The train screeches into the station, belching steam all over the platform. The doors open with a clatter and everyone begins to pile onto the platform dragging trunks behind them, chattering and laughing. The mood is disgustingly cheerful.
The war with Grindelwald is still firmly on the continent and despite the prevalent pure-blood supremacy that’s bandied around the Slytherin common rooms, the political climate in magical Britain is very much in favour of the Statute of Secrecy, so there’s no chance of it spilling over the channel unless Grindelwald gains some serious ground in France. Tom steps off the train dragging his trunk behind him, letting it land on the platform with a thud, face grim at the prospect of returning to Wools once more: Another 6 weeks of enduring callous whispers of devil child and freak, another 6 weeks of trying to hide spell books and cauldrons in a place with absolutely no privacy, another 6 weeks of trying not to curse every single imbecile that runs around its rat-infested corridors. He casts his eyes around the platform, the pure-bloods and even most of the half-bloods who were heading to the floo and apparition points look unburdened and carefree at the prospect of the holiday, no doubt looking forward to relaxing with only their holiday homework to worry about.
In contrast, the crowd heading towards the barrier into King's Cross look grim, jaws set and brows furrowed over tired eyes. He's managed to keep up with the muggle news through no small feat, he doesn't have the pennies to spare on a subscription to The Times but more than a few muggleborns do, a Ravenclaw in the year above will normally give him theirs after a few days and some casual questioning of a half-blood in Hufflepuff fills in some gaps. The Blitz seems to have calmed somewhat although London is still experiencing the odd air raid, another thing to look forward to this summer. Sleepless nights in a cramped Anderson shelter wondering if the next bomb that will drop is the one that will drop on your head. He nods a farewell at Alphard and Evander and starts to drag his trunk out into the muggle world.
It costs him the best part of a sixpence to get to Woolwich and takes almost three hours. The docklands where he is heading had been heavily bombed in the month before he departed last year but he was not prepared to see the devastation The Blitz has wrought. London is a graveyard of bombed-out buildings everywhere you look, rubble litters the streets, and everything looks grey, filtered through the coal smoke and pollution that makes up the smog of the city.
Woolwich is the worst when he finally gets off the bus, there doesn't appear to be a single building left undamaged, boarded up windows everywhere, broken glass and debris strewn everywhere. He begins making his way slowly, carefully picking his way through the rubble to the gates of Wools Orphanage. Tom isn't surprised to see Mrs Cole is waiting for him, standing half out of the door lips pursed clutching the cross around her neck as though it will protect her.
Tom glares at the hateful bitch as he approaches the door.
"You're not welcome here anymore Riddle"
"Excuse me!"
"You ‘erd what I said, you're not welcome. I shan't have you lazing about here like some wastrel. We've children in need of beds." She replied
“Now Leave!”
Tom narrowed his eyes, Mrs Cole gulped.
"Where am I supposed to go?"
The woman sniffed "That's no business of mine you're old enough to earn a living, I suggest you do that."
The door is closed in his face, he catches a glimpse of her crossing herself as she retreats into the shadows just before the door slams.
Tom sits on the step and contemplates, he doesn't dare use his magic, he'd tried it the summer after his first year despite the printed reminder slips they'd handed out to every student. The letter from The Ministry had arrived 30 minutes later, admittedly there were several variables he hadn't considered in his first experiment, but he wasn't going to risk expulsion to test a theory.
He has a small amount of muggle money and a significantly larger (though still small) amount of galleons, earned through carefully traded favours, pieces of information and smuggled contraband. It's not nearly enough to survive the summer. Mrs Cole won't let him back in, she would have gotten rid of him years ago if she had the chance, she tried to several times. Muggle London is not safe for him, that much is certain.
He pulls himself to his feet, he's used nearly all his thinking time, if he doesn't move soon Mrs Cole will be back out with a broom to try and beat him off the grounds. Dragging his trunk behind him he starts to think of a plan.
Diagon will be the safest in the short term. He can send some letters in the morning. Dumbledore might not like him but he's sure the man won't let him starve on the streets, and he knows The Black Family have at least one property in London. Alphard may be able to help, loathe as Tom is to owe anyone a debt, even his friends.
He makes his way back to central London, it's nearly midnight before he's walking back into the wizarding world and the blackout is in full effect, tiny pinpricks of light illuminating the streets. He walks straight through The Leaky Cauldron, it might be a nice inn but he doesn't know how long he'll have to make his money last, there are cheaper places off the main alley.
He ends up at The Hopping Pot, the bartender doesn't even look at him as he asks for a room.
“No can-do son.”
Tom frowns, he knows what he looks like, his muggle clothes are shabby and worn
“I can pay.”
“I don’t give a rat's arse about your gold. I’m not having the Aurors knocking down my door at 6 in the morning to drag some runaway back to his parents. You ain’t got an adult with you, you’re not getting a room. Go back to your folks' kid.” At this, the Barman goes back to polishing glasses.
Tom opens his mouth to say he doesn’t have any before he thinks better of it. It wouldn’t make any difference anyway. The barman won't be convinced and if the Aurors do pick him up, they’ll only drop him off back at Wools for Mrs Cole to kick him straight back out again.
The White Wyvern in Knockturn is only slightly more hospitable. The barman rents him a room for a Sickle and a Galleon and tells him he can have the Galleon back if his door's still intact in the morning. The bed is only slightly less comfortable than his one at Wools but it looks clean and the bedding's fresh. He collapses onto it and is asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.
He wakes up early and heads out so as to make it to the owl post office as soon as it opens. 7 Knuts later he’s sent all his letters, all he can do now is wait.
He receives a reply from Alphard the same evening.
“Tom
Sorry chum, I'm afraid there's nothing much I can do. Father raised the war wards on Grimmauld practically as soon England declared war and with all this blitz business, he's taken us out of London completely. We're currently staying at The Black Seat out in the country. It's all rather hush-hush, family secrets and all that rot, paranoid bunch of bastards is all I can say. I can't even tell you where it is let alone invite you to stay. I shan't tell you how to suck eggs, I know you'll have written old Sluggy but have you tried Druella Rosier, she’s a frightfully good egg, and if you need something to grease palms, I know for a fact she's failing potions and happens to have a rather large crush on you, the usual offer of tutoring plus batting your eyelashes should work.
Keep me posted Tom, I want to hear you're safe.
Your friend
Alphard Black”
The response from Slughorn comes the next morning. It's unsurprisingly disappointing. Full of platitudes and apologies and the inability to actually do anything. The man tells him to write to Dumbledore like he wouldn't have thought of that already. Tom crumples the parchment in his hands before throwing it at the wall of his shabby rented room. Utterly useless man.
Dumbledore still hasn't replied by the evening. The next morning, he wanders the alley looking for help-wanted signs. He spots one in the window of a 2nd-hand book shop and goes in, the bell jangling cheerfully above his head.
"I saw the sign in the window sir. Are you still hiring?" he asks.
The man behind the counter looks him up and down. "How old are you, lad?"
"14 sir."
"Sorry lad, I got nothing for you if you ain't got wand rights. Even the till works on charms."
The next three shops say the same thing.
By lunchtime, he's exhausted and starving he's barely eaten since getting off the train 3 days ago, he buys a sandwich from a vendor on Carkitt market and munches thoughtfully as he strolls around the stalls.
He's debating the merits of writing to Druella Rosier when it occurs to him. The sandwich only cost him 15 Knuts, and it overflew with filling, good quality meat and plenty of salad, you'd never get that in the muggle world, not with rationing the way it is. He does some mental maths eyeing the prices marked on the stalls, converting Knuts, Sickles and Galleons into Pounds, Shillings and Pence. He's just figured out how he's going to survive this summer.
He goes back into the muggle world through The Leaky Cauldron and takes the tube to Tower Hill and then hops on a bus back to Woolwich. He finds who he's looking for outside The Dog and Partridge.
The man's name was Billy Botham but everyone called him Boots. He'd come round to Wools once a week with a bottle of Gin for Mrs Cole, was the area's preferred bookie and he once took Tom with him to nick the lead off of a church roof. He's the perfect type of petty criminal Tom needs right now.
"Aright Boots" Tom shouted across the street letting the cockney he'd worked so hard to polish from his voice slip back into speech.
"As I live and breathe, if ain’t lickle Tommy" Boot's replied "What you doing round here? Mrs Cole don't normally let Wools kids out after lunch."
"She kicked me out din't she," Tom said scuffing his heel on the cobbles having made his way across the road.
"Miserable cow, she always had it out for you." Boots spat on the ground "You got a place to kip?"
Tom nodded "I got it sorted. I was actually hoping you could do me a favour."
"Oh? What kind of favour?" Boots asked raising an eyebrow.
"Nothing laborious, I just got some stuff I was hoping to sell, was hoping maybe you could do me an introduction."
“Laborious" Boots mocked "You been hanging round rich folk too much. What kind of stuff?"
Tom opens his bag. There's a whole side of bacon in there more than a month's rations for a single person.
Boots let out a low whistle. "Crikey, where'd you get your hands on that?"
"Wouldn't you like to know, plenty more where it came from too," Tom said through a smirk.
"Bet it's all those posh schoolmates of yours. Come on lad, I'll take you to butchers on Hare Street, old Ted's been known to accept dodgy goods. If there's anything else you can happen to get a regular supply of, I might be able to do you some good deals myself."
He gets 7 shillings for the bacon. That's enough to pay for his room at The White Wyvern for the next week.
He heads back to Diagon Alley and spends the rest of the afternoon wandering around Carkitt Market, taking notes of prices and figuring out what he can make the most profit on.
It's late when he gets back to his room. Dumbledore still hasn't replied.
He sends a letter to Alphard in the morning him letting him know he's ok, and another one to Dumbledore, he might have solved his money issue but his housing situation is precarious at best he's well aware the landlord could turf him out any minute especially if the Aurors come sniffing round Knockturn.
A week later, Dumbledore still hasn't replied, and Tom refuses to waste another 3 Knuts on a letter that most definitely will not receive an answer. On the plus side though, Tom is making a killing and having the best summer of his life. He doesn’t know exactly how Diagon alley works, but it does and he is blissfully free from the war. He’s not been woken up by sirens once even though he knows there’s been at least 1 air raid since he arrived and when he’d ventured into the muggle world the morning after and saw the three buildings opposite destroyed but the Leaky Cauldron didn’t even lose its windows.
Bacon proves to be his most profitable good with boiled sweets and fresh eggs coming in a close second. Boots has managed to get him introductions to a plethora of shopkeepers. He’s charmed stall holders in Diagon and has sources selling him every single rationed good. He sells his ration book for a neat sum, he doesn’t need it anymore, with supplies being so plentiful on the wizarding side. He’s even been able to exchange regular letters with Alphard, at least until Alphard left to visit family in America.
Tom is an oddity in the Alley, it takes him a while to notice and even longer to figure out why. More than one shopkeeper has asked him if he’s lost and told him that Fortescue’s is the other way. Witches with kind smiles and calm reassuring voices ask him if he needs help finding his parents. They think he’s a child; they all do.
It happens 2 weeks into August. The Aurors raid an apothecary a few doors down from the inn and the barman kicks him out before they’ve finished riffling through its store room. He does get his Galleon back though.
Tom considers his options; he doubts there’s another inn that will take his money. Being a child is infuriating.
He stops by the owl post office and sends off a desperate letter to Dumbledore before heading back to Woolwich dragging his hastily packed trunk with him. Boots might be able to help him out, he’d said as much at the start of the summer.
He can’t find Boots. The man isn’t at any of his usual haunts and their mutual acquaintances haven’t seen him in days. It’s getting late.
It’s getting dark, he still hasn’t found Boots. The blackout will be starting soon, he’s got no time to get anywhere and he’s still got his trunk to drag around.
He goes to St Peter's, Mrs Cole used to drag them there every Sunday for mass, until Father William, after the 4th exorcism declared he could not drive the Devil in Tom out. He was not permitted back inside after that. He had found his current hiding place when he was seven years old. They called it Lourdes room, it has a spiral staircase that goes nowhere, intended for a steeple that was never built. The lock is laughably easy to pick. He hunkers down underneath the stone steps, clutching his trunk close. Hoping the shelter will be enough if the air raid sirens go off. He doesn’t sleep that night.
He emerges bleary-eyed in the grey of the morning, sneaking out of the gate before anyone is likely to be up.
He goes looking for Boots again. He doesn’t find him, but he does find out where he is. Boot’s is in Belmarsh, at His Majesty’s pleasure. The idiot got himself pinched and won’t be out until November. Tom doesn’t have any other connections.
He stays at St Peter's again, it’s the only place he can think to go. So many buildings have been bombed out, there’s no way he’ll be able to rent a room anywhere; a 14-year-old with no declarable income. It’s only 2 weeks anyway. Mrs Cole once made him sleep in the coal shed for longer than that as a punishment. At least he can still make money, even if he does have to drag his trunk with him. Everything he owns is in the trunk He refuses to leave it anywhere.
He receives no reply from Dumbledore.
There’s an air raid 8 days later. He freezes in the small space he’s carved out for himself. The sirens are deafening and he can hear the whistle of bombs dropping, he’s straining his ear desperately trying to figure out which direction they’re coming from and if they’re getting nearer.
On the morning of September the 1st, he makes his way back to Kings Cross, crossing onto the station as soon as he can, he's so early the train isn't even there. The past two weeks have been hellish. He's twitchy, jumping at the smallest noises, clutching his possessions close. He hasn't been able to wash properly either, he feels filthy and his skin itches from grime. He's on the platform now though, it's officially the first day of term, he's safe. He's almost home. He can do magic again. He casts a scourgify on himself, feeling the tickle of the cleansing charm over his skin. It's like a weight off his shoulders. He casts more spells; he refuses to look any less than himself by the time his housemates arrive. Slytherins are a wolf pack, able to sniff out any weakness, he will not allow any of his to be pulled out and put on display.
Arriving back at Hogwarts is a dream. The feast is agony to get through, he just wants to be in his bed, finally able to sleep safely. Alphard can see his distraction but thankfully does not draw attention to it. The minutes drag on until Dippet Finally dismisses them. His bed has never been so inviting, he sleeps fully clothed only managing to kick off his shoes before collapsing into unconsciousness.
He finds Dumbledore the next morning.
He knocks on the office door and waits to be admitted. Dumbledore is marking, he does not offer Tom a seat. Irritation prickles under his skin.
"What can I do for you, my boy? Will it take long? I am rather busy."
He clenches his jaw, Dumbledore is always busy when Tom needs to speak to him.
"I tried to contact you this summer sir, did you receive any of my letters."
Dumbledore cuts him off "If this is about the essay on cross species transfigurations, you'll just have to wait until the review lesson like everyone else." The man still hasn't looked up from whatever he's writing
"No sir, it's actually about my housing situation, as-"
"Look, Tom, as sympathetic as I am to your situation, I'm getting rather bored of this conversation. You know there is no provision for students to remain at Hogwarts over the summer. Besides children need time to spend with their family."
Tom blinks, and his jaw hangs open.
Dumbledore continues "I don't know why you're so insistent on remaining, surely you'd prefer being free from the shadow of war for a while."
"War?" Tom can't quite believe what he's hearing.
"Don't you read the Prophet?" Dumbledore says admonishingly "A smart boy like you ought to be well informed. Grindelwald is-"
"I know about the war" Tom snaps.
Dumbledore finally looks at him.
"I won't tolerate disrespect, Tom. 5 points from Slytherin."
Tom takes a deep breath, it's useless to spend any more time here. He is done with this man and his ignorance.
He will find his own way.