The Sun Also Shines on the Wicked

And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

The crisp light of the rapidly rising sun lit up the buildings of London, and down in the shadowed streets the city had well and truly begun to stir. A horse-drawn milk cart was progressing slowly along, and there were the usual shouts and general commotion of people on their way to work. The noises mingled and gradually floated their way up to the firmly closed windows of a rather forbidding square building.

"C'mon, you lot, hurry up and get downstairs. Breakfast's nearly ready," a neatly dressed, yet shabby girl called out with a tone that suggested she had said this a thousand times before. The children of Vauxhall Orphanage emerged from their rooms in groups of three or four and made their way down the hall in a relatively orderly fashion, whilst chattering amongst themselves. The door to the room at the end of the hall, the one slightly apart from the others, remained firmly shut.

Tom Riddle was sitting on his bed, alone in the threadbare room that held no more than an iron bedstead and a battered wooden wardrobe. At first glance the boy looked no different from the rest; he wore the same grey tunic as every other child who lived in the building. He was perhaps a little taller than most his age, but this wasn't what set him apart from the others. His dark hair, sharp eyes and pale, refined features would draw and captivate the attention of whoever he so wished.

He was in no hurry to join the others. Clutched tightly in his fist was a leather money-pouch and in the other hand was a yellowish piece of parchment that looked like it had been unfolded and read many times. Tom was intently focussed on a peculiar list of items that would only have occurred to the people around him in their daydreams; after a long moment, he carefully folded it away and placed it in his trouser pocket.

It had been two days since the bizarre velvet-suited stranger − Albus Dumbledore − had made his visit to the orphanage, and the maddening itch of excitement had reached an almost unbearable pitch in Tom. His eagerness to go out into London to search for the world that was his was huge, and it had taken all his self control not to leave for this 'Diagon Alley' the moment the old man had exited the building. Mrs Cole did not permit anyone to leave the orphanage on a week day and while Tom knew he could have bent the infernal woman's will and received the permission to leave with little effort, he did not want to risk the headmaster of his new school finding out.

The man had unnerved Tom, though he would never admit to it. People did not simply keep smiling when he wanted them to do something, and the way he had found out about the things Tom had secreted away in his cupboard made the boy feel as if the wizard knew far more about what was going on than he should. I am a wizard too, though. The wicked thrill of the thought made a sinister smile spread across Tom's face, and he allowed himself a moment to savour the feeling. Even the fact that he had been forced to return the little trinkets from his wardrobe to their rightful owners the night before did not diminish his mood.

He was going to leave this place, and if he first had to return a few ridiculous items with an apology he most certainly didn't mean, then so be it.

The weekend had now dawned and Mrs Cole had no valid reason to stop Tom leaving. He slid off the bed with its coarse grey woollen blanket, and strode out of his room and to the woman's office with purposed determination.

Rapping his knuckles on the door as he entered the room was all the warning Tom gave for his arrival. He walked up to the desk that partially obscured the lady he wanted to see behind a small mountain of paperwork. Mrs Eleanor Cole looked up with only a small measure of surprise to see the dark-haired boy that had given the orphanage staff so much cause for unease over the years.

"You will wait until I say you may enter, do you understand?" she scolded in a way that lost a lot of its effect with her frazzled hair and worn, pinched expression.

With the merest conceding nod, Tom locked his eyes with hers. "I am going to go 'round London now; I need to get things for school."

Eleanor was more than eager to get the boy out of her hair, but she couldn't seem to muster herself to respond until Tom broke their gaze with an expectant stare. "Yes, well, you must be back in time for lunch, Josephine won't warm you up any food if you are late," she stated before giving her dismissal with a wave of her hand.

A small measure of relief flooded Eleanor Cole as she watched the grey blur that was Tom Riddle quickly exit the room. Pushing a thin wire framed pair of reading spectacles up her nose, the woman settled back in the worn armchair she was in. She felt a certain guilt at being glad to see the boy leave, but it was overridden by the fact that the day always went a lot more smoothly when the dark-haired enigma was not amongst those she had to care for. The other children behaved better when he was not around, and there were no nasty incidents either. Of course, we've never seen him do anything; he really could be an innocent boy with a bad habit of attracting trouble...

The futile thought was squashed by the sound of the young helper Ruth's footfalls trumping up the stairs to administer more medicine to poor Eric Whalley. It was impossible for Tom to have been the cause of the boy's seemingly incurable bout of never-ending ailments, but all she knew was that it had been almost two weeks since the two had that frightful argument and ever since, he had not been right. Guilty or not, things were just never satisfactory when that child was around and she looked forward to the day he would be far away from her and the other residents of Vauxhall Orphanage.

The sound of a heavy wooden door slamming shut made a pigeon perching on the wrought iron fence of the orphanage take off in fright. The poor bird had been startled, either because of the unexpected noise, or the look of a certain feral eagerness on the face of the dark-haired boy that had just exited the building; it was hard to say for sure.

Tom set off across the barren courtyard, crushing the lone flower that had managed to struggle its way through one of the many cracks in the paving stones. Once out of the gates and onto the now bustling street, he headed down the road to his left, and was soon swallowed in the crowd of adults. Despite his striking appearance and uncanny ability to get his way when he tried, Tom Marvolo Riddle was just another orphan to the people of Vauxhall, and his grey tunic marked him as such to outsiders. 'Not special or any different from the rest' was the signal such clothes sent, and most people simply dismissed him from their minds as if he wasn't there.

~*~

This is it? Tom's dark brown eyes were narrowed in consternation as he stood outside the blackened brick exterior of the Leaky Cauldron. Two grubby, yellowed glass windows didn't give much clue to what waited inside, but the fact that all the Muggles didn't notice the pub as they walked by was not lost on him. All illusions of a grand entrance into the Wizarding world now well and truly crumbled; nevertheless, Tom remained in an excited mood. Hastily glancing around to check no one was watching, he reached his hand out to the dull brass door handle and before his fingers connected with the cool metal, the door swung open of its own volition.

Self-satisfied smirk in place, Tom stepped forth and immediately took note of his surroundings. The room was dark, shabby and everything was slightly hard to define owing to the thin purple haze of pipe smoke lingering in the air. It doesn't look like magic in here at all, he frowned. But I can feel it, there's something here that's different to any place I've been before...

Deciding he should pay note to what Dumbledore told him, Tom approached the bar where a balding man was cleaning a glass mug with a rag. Distastefully taking in the scruffy appearance of yet another person who shared his name, he cleared his throat with conviction.

"Are you Tom the barman?"

Looking up with a slightly startled expression, the innkeeper searched around and wondered if he was hearing things before dropping his gaze lower and meeting the expectant stare of a wizard no more than eleven years old. He settled the mug down on the counter and focussed on the boy.

"Yes, sir, I am. Bit young to be in here on your own, aren't you? Anything I can help you with?" Tossing the damp rag onto his shoulder and leaning his elbows on the scrubbed wooden surface of the bar, the elder of the two Toms smiled hospitably.

Masking the scowl that threatened to emerge from being treated as a helpless child, Tom gave a small smile and nodded.

"I've been told by Professor Dumbledore that I must see you to get into Diagon Alley."

"Ah yes! Of course, right this way then." The innkeeper ushered the initially resistant boy through the bar and out into a small courtyard that held nothing more than a dustbin, some weeds and a wooden crate full of empty glass bottles.

Apart from Tom's initial encounter with magic in the form of his blazing wardrobe, all the rest had been rather undramatic. His attention immediately gravitated to the wand that emerged from the wizard's pocket and he watched like a hawk, eager to see more demonstrations of magic as an unremarkable brick was selected out and tapped. For a moment nothing happened and Tom wondered if the barman was completely bonkers. But then the brick wriggled and a small hole appeared. Taking a hasty step back, he watched as the small hole shifted and transformed into a large archway that lead onto a cobblestone street that appeared to have no end.

"I won't be needing you anymore," was the thanks the old man received for his help when Tom darted around him and into the alley.

If Tom had ever experienced a Christmas on which he had received more than a few donated hand-me-downs he hated, it could have been said that he looked like a child for whom it had come early. But he had never been treated as anyone special, and besides, the description wouldn't have really fitted with the way he was smiling; it was certainly not a smile of innocent joy.

Unusual sights and sounds abounded. Witches and wizards were all dressed in robes of varying colours and fabrics, which only served to draw Tom's attention to the fact that he was still wearing the grey, custom-issued tunic from Vauxhall. Wanting to be rid of anything linking him to the world in which he grew up, Tom hurried into a shop advertising the sale of second-hand robes.

I don't care if they're not new, as long as I can get out of these damned clothes. The thought caused a renewed surge of hatred in Tom. It was a hatred that ran like poison in his veins, for the weak, pathetic woman that was his mother. It was her fault he had lived at Vauxhall for eleven years, and if she hadn't succumbed to death then he wouldn't have had to grown up surrounded by snotty-nosed, whining idiots.

Walking over to a rack of everyday robes that looked about his size, Tom let his fingers run across the fabrics and the anger that had filled him only moments before slowly dissipated. Even though they were second-hand, they were wizard's robes and they symbolised the fact that he would no longer have to be just another mouth to feed at Vauxhall Orphanage. Pulling a dark green robe off its hanger, Tom looked it over with a critical eye. The colour had always appealed to him, it reminded him of the country excursions he sometimes went on, the ones when snakes came out of the grass and whispered things to him.

The first time a snake had hissed that the boys and girls 'would be bitten if they got too close to her nest,' Tom had stumbled backwards in fright. No one noticed because he was off on his own, having refused to join in the company of the others and their idiotic ball games. Not that he was exactly a favoured playmate of the other children; they had learnt quickly that playing with Tom Riddle meant getting hurt. After that, though, the trips to the countryside were always eagerly anticipated by Tom, especially after he got one particular snake to bite Bobby Jenkins.

Tom had been filled with delight while he watched the older boy writhe on the ground clutching his ankle as tears poured down his face, and the feeling had only been slightly marred because the snake hadn't been poisonous.

Snapping out of his reverie when he heard someone moving out the back of the small and cluttered shop, Tom busied himself moving through the list of all the clothes he would require for the year ahead.

Valerie Hinckley wandered into the shop front with a list she was currently perusing, and spotted the jet-black hair of the young wizard that had entered her premises. "You okay there, love?" enquired the plump witch with greying brown hair pulled up into a bun on top of her head. She gave Tom a maternal smile, noting that the boy was completely alone but deciding not to remark on it.

A slightly awkward silence hung in the air when the boy didn't reply, and Valerie thought that perhaps the boy was deaf. But he simply didn't feel he had to reply until he was ready, and after choosing a pair of trousers, Tom decided he had everything that was required. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to make sure I had everything before I bothered you," he said by way of apology as he walked up to the counter and placed all the clothes next to the register with an exaggerated heave.

Sympathy flooded Valerie, who had always had a soft spot for children.

"Don't you have anyone to help you?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.

While compassion had always been a personality trait of Hinckley, tact had unfortunately never been.

Looking into the witch's eyes, Tom could sense his advantage and seized it with lightning reflexes. "No, Miss, my mother and father are both dead and I don't know anyone else who could take me. I got this money from my school so I could afford to buy my supplies, I just hope it's going to be enough..."

The uncertain look in those big brown eyes was enough to make Valerie melt inside and she bustled about making a big fuss of adding up the costs of all the clothes. When she told the boy the amount he owed, it was a good deal less than what should have been paid.

Having turned the gold, silver and bronze coins over and over in his hands the previous night, Tom knew exactly which coins he needed to hand to the witch. Moments later he had changed in one of the booths and was walking out of the shop, tucking the leather money-bag into his robe pocket as he went. He glanced back over his shoulder and opened the single bag he held to make sure everything was there. Tom's distrust made him suspect that Valerie may have tried to take back some of the things she sold him. The bag was small and very light, but, to his surprise, everything was there. This didn't mean he felt remorse for suspecting the kindness of the lady; far from it. He sneered at having gotten everything so cheaply and smoothed down the green fabric of his new clothes before setting off down the cobbled street that was humming with activity.

Wearing robes didn't feel strange to Tom at all; it felt distinctly right as he wandered down the street, hungrily taking in everything he saw and imagining his father doing the same when he was getting ready to start at Hogwarts all those years ago.

What? A faint, invisible, tugging sensation seemed to be drawing Tom closer to a narrow, slightly derelict shop and while normally he would have paid it no notice, the sign (in faded gold lettering) advertising Ollivander's Wand Shop caused the balloon of excitement in Tom's chest to expand to near-bursting point. Wasting no time on the street vendor selling colour-changing inks, Tom made a beeline for the wand shop's entrance.

A small bell tinkled in the depths of the shop, signalling Riddle's entrance. Every wall was hidden behind rows of neatly stacked, narrow boxes that were piled up as high as the ceiling. The cries of creatures in the Magical Menagerie opposite were immediately cut out when the door closed with a click, and silence fell on the room. It wasn't the heavy, oppressive silence of a strict library or classroom. Tom felt almost as if the room was waiting for something, as if it knew that what was about to take place was significant and worthy of note.

Tom spotted the old man coming before Ollivander saw him. The wizard was old, with fly-away, snowy white hair that reminded the boy of a picture of Albert Einstein that he had seen once in a book. Wide, pale blue eyes gazed at him and gave Tom the impression he was being examined by a pair of miniature moons. "Good morning, I don't believe I know your name?" Ollivander's soft voice seemed to float through the air at a slower rate than normal.

Of course you wouldn't know my name, I've never been in here before. The disdainful thought didn't reflect on Tom's features as he looked at the man standing opposite him with veiled interest. "I'm Tom Riddle," he offered before hesitating and biting his bottom lip. "I...I don't suppose you recognise the name, do you?"

"Riddle, you say? No, I'm sorry, I don't remember ever selling a wand to someone with that name before," Ollivander murmured absentmindedly. What Tom didn't know was that Mr Ollivander remembered every customer who ever bought a wand at this shop, and so his disappointment was only minimal when he heard this. "Which is your wand arm, Mr Riddle?"

"My wa-? Oh," Tom cut himself short, realising what the man meant. "I'm left-handed," he said, and held his arm out at the prompting of Ollivander. A bright yellow tape measure appeared out of nowhere and began taking the younger wizard's measurements, starting off with his arm and then proceeding to wrap itself around his waist twice.

"Why have you got so many wands?" Tom's curiosity was piqued as the man flitted around the room from one wall to another, adding a box of two to the pile in his arms as he went. "Surely they can't all be different."

"Oh, but they are!" Ollivander's eyes lit up with the passion he held for his craft. "Each wand has a powerful magical core that we use in combination with a whole different variety of woods. "Unicorn's tail hair, dragon heartstrings and phoenix feathers are the three substances an Ollivander wand may have."

His exuberant speech was cut short as he held out a wand to Tom. "Dragon heartstring and willow wood. Ten and a half inches, quite pliable. Give it a wave."

Tom took the wand and had barely raised it before it was snatched away again. "No, no that won't do at all. Here, try this; unicorn hair and cherry, eight inches..."

But that wand wasn't suitable either. Minute after minute passed and the stack of discarded wand boxes grew higher. Tom's impatience and Ollivander's excitement both grew until a thought gave the old man cause to pause. "I wonder..."

With no explanation he disappeared into the back of the shop, leaving Tom standing there feeling particularly frustrated and slightly disappointed that he hadn't yet found himself a wand.

"Here, Mr Riddle, try this one," Ollivander invited, holding out a wand that had only moments before been nestled in a dust covered box.

The moment Tom laid eyes on the wand, he felt the curious tugging sensation again and he snatched the wand out of the man's hand so quickly Ollivander blinked in surprise. An odd light danced behind the brown in Tom's eyes, making him look, for a moment, inhuman. It was gone again the next instant when he whipped the wand up in a quick diagonal stroke, causing a rush of cold air and green sparks to shoot out of its tip.

It cued two very different yet equally profound reactions in the pair of wizards. Ollivander was lost in a surprised musing over just how powerful a reaction he had just witnessed, and Tom was visibly shaking. The surge of power that had coursed through his young body was electrifying, and all other displays of magic he had exhibited before paled into insignificance when compared to that.

"It's mine..." Tom murmured, more to himself than to the wand maker.

"Yes, it most definitely is. A powerful wand too, at that," Ollivander nodded, causing his hair to fly into even more disarray as he reached out to take the wand away from Tom to replace in its box. His arm jolted a little when he found the boy still gripping the wand tightly, unwilling to relinquish its possession.

"I'm going to have to take that off you now Mr Riddle so I can package it up for you. You won't be able to use it until you get to school − if you do, someone from the Ministry will come and destroy it."

The thought of having his wand broken made Tom release it as quickly as if it had grown red hot. While he believed himself able to stand up to any stupid adult like those in his orphanage, the thought of someone like Dumbledore coming up against him scared the boy.

"Tell me about my wand," he pleaded, in a tone that was as close to begging as Tom Riddle ever got.

Ollivander's pale, moon-like eyes rose from the box he had just closed. He studied the young wizard in front of him. The boy wore second hand robes; he was alone and most likely Muggle-born. This was judging from the fact he had never heard the family name before, or recognised any of his aristocratic looking facial features. Yet this dark haired young boy was one of the most curious customers he had ever come across, and he was definitely destined for great things.

"This wand was made many years ago; it contains a phoenix tail feather and this particular phoenix only gave one other feather−"

"Who owns the other wand?" Tom asked eagerly, but fell silent at the stern look he received.

"No one yet. Your wand's brother may not be sold for many years to come or it could choose a wizard tomorrow. We simply can't say with these things, Mr Riddle," Ollivander answered gently. "Your wand, though, has decided to choose you. It is thirteen and a half inches, and made of yew, a very powerful combination indeed."

The look of complete rapture on Tom's face made Ollivander feel a little uncomfortable, and he handed over the wrapped package. "That would be four galleons and five sickles, Mr Riddle."

The door to the shop swung open behind the pair and the bell chimed in the back of the room again. A stately looking witch with a sneer permanently fixed onto her face led in a girl who must have been her daughter, judging from the identical steely grey eyes and wavy dark hair. "Come, Walburga," the woman ordered sharply when the young girl dawdled at the entrance, obviously interested in someone or something outside.

"Ah, Irma Crabbe−"

"It's Irma Black now," the woman replied while she hit Walburga's back with the side of her wand to make her daughter stand up straight. The girl did so, and Tom tossed his coins on the counter before grabbing his purchase and heading to the door.

Walburga's eyes were staring up at the plain paintwork of the ceiling as her mother made small talk with the wand-maker, but they were drawn to Tom Riddle as he walked by her. It wasn't as if she had never seen anyone with jet-black hair before, it was quite common in her family. But there was something about this boy and the look in his eyes as he glanced at her and her mother before leaving that made her stare.

With the arrival of the Blacks, Ollivander didn't have the time to bid Tom farewell, nor did he have the chance to ponder what the wand was going out into the world to do. Even if the new customers hadn't arrived when they did, the old man could never have even come close to predicting what now lay ahead for the future.

~*~