Chapter Text
It's the middle of the War. Overhead, German Stuka bombers soar through the dark sky, those great big machines of war. In the distance, young Tom Riddle can hear other parts of London being bombed.
For the past few days, this has been his reality. Huddled in a bunker with the other children from the Wools Orphanage. Mrs. Cole had long since died, along with the other adults who had taken shelter in the bunker. Supply run casualties, the policeman who came to tell them said, before he too died of shrapnel stuck in his skull.
There were hardly a handful of them left now. Amy Benson. Dennis Bishop. Billy Stubbs and his younger brother, Wally Stubbs. Eric Whalley. Donna Wells.
These past few days had recontextualized everything Tom knew.
Whatever hate he had held for the other orphans, whatever hate he had held for Mrs. Cole, it was nothing, nothing, in the face of the sheer terror he felt along with them. Together, they dove for cover every time a bomb hit. Together, they quietly ate rations by the space heater. He held Amy Benson's hair back when she got sick all over the floor. He let little Donna cry into his shoulder when she missed her big sister Amanda - killed by a bomb during a supply run with Mrs. Cole. He spoke quietly with Dennis Bishop, their old rivalry long forgotten. It all seemed so insignificant now. So what if he used to bully him? What is a little bullying in the face of the sheer, inhuman cruelty that is war?
One night, Tom woke up in a cold sweat. The bombs were drawing closer, he could sense it. Even if he could not see anything in the pitch black, or hear any explosions, he knew the bombs would come. And, somehow, he knew that they would land right on top of this bunker, burying all that's left of Wools' Wards.
Not for the first time in his life, Tom felt fear. But more than that, it melded into desperation. Desperation to save the others. Desperation to save himself.
And that's when he saw Him.
There was an extra child in the bunker.
He kept tapping away at the concrete wall with a broken piece of rebar. Rap. Tap. Tap. Rap. Tap. Tap.
Rap.
Tap.
Tap.
He knew this boy - no, this Being. He had first seen it out of the corner of his eye, when Mrs. Cole had first deigned to take them out on a sunny morning. Always watching, always distant.
His desperation forced him forward. When he reached the being, he cleared his throat.
"I helped you, before," he says, his voice cracking from unuse. "Your foot was stuck in the grate and I helped you."
The Being didn't respond, keeping on tapping.
"I know you're-you're not human. You're nothing like I've ever seen. But I know you can hear me. And I want your help."
The tapping stops. The Being turns, and Tom is faced with his own face, irises and pupil completely black and oily, unnatural grin stretching over his face.
"I can help you, kiddo," the Being replied, its unblinking, lidless eyes focused on him. "I can help you and all of them. But time's running out. You just have to make a deal with me. Let's shake on it."
It extends his - its - hand, smoking and emanating strange vapors, skin blackened but not rotten. He looked at the hand, then around the bunker.
Donna didn't have long left. She would be the first to go, he realized in the sort of detached, emotionless way he used to think in. Amy Benson would be next, wracked with grief - she would puke her guts out. Dennis Bishop would square his jaw but try to remain strong for Billy, Wally and Eric.
Until he, too, broke, and walked outside the bunker, never to be seen again.
Wally would break next, killing his brother for his share of rations, then killing Eric for the same. He would then gorge himself on the rations, perishing soon after.
And Tom?
Tom would sink back into his old self. That callous child who enjoyed killing rabbits or setting other kids on fire.
Tom looks back.
He swallows, his dry throat scratching.
He extends his hand
and
shakes.