Chapter Text
The cold air of London was unforgiving during this time of year. The days had been dark and dreary, filled with silent prayers and whispers as he went about his day-to-day life. Dark clouds gave way to the winds that blew through his wool coat, chilling him down to his bones. He clenched his hands inside his pockets, exhaling, feeling his breath vaporize in front of him into a cloud of air. The ground was covered with sludge from the leftover snow, and with each step, as he made his way to his destination, he rotated a rosary inside the thick pockets, muttering silent prayers for his Lord up above.
Tom Riddle, an intelligent, gifted young man, had recently ventured into his career in the Priesthood. Upon entering his twenty-fourth year of life, he oversaw the operations of the cathedral where he worked. He had dedicated his entire life to worshipping the Lord, for reasons only he knew. He knew he was special – that he was unlike the rest of the Londoners.
His ability to sway and command the hall was almost hypnotic. When he spoke in a room, everyone would turn to face the blue-eyed man who stood at least a head above everyone else. His eyes would stare into yours and would make you want to confess your deepest sins, a quality that was considered to be good for a future priest. His deep but quiet voice would rattle the bones of the worshippers who stood on their knees at the altar. The Church clergy adored him, the people followed him, and the young boys looked up to him as if he were the idol they were worshipping instead.
Tom was exceptional, his dedication was unwavering. During his younger years, he would spend hours working beside the Priest, researching, studying, and gathering experience with hopes of one day taking his place. He had been working there since his early childhood, where he became an altar boy, and now, a man of twenty-four, he was more than prepared to become a vital part of the Catholic church.
To be important was Tom’s greatest desire in his life. He craved the recognition that he received when he would stand next to the clergy. His azure eyes would scan the room, dark eyelashes fluttering up slowly as he searched the crowd for the faces he had grown accustomed to. After each service, the worshippers would come up to him and kiss his robes to bless him for being such an incredible priest and leader to all of the sheep needing guidance.
Tom Riddle would cite Bible verses, charmingly speaking the way of God’s will upon troubled hearts and minds. He knew his Bible intimately, spending his entire adolescence with his nose to his book, studying each verse. The intimacy with which he knew the Bible was one of the many reasons why the churchgoers around him worshipped him so fervently; he never failed to comfort and guide them toward the light. He used the teachings of Christ to propel him forward, believing that he was blessed personally by the Lord to guide people to follow him. It was a righteous life living as a priest; after all, priests were our closest communicators to God.
On this gloomy Wednesday, Tom was not excited to head to church; he had woken up with a cold and felt exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose red, and the bone-chilling air had him feeling lightheaded. However, he knew his duties must continue, and that no matter how he felt, he had to show up for his church.
He inhaled a deep breath as he opened the large, brown oak doors to enter the cathedral. With a flick of his hand, he turned on the lights in the foyer and walked his way down to his office, where he spent most of his time. He looked at the black leather journal he kept on his desk and flipped it open to the page marked with today’s date. His eyes scanned the page, committing his agenda to memory. Surprisingly, today marked one of the days on which he had less stuff to do than normal. Regularly, his day was filled with multiple tasks such as visiting the sick, baptisms, and marriages as well as masses. However, it seemed that today there was an exception. Other than waiting for confessionals and his daily mass, he had nothing to do.
Tom muttered a small sigh of relief and coated it with a prayer of gratitude to the Lord for allowing him to rest easy during his illness. As he finished reviewing his agenda for the day and the remainder of the week, he rose from his chair to shut his office door. He made his way back to his desk and pulled out the brown rosary he kept on his person at all times, and began his daily prayers for God and Mary.
A knocking sound came from the end of the office, which disrupted his prayers. “Ahem,” the voice on the other side muttered as they cleared their throat.
Tom’s gaze broke from his hands as he looked up, his eyebrows furrowing as his brain racked who could have been there. The church was empty when he walked in; he even turned the lights on himself, so he was unsure when the person on the other side of the door had entered. He took another breath before exhaling and clearing his throat before responding. “Come in.”
The doorknob turned slowly, and soft footsteps entered his room. “Ah,” he sighed, “Sister Beatrice, I didn’t see you when I entered the church,” he said, smiling.
Beatrice nodded her head as a sign of respect before looking up to meet him in his eyes. “That is alright, Father. I arrived only a few minutes after your entry. Did I startle you?” She asked in her soft voice.
Tom shook his head, “No, Beatrice, I was just surprised to hear a knock that's all.”
Sister Beatrice was a woman in her late 60s who worked for the church alongside Tom. She was a kind woman with wrinkles around her eyes. She had a particular knack for working with children, leading Sunday school with authority but affection. Tom considered her a great friend and confidant. Sister Beatrice had raised Tom, she worked at the orphanage where he was raised and was his Sunday school teacher for as long as he could remember.
Beatrice had taken a liking to Tom, for reasons unknown to her. She found the boy to be strange but intelligent, containing depth to his knowledge that many of the schoolboys his age had lacked. She felt a sense of responsibility towards him, almost as if it was God’s calling for her. Thus, she kept a close eye on him throughout the years, eventually leading him to work for the church in his teens.
She smiled at him. “I apologize for interrupting, I came to announce that I had arrived and to ask you if you needed my assistance with anything.”
Tom nodded his head. “Thank you, Sister.” He moved his hand off from the desk and gestured towards the chair that sat in front of him, nodding his head once more to indicate her presence was welcome.
Beatrice shook her head softly, respectfully declining his invitation. “No, thank you, Father. I have to get to preparations for the mass.”
“That is alright,” he replied, “Are you having a good morning so far?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “I shall leave you to your prayers, Father. I apologize once again for disrupting you. I'll let the other nuns know that you are seeking some private time in your office, and for them not to disrupt.”
Tom’s chest rose as he looked and met her smile. “That is good, Sister, thank you.”
With that response, Sister Beatrice made her way out of the room and softly shut the office door behind her.
.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.
The day passed quietly with the Londoners coming into mass in the morning and worshipping the Lord under Tom’s guidance. He took lunch alone and spent the rest of the day praying and reading. As the sun began setting, Tom Riddle began wrapping up his tasks for the day; his confessionals were empty, and the hall of the church was barren from worshippers. The only sound that could be heard was the Nuns sweeping the ground, wiping chairs, and dusting the altar. .
Once the Nuns had departed, Tom prepared to take his leave when he noticed someone kneeling in one of the rows. Her hands were clasped as her face was twisted in stress, her pink lips were muttering rapidly, and she failed to notice the priest at the end of the hall who was looking at her.
Unlike the other patrons, Tom had never seen her before. It was not very common for young women to come to church by themselves; most normally had a parent or friend alongside them. He surveyed her quickly but felt his breath hitch when she crossed herself and looked up. Her eyes seemed to meet his, and he was immediately taken aback. She couldn’t have been older than her early twenties, with her youthful pale face and plump lips, she looked as if she could have been Tom’s age. Her veil covered her jet-black hair and shielded her face from him. Tom had not seen other women enter with a veil, it was uncustomary for his church.
Despite him swearing her eyes met his, it seemed as if the lights were playing tricks on him because she completely ignored him and continued with her prayer, treating Tom as if he were invisible.
After finishing her prayers, she didn’t notice Tom was standing at the end of the altar looking at her. She got up, briefly dusted her skirt, and exited the church without a second glance at him.