Fading Light

"Fading Light"

Alcohol, Tom Riddle decided, was not a potent enough liquid in which to drown his sorrows. Somewhere along the line, they learned how to swim and stubbornly resisted his efforts to consign them to a wet grave. Ordinarily he admired persistence, but there were exceptions to every rule.

Hangovers never bothered him the way they did others. Pain and discomfort were hardly new to him and he found that he enjoyed the wide berth others gave to those suffering from them. He'd been on his way to a spectacular morning after when the air raid sirens sounded. After shoving his supply of Firewhiskey back into its hiding place, he dutifully joined the group heading to the shelter - a subterranean station that put him in mind of burrowing animals, if such animals lined their holes with concrete.

He leaned against the wall, concrete scrapping roughly against his skin like sandpaper. It was almost amusing, he, a wizard skulking under ground in fear of planes he could bring down with a flick of his wand and a few well-chosen words. Distantly he heard another bomb and hoped it destroyed the orphanage.

"Is this yours?" a child's voice inquired. He looked up to see a little girl holding a book out to him. It was bound in worn leather, but wrapped in plain brown paper to disguise its nature; he recognized it at once as one of the books Rosier lent him to read over the holiday.

"Yes," he said taking back the book. He glanced to his side and saw that his book bag was open. He tucked the book back inside and secured the bag's closure. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," the little girl said with a formal nod of her head. Another distant bomb rattled the walls of the shelter.

Tom smiled, the alcohol in his veins allowed him to view the child with a certain warmth. "It appears I owe you a favour for the return of my book."

"Tell me a story," said the girl. Then, "please."

The 'please' made Tom consider her request. It was too dim to read, too noisy to sleep and he wasn't tired yet anyway. There was no one from the orphanage he was in a mood to talk to - they'd all learnt to avoid him anyway. And he had offered the child his favour.

See Professor Dumbledore, he thought as he scooted over and gestured for the girl to sit next to him, I do repay my debts. Let it never be said Lord Voldemort does not keep his promises. Feeling benevolent, he smiled down at the girl, she was a serious little thing with soft brown hair and large dark eyes. For a moment her features blurred and grew older and he saw her at a desk at Hogwarts with the tip of a quill in her mouth, then just as quickly as it made come the moment dissolved. He shook his head and the image slipped through the cracks in his memory.

"What's your name?"

"Eleanor. And what is yours?"

"Tom," and indeed it was his name for the moment. Someday he would leave it behind like a butterfly left its cocoon after emerging to dry its wings in the wind, but that was still in the future. "Where are your parents?"

"Dad's gone and Mum's with Mrs. Enderby. Mum might have the baby tonight - even though its not supposed to come for two more months," Eleanor informed him in an almost conspiratorial tone. "I'm supposed to wait over here until someone comes and gets me."

Tom had a vague recollection of a white-faced pregnant woman being led away by a gaggle of other women wearing identical expressions of fear. He doubted Eleanor had any notion that she might lose both her mother and sibling this night. He both pitied and envied her; if the worst did occur she would at least remember her mother. "What kind of story would you like to hear?"

Eleanor thought a moment. "A true story."

He raised an eyebrow, "not a fairy tale?"

She wrinkled her nose in disgust, amusing Tom. "I thought girls liked stories about dragons and fairy princesses."

"Fairy princesses are silly; they always need rescuing," Eleanor said tartly. "Dragons are good though - they breathe fire."

"I can't argue with that logic. A true story then." He closed his eyes and tried to think of an appropriate tale; Tom had never served as a storyteller before. One particular story kept rattling around his head, it was a wizard tale but what was the harm in telling it to one child who would never believe it anyway?

"Once there was a great castle in the mountains. Four friends - wiser and more learned than any others in their years - joined together to create there a school." As he told the tale he unconsciously echoed the formal tone of ancient sources. "Their names were Godric, Helga, Rowena, and Salazar and they had sworn a most sacred oath to remain true to their own kind and to one another. For long years this oath was kept, but Godric, Helga and Rowena went astray, why is not recorded only that they abandoned their promise."

He fell into silence then, reflecting for a moment on the treachery of the other founders.

"My mum always says people ought to keep their promises," Eleanor put in as his silence started to become oppressive.

Tom ruffled her hair. "Quite right. Now, where was I... oh yes. Salazar tried to bring his friends to repent of their error, but they would not hear his words. Soon afterwards they cast him out of the castle into the bitter cold."

Tom continued, "he wondered many years before he encountered a beautiful lady who offered him shelter. In due course she became his wife and bore him a son. When the child was seven years of age, Salazar took ill and as he lay dying he made a prophesy that someday one of his descendants, his own true heir who would be gifted with Salazar's special gift, would return to the castle and mend that long ago error. After Salazar's death careless talk spread the prophesy and his son was forced into hiding."

Eleanor glanced around the room, a very serious expression on her young face. "Hiding is not fun."

"No, it isn't," Tom agreed. "His heir was born many years after Salazar died. He was an orphan, all alone in the world, and no one paid him any heed unless they wanted something from him."

"This sounds a little like Cinderella, her stepsisters made her do loads of chores."

He had never thought of comparing his own life to the fictional scullery maid. Cinderella was content to wed the prince, Tom wanted the entire kingdom and those of its neighbours to reshape. "Not quite like that, but it will suffice."

"Suffice?"

"It means it will do."

"Oh," she yawned. "Thank you. That's a good word, suffice."

"When the time came the heir journeyed to the castle, posing as just another student. He searched high and low for a secret room built by his ancestor. Inside, it was said, was the weapon he needed for his task."

"Did he find it?"

"That part of the story has not been written yet."

To his surprise, Eleanor snuggled closer to him. He thought about pushing her away but she was rather warm.

"Thank you, I liked the story."

"You are welcome"

An hour later a woman came looking for the girl. From the tightness around her mouth and the pitying eyes he knew there had been at least one death this night.

"Come on, Ellie. Your mum wants to see you."

The baby was dead then.

"All right," Eleanor yawned.

"Thank you for keeping an eye on her," the woman told Tom. "We forgot all about this one."

Eleanor allowed herself to he hoisted to her feet and led away. "It was a good story," she told Tom. "Even if it wasn't true."