He Is No Longer Alone
London, 1935
The future. He'd been to the future! Tom could scarcely believe it, but the evidence was stacking up. He'd found another date in the book: a library slip tucked against the back cover with a check out date from 1987. Those two years taken in conjunction with the finely crafted book and the strange-looking girl he'd met settled the idea for him. Somehow, he'd transported himself not just through space but time as well—fifty-two years into the future!
How he'd managed to do it was elusive, though. Obviously, he'd worked too hard to overpower Dr. Edison. But how did trying to make the doctor go away suddenly become time-travel? It had something to do with the unbearable pressure that had built at his left temple, but exactly what he'd done was becoming less and less clear.
So he tried to replicate it. Sitting alone in the barren, walled courtyard, Tom dove into the core of himself. He grabbed at the power within, forcing more and more out as he concentrated on the idea of hopping forward in time. A few rocks skidded along the ground, pulled toward him by unseen strings, but nothing else happened for a while. After a time, his left temple began to throb, and he renewed his efforts with vigor. Ignoring the fine tremor that suffused his limbs, Tom impatiently dove deeper. The rocks were pulverized to dust and somewhere on the other side of the orphanage a window shattered, but the pressure did not break as last time. The throbbing built and built until he couldn't even see out his left eye anymore, but nothing snapped, nothing changed.
Exhausted and bitterly angry, Tom stopped. He despised failure, particularly when it was his own. What had he done wrong? What was different about now that he could not work this trick a second time?
He spent the rest of the day in a furious sulk, taking his temper out on any of the other children who dared look twice at him.
Tom continued experimenting every day for the next week, and although he felt as if he was nearing an inevitable precipice, he never once managed to tip over the edge no matter how hard he tried. His head throbbed in perpetual agony and his mood spiraled into ever darker depths at his continued failure, but he kept at it every single day. Unfortunately, it was just after his latest failure when the new boy found him.
The fair-haired blond had arrived at the orphanage in a whirlwind of drama some two or three weeks ago, and the little idiot had yet to fully grasp the established pecking order. The other children must have told Billy Stubbs about eerie Tom Riddle, but whatever they'd said didn't seem to have made the appropriate impression. The fair boy had decided, unwisely, to test the waters. Tom found himself increasingly annoyed by these not so subtle challenges, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the other learned his place. Billy Stubbs had delusions of grandeur if he thought he could wrest control of the play-yard from Tom.
Tom was irritated and disappointed from his latest botched try when Stubbs came sauntering up to him. "What'cha doing, Tommy?" He sneered trying to look tough, but there was still a softness in him from the easy life he'd previously led. "No, let me guess! Nothing, like always."
Tom ignored the way the boy had him cornered in the far side of the yard—the blond was at a disadvantage no matter how he positioned himself—as he was hardly in the mood to deal with would-be bullies. He waved at the boy dismissively, hissing, "Go away, Stubbs."
But Stubbs didn't listen. "How is it," he growled, "that I've never seen you lift a finger, and yet you've got everyone here terrified of you?"
Clearly, the other boy had finally reached the end of his tether; he was ready to force the issue of who was in charge. But he was ignorant of Tom's ways, and Tom rather found he didn't care to illuminate the situation much. He enjoyed watching the boy dig this neat little hole for himself. "They're terrified because I don't have to lift a finger."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Stubbs didn't get it. Wouldn't get it until he'd had a practical demonstration.
Just then, Amy Benson came darting out the back door, pelting in her bare feet until she stood between them. "Come on, Billy," she urged, a hint of panic in her voice as she wrapped an arm around the blond's elbow. "Leave Riddle alone."
"Why?" He demanded, shaking the girl off. He couldn't know how many times she'd been a witness to something unexplainable, how many times she'd seen bad things happen to people who bothered Riddle. Unaware of the dangerous path he was following, he pressed, "What's he going to do? Tattle on me? Is that why you're all so scared of him?"
Amy's eyes darted over to Tom and the fear he found there was simply enchanting. "Just leave it," she replied, shaking her head. "You don't want to find out."
"You should listen to your little friend, Billy," Tom drawled mockingly, already pulling on his power. If he concentrated, he might be able to send Stubbs flying straight into the high wall or press him into the ground until he cracked a rib. It would be complicated, of course, but after his success with Dr. Edison he felt that perhaps he should be trying more complicated things.
"That's it," the blond snapped. "You and me, Riddle, come on!"
Tom had been in his fair share of scuffs. He'd found that the trick was to dodge just long enough to find an opening for one of his little "skills". Stubbs surprised him though, darting forward with an unnerving speed. Before he could even blink, grubby hands had reached into his pocket and snatched out James and the Giant Peach.
Amy Benson went white as a sheet when she saw what Billy had done and she scrambled desperately to get away.
However, Stubbs didn't seem to notice her reaction. "What's the matter, Riddle? Don't you want it back?" He waved the book tauntingly, a nasty grin plastered across his face. "I knew it—you're not really so tough as everyone says."
Tom felt himself flushing an angry crimson and his vision went positively red as the pressure at his temple began to sear in its intensity. Power flared through him wildly as he lost control of his temper. Cobra fast, his long-fingered hand whipped out to close around the book. Two things happened in very quick succession as he grasped at the glossy cover. First, Billy Stubbs was thrown back as if hit by a shockwave and then, just as the idiot-boy landed, Tom's ears popped and he got the distinct impression that he was falling.
London, 1987
Tom skidded in the slick grass, but managed to stop himself from tipping over as he had last time. He took a moment to regain his composure—the sudden absence of the self-induced migraine he'd endured for the last few days was both sweetly peacefully and oddly unsettling. There was quiet stillness in his mind where before there had been an unending riot of angry, preternatural residue.
"You again!" A familiar voice shrieked at him.
Tom looked up. Once more he was stood before the old tree, the rickety covered bench, and the strange girl. The little hellion was in trousers again—thick, pin cord fabric encasing each leg. Mrs. Cole would have had an apoplexy if she'd been there to see it. The old bat probably wouldn't have liked the rainbow colored belt or the garishly pink blouse either, and she definitely would have thrown a fit over the state of the girl's hair. Tom considered that perhaps she was a runaway—that she dressed herself would go a long way in explaining why her appearance was so terribly unkempt—but he also had to concede that this could simply be the fashion of the future, weird as that idea was.
The girl marched straight up to him, uncowed by his superior height. She poked an accusing finger against his chest and said, "You disappeared into nothing and now you've popped in from nowhere! How?"
That was a good question. Once again, he'd not actually meant to travel and yet here he was. Casually batting her hand away, Tom looked down to the slim novel he was still clutching and murmured more to himself, "I can't say that I'm entirely certain." The admission irritated him deeply. Why couldn't he control this power? When he'd tried to move on purpose he'd done little more than hurt himself, and yet losing his temper with Billy Stubbs had somehow given him that last push he'd needed. Why?
His thoughts were interrupted. "My book!" The girl reared back, seeming to fluff up with indignation like a great brown cat. "Quickly, give it back," she demanded, the tips of her ears going pink as her voice took on an unmistakably bossy edge. "It will be due soon, and I don't want to be in trouble with the library!"
"Too bad," Tom sneered. He didn't like her tone, didn't like that this was the second time today he'd had to defend his book against outside forces. Spitefully, he added, "It's mine now."
The girl didn't take kindly to that declaration. She stamped her foot, cheeks flushing prettily as her eyes flashed with anger. "I'm not playing," she snapped, darting forward to wrest the tome from him. "Give it here!"
"No," he deadpanned, raising the book above his head, watching in malicious glee as she jumped fruitlessly in an attempt to retrieve it—she was more than a full head shorter than him and even her highest jump barely reached his outstretched elbow. "I might need this to make the trick work." Really, who knew? It was the only thing he could think of that might have sparked this latest episode of traveling.
The girl ignored those words as she clearly didn't know what he was talking about. Panting and flushed, she separated from him, taking a few steps back in a fine fury. "It isn't yours to use!"
"What are you going to do?" He laughed, cruelly amused at her wasted efforts. "Going to cry?"
She certainly looked as if she could at any moment—her cheeks were bright red by now and her eyes were sparkling as if she might be holding back tears. But her face didn't crumple and she made not a sound; instead she bared her teeth in a mean little snarl and held out her hand.
He was about to laugh that she could keep her hands to herself since there was no way he was handing James and the Giant Peach over, but then he felt it. It was a subtle thickening in the air, the indefinable brush of familiar power, only it wasn't his own. Before he could even so much as blink, the book had slipped from his grasp and sailed through the air until the girl caught it with a shocked look. She stared down at the glossy cover now clutched between her small fingers, her lips parted in surprise.
Tom's mouth went very dry, the book all but forgotten. Never, not once in eight years, had he met someone with powers like his own. And yet here was this girl, fifty-two years removed from him, that could make things move without touching them, just as he could!
Hermione stared down at the book in wonder. She'd suspected for a while that if she wanted something badly enough she could make it happen, but this was the first time she'd ever made an object fly! Once or twice, she'd knocked things off of high shelves, but she'd assumed that was mostly gravity and luck; now she wasn't so sure. She stared at her fingers, pale little digits gripped tightly around the glaringly bright novel, and pondered at the marvel she'd just performed—she could still feel the thrumming energy surrounding her, even taste it upon her tongue; it was like magic.
"Do you do that often?" She gasped at the question, having quite forgotten that the boy was even there. He stood loosely now, his posture suddenly non-confrontational, but his tone demanded an answer and there was an unsettling look in his dark eyes.
Hermione considered the question. There was no point in denying what she had just done; they'd both watched the book fly through the air without any visible provocation. And, of course, there were those other instances where small but otherwise impossible things had worked out in her favor. After a brief hesitation, she replied, "I wasn't even sure that I could do it."
"Which is to say that you can't control it yet," the boy guessed, cocking his head to the side as he appeared to take her measure.
She didn't deny it—his words were true enough—but there was something about the way he'd said it, the unsubtle certainty threaded through his voice, that set her brow to furrowing. "What do you mean?"
He smiled. Not the sharp, mean grin he'd thrown at her a few times before, but a true, proud smile that chased away the curious blankness which lingered about him. The boy drew himself up, nearly smirking now, and replied, "I can control it."
Hermione felt her eyes widen. Was it possible? Were there others with this same fantastical talent? "You mean you can do magic too?"
"Magic?" He sounded out the word slowly, as if tasting the weight of it, and he must have decided he liked it because he nodded just once. "Yes, I suppose I can do magic. Want to see?"
She nodded vigorously. What might someone who claimed to have control be able to do?
He looked around for a moment before settling his focus on a nearby ground-squirrel. The little thing flitted this way and that until, quite suddenly, it came to an abrupt stop. Hermione could feel the energy building around the two of them and hardly needed the boy's imperious, "Watch," to know that he was somehow controlling the small animal.
Right before her very eyes the tiny rodent did a summersault and then popped up into a handstand, a charming little acrobatic move that had her clapping her hands in delight. "Amazing," she breathed, looking back to the boy as he broke his thrall over the squirrel.
"Hardly," he snorted, although the bright glint in his eyes belied the pleasure he took in her compliment. "Once, I managed to levitate my wardrobe off the ground for three full minutes." He looked her up and down again. "Have you ever done anything like that?"
It was an innocent enough question, but something about it felt like a challenge. Hermione was a bit stricken to realize that she didn't measure up; she was used to being the best at everything, but this strange boy clearly had her outclassed. "I don't think so," she shrugged uneasily. "Mostly, I've just knocked stuff over." Then, not able to keep the self-doubt at bay, added, "If that even was me at all."
He frowned at her mumbled words and strode toward her. Taking her shoulder in hand, he turned her about until they were both facing a large stone that lay just at the foot of the tree. He pointed at it with his left hand, and from just over her shoulder he commanded, "Try."
Hermione became panicked. The boy was standing too close, still gripping her shoulder, and she didn't know if she could give him what he was asking for. She knew she was able to do it—the book was proof enough of that—but she didn't know how. There were no instructions, no guides to follow; she'd been angry before and not paying any attention to how she'd made the book move.
And yet she could still feel the magic in the air, mostly his now but even so it was something to grasp at. She stared at the rock and tried, willed the energy to build and lift the heavy object, but it didn't so much as twitch. "It's not working," she whispered after a few minutes, unaccountably disappointed in herself.
She felt the boy shake his head above her. "You need to focus," he replied, free hand sliding down to grip her limp wrist. "Just imagine that the rock is weightless and attached to a long stick." He lifted her wrist slightly, urging, "Pick up the handle and lift it."'
Hermione found using her left hand a bit awkward, but his instructions were clear enough. She let her thoughts quiet down and pictured exactly as he'd said, latching onto the idea until she felt the air begin to shift around her. The large stone jolted and then slid smoothly upward several inches as she imagined gripping a sturdy handle. Giddy with excitement, she turned around and beamed at the boy.
He idly watched the rock give in to the demands of gravity when she lost visual contact with it, but for all his stoicism she could tell he was impressed at how quickly she'd managed to follow his instruction. After a long moment, he stepped back from her, but the covetous look in his eyes told her he'd only done it so that she wouldn't have the opportunity to push him away. "I've never met anyone else who could do the things I can." His gaze turned introspective, as if pondering some great mystery. "Are your parents magic too?"
Her parents were great people, both of them clever and driven, but she'd never once seen either of them do anything out of the ordinary. In fact, she was fairly certain that they couldn't. And if that was the case, then where had this mysterious power come from? "I don't think so," she answered. "Are yours?"
"I don't know," he shrugged nonchalantly, "I never knew my parents."
"Oh." Hermione felt instantly contrite about some of her more unflattering thoughts toward the orphan boy. It went a long way in explaining his behavior—standoffish, rude, and overly familiar all at once. Who wouldn't be, without the guidance and support of a family?
He frowned darkly as if he could hear her pitying thoughts and snapped, "If the next words out of your mouth are, 'I'm sorry,' then I'm leaving."
"No, don't go!" She rushed to stop him, unsure how to soothe down his ruffled feathers without being allowed to apologize. "We've only just met!"
The boy shuddered, features paling further as he lifted a hand to press against one of his temples. "It doesn't look like either of us have a choice in the matter," he told her, voice gone soft in what seemed like genuine discomfort. "I recognize this feeling—I'm going to be pulled back soon."
"You mean that popping in and out you do?" She asked hurriedly. Had he figured out some sort of teleportation? "Is that magic as well?"
"Yes," he replied simply. He looked faintly amused at the question, as if to ask her in turn what else that sort of power could be.
She ignored his teasing, reeling at the thought of being to travel anywhere she liked at will. "Can you teach me how to do it?"
Tom felt his smile slip a bit, not wanting to admit to her that he hadn't yet figure out how to control this fickle talent. Instead, he focused on the uncomfortable sensation pulling at the edges of his mind. A bit desperate, knowing he had mere moments left before he'd be sent back to 1935, he asked, "What's your name?"
The girl looked embarrassed at this oversight in manners. "Hermione," she replied, holding out her hand.
He accepted her greeting, shivering at the spark that jumped between them when his much larger hand closer around her delicate fingers. For a very brief moment, it was almost as if he'd been able to feel the core of her power in much the same way as he always felt his own. But he pushed the thought aside in favor of pursuing her surname, pressing "Hermione what?" Fifty-two years was a long time, after all. Was it possible that they were related?
Her response was less than he'd hoped for. "Granger. Who are you?"
Perhaps it was disappointment that stilled his tongue or simply inborn suspicion, but he had a feeling that giving her his real name would be a bad idea. "Tom Davies," he said instead. It was a common enough name, loathe thought he was to resort to commonality. But it wouldn't raise any eyebrows and that was more important right now. He wanted the girl to trust him, wanted to explore in what other ways they were similar and in which ways they might be different.
Hermione nodded at his name but seemed more inquisitive about their lingering handshake, though he didn't let go. Tom felt the pulling a bare second before it happened—a second that he used to tighten his grip on the girl's hand—and then, with a sharp crack, he was falling once more, landing heavily in the desolate play-yard of Wool's Orphanage.
London, 1935
But unlike last time, his hands were now empty. Hermione had not come along with him as he'd hoped. Her absence was deeply disappointing. There had been so many questions he'd wanted answers to, so many things they might have experimented on together. Now he simply found himself wondering what had gone wrong—as he so often did these days. The book had been able to travel through time, but not the girl. Why? Had she stopped him or was he simply not strong enough to bring something back that was so much comparatively larger than a novel?
A sound interrupted his thoughts. Amy Benson and Billy Stubbs stood exactly where Tom had left them, both looking at him now as though he were a ghost.
Stubbs rallied first, seeming furious as he asked, "Is that some kind of circus trick, Riddle?"
Tom straightened his coat and gave the other boy a disinterested look. "I don't know what you're nattering about."
"You think you're so clever, Riddle," the other boy sneered, "but you can't deny it; Amy saw what happened too."
They both looked to the girl in question, only to find that she was shaking her head and marching resolutely back to the door. "You're on your own, Stubbs," she threw coldly over her shoulder as she disappeared inside. "It's every man for himself where Riddle's concerned."
Her abandonment seemed to strike a nerve. Stubbs deflated and stalked off almost immediately, but it would only be a matter of time before he worked up the courage to throw out another challenge. Tom knew he would have to nip that in the bud—the sooner that the blond-haired idiot learned Tom Riddle was not someone to be crossed, the sooner Tom could turn his attention back to Hermione.