't care less. As long as your time is put to good use."
He gave her shoulder a little pat, somewhat of a nudge, too, and waited as he watched her walk away. It was slow and she often stopped to glance back hesitantly; to which he would usher her along with a wave of his hand.
It didn't last long before her father disappeared behind Mrs. Cole's door. Benedicte stared at it bitterly, as if the door was to blame for swallowing her father and leaving her all alone.
For a minute, and then a couple more, she stared at it. In her mind, Benedicte imagined she could make it burst into flames, let it take the whole orphanage down with it. The door remained put.
"Are you lost?"
Benedicte spun around, startled. Before her stood a boy, about her age, with dark hair and pale skin. His face was hollow and gaunt and his clothes were sombre and colourless, blending into the background. In his hands he held a book and in his gaze a look of contempt.
"I'm Benedicte Holmes," was all she said, almost sneering, with her chin jutted upwards. Benedicte Holmes did not get lost.
His eyes narrowed. She had spoken her name as if it were an answer to his question. As if she needed not say more, arrogant and spoiled as she was. He commended her bravery, but he knew she was just like every other snot nosed brat out there.
"That's a boy's name." The words fell off his tongue, delicate but sharp, like a blade to her gut, mocking and cruel. He knew she would take offence.
She pursed her lips, and had to hold herself from taking a step back. Benedicte stood her ground and it took all of her strength to do so. She had never seen such a look but the primitive beat of her heart was enough for her to understand what it meant. He was dangerous and mean and yet he had challenged her. She wanted to show she could be more dangerous and meaner than him.
"No it's not," she scoffed and pushed her short hair behind her shoulders. The mannerism made her feel brave and powerful. She had picked it up from her mother. "It's french," came the punchline and her heart swelled with pride at the flash of emotion in his dark eyes. The insinuation that her name was foreign and that therefore he wouldn't know it would hurt him. She knew it would, not because he was predictable but perhaps because she saw a reflection of herself in his standoffish pride.
His scowl only grew. At the age of nine, the boy hadn't yet grown to mask his emotions as his future self would.
Yet his anger and disdain were already fully fledged. She was testing him, trying to prove her superiority through her manner. She hadn't even asked him for his own name, an effort that hadn't gone unnoticed.
She was similar, he could admit, but they were not the same. Benedicte was trying her hardest to appear a young lady, but it was not an act that came naturally.
Benedicte, as much as she tried to hide it, was still a child, and he knew this the moment he had set his eyes on her. She had never been forced to grow up too early, had never seen her survival at risk for childish indulgences such as curiosity. He stared her down, such knowledge a reassurance as he met her own frown; he knew she would not hold long. Or, he knew he could last longer.
And he was right. It didn't take long for her to crack under the weight of his glare. The question had danced on her tongue and she clenched her teeth, as if the action would keep the words imprisoned. Her efforts were unsuccessful, and they spilled out of her mouth despite them.
"Who are you?" She tried to save face by crossing her arms over her chest, but the boy knew better. He knew he had won this round.
"Tom Riddle," his lips almost curled into a smirk. He always enjoyed the taste of victory, especially when her look of defeat was so sweet.
"Well," she stuck her nose in the air, taking a step forwards, "it's nice to meet you, Riddle." Benedicte held her hand out, though her head pointedly faced away from Tom. She was bitter, but she knew when to admit defeat.
He stared at her outstretched hand. For a second, he hesitated. Then, he grabbed it firmly, and they shook hands, in the middle of Wool's dim and decrepit hallway. "Holmes," he acknowledged, and without knowing it, Benedicte had sealed her fate away to the devil's.
1596 w.