Sundays
“Get up, boy.”
A newspaper whacked Tom upside the head as he tried to sleep. It was Sunday morning and Tom always tried to sleep in on Sundays, even though it could be difficult at the orphanage; there was usually a minister of some sort that would show up and teach them bible stories and other fairytales that the other children all dedicated to memory while Tom let each of them go in one ear and out the other for the most part.
With a grumble, Tom sat up to find his grandfather looming over him.
“In this family, we go to church on Sunday mornings,” he stated. “And you are part of this family, are you not?” Tom bit his tongue and nodded, climbing out of bed and shuffling to his closet.
He got dressed in a proper boy’s suit and made sure to comb his hair nicely before going downstairs. His grandparents and father were waiting for him downstairs, dressed in what Tom was sure was their Sunday best. After his grandmother had ceremoniously fussed over him a bit, they departed on foot to the local parish. Tom had secretly hoped they would take the car; he had liked the car.
The old manor home was almost out of sight before anyone spoke.
“Have you ever been to a proper church service, boy?” Thomas Riddle questioned, glancing only momentarily in Tom’s general direction.
Tom shook his head. “No, sir,” he replied.
“Just as I thought,” his grandfather grumbled. Mary and Tom Sr. both exchanged glances but said nothing to the family patriarch as they arrived at the church.
It wasn’t a secret that orphans didn’t get much by way of an education; most of what Tom had learned he’d had to teach himself, either through the scarce amount of books available to him or by nicking some on the off chance he was able to slip away from Wool’s. But there were plenty of children in the orphanage who had faith. Tom knew the story of the flood and of the Exodus, of the nativity and Christ’s resurrection, but it was all a bunch of rubbish to him. All of it except the power to come back from the dead; that seemed to have merit.
Tom pondered that ability as his family greeted the Vicar on their way inside. The fellow was tall and willowy, with wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on a long, thin nose.
“Welcome home, young Mister Riddle,” he greeted.
“Thank you, sir,” Tom said, though his face was nothing short of expressionless as he quickly moved past him to take a seat with his family in the sanctuary.
When the service began, Tom hadn’t been sure what to expect. But there was something enchanting about the manner in which a church service was conducted. He thought the whole religion thing was a load of rubbish, of course, but the theatrics of it all... it made sense why simple people bought into the whole thing. It was smoke and mirrors. Everything from the priest’s robes to the incense to the hymns... it was all orchestrated to trigger an emotional response from the parishioners.
And Tom took note.
The service was only an hour long, and while Tom had been intrigued by the whole thing he was happy to be back in the fresh air and on the road toward home again. He walked beside his father, who had taken his cigarette case out once more. The silver case glinted in the sunlight, and Tom noted that it was monogrammed.
“Can I have one?” Tom asked, curious about the appeal of tobacco. He remembered a couple of children at the orphanage had smoked, and when Mrs. Cole had caught them... well, it had been unfortunate.
“Absolutely not,” Tom Sr. scolded.
“It’s a nasty habit,” Mary tacked on. “I do wish they’d both quit.”
“Then why do you do it?” Tom’s stare intensified as he focused on his father. “If you wouldn’t have me do it, why do you?”
“Precocious little thing, aren’t you?” Tom Sr. huffed. “I do it because I am old enough and when you are grown and you wish to, you may.”
“But—”
“Tom.”
The Riddles had stopped walking and Tom stared up at his father. Tom Sr. grit his teeth and clenched his fists at his sides.
“Honestly,” Thomas grunted. “You,” he pointed at his son, “will learn how to control your brat. And you,” he turned a quivering finger in Tom’s direction, “will respect your father. He doesn’t have to give you a reason not to do something. You’ve got to listen. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said.
He looked at his father and Tom frowned. He wanted to make that cigarette smolder to ashes. He could do it. He could.
But then he felt a gloved hand rest on his shoulders and a biscuit appeared in front of him.
“I’m not hungry,” he grumbled to his grandmother.
“I’m sure you’re not,” Mary tutted. “But best keep that temper in check, dear boy.” With a small huff, he took the biscuit and munched on it. “You’ve got quite a burden to bear, being their heir. But you’re a smart boy, I trust? A tough boy?”
“Yes, grandmother,” Tom nodded.
“Good,” she smiled. “You need to be.”
Feeling more in control of his emotions, Tom resisted the urge to set all his father’s cigarettes on fire and trudged along. He was going to have to play the long game with his family, it would seem; he could not assert his will over them just yet.
Supper was laid out for them at home and Tom sat and ate quietly, listening to the little conversation that his father and grandparents were having.
“... they’ll be arriving in the morning...”
“... make sure the rooms are in order.”
“... Hawkins will take good care of it...”
“Who’s coming?” Tom inquired. “Are we having guests?”
“It’s none of your business,” Thomas clucked.
“Father,” Tom Sr. shot him a look. He looked at his son and took a drag from a cigarette — his fifth of the day; Tom had counted. “Tom, if you must know, some of my old school friends will be coming for the week. A few of them are bringing their children along; you will have some playmates. How does that sound?”
Tom raised a brow. “I suppose that would be nice,” he hummed.
Adults were difficult to scare, but children? Children were easy. He would actually get to enjoy himself. And he couldn’t imagine what kind of children he would have to deal with; probably all mindless dolts, but they would be easy to control that way.
“There’ll be no funny business, young man,” Thomas warned.
Tom straightened up slightly in his chair and turned to look his grandfather directly in the eye. “Of course not, grandfather,” he smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Of course, if Tom had known what would be waiting for him in the parlor the following afternoon, he wouldn’t have been quite so giddy about the prospect of having new playmates to torment. Had he known, he would have been bracing himself for a storm, not preparing to launch himself headfirst into his latest endeavor.