His

London, Christmas of 1944

He hated her sometimes.

"Tom!" She smiled gaily, waving madly to him from across the train platform. "Matron gave me permission to come meet you!" She ran towards him and he opened his arms, crushing her hat as he brought her close. "Oh, Tom, I thought I'd miss seeing you."

"How could you miss me, Mary Contrary?" He stepped back a bit, breaking the embrace to look her over. She hadn't changed much since the summer holidays. Still skinny, with a figure more suited to a boy than a young lady, a complexion that still threw out the occasional spot, brown hair pulled into a sensible knot at the nape, and clothes that never fit quite right, since they were cast-offs donated to the orphanage by people who'd already gotten as much wear out of the clothing as possible in these times of strict rationing.

Her face fell for a moment before she forced a carefree smile and said, "We'll talk about it later. For now I just want to enjoy that you're back!"

He allowed her to lead him along, uncaring of the many shins he was banging with the small suitcase he held. She was hiding something, but they had some time. She'd tell him, because she'd never been able to hide anything from him.

They made their way back to the orphanage, the streets jammed with holiday shoppers even with the war on. He let her chatter, trying to find something in her to hate, to be contemptuous of, so that he could finally break the last tie holding him to the muggle world and move forwards towards his destiny. Instead she just smiled and talked and held his hand, pointing out decorations and asking, "Aren't they pretty? Oh, aren't you so glad it's Christmas again?"

Christmas had never meant to him anything like what picture postcards showed. He had never roasted chestnuts, nor hung a stocking, nor gone to bed in breathless anticipation of a magical nocturnal visit by a benevolent gift-giver. Christmas in the orphanage was a sterile time, with a few bits of holly tacked up here and there to show willing, but not managing to overcome the pervasive drabness of the old building. It was the time when all the orphans were cleaned up and strutted in front of potential families, expected to sing or recite or otherwise look adorable in a desperately pleading way.

No, Christmas to him consisted solely of Mary, whose mischievous smile could never be beaten out of her completely. Ever since they had been seven years old and she had flashed that smile at him before helping him sneak away from the god-awful "festivities", he had looked forward to Christmas, because it was special. Because of her.

He squeezed her hand. "You know I always look forward to Christmas."

She stopped then, giving him a genuine smile before reaching up to cradle his face with one mittened hand. "I'm glad you're home, Tom." Mary stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek and he allowed it, telling himself he was a weak fool the whole time.

They started walking again, going straight to the private room that was always Tom's when he returned from Hogwarts upon arrival at the orphanage. It was a luxury not granted to most children, but the staff considered it very necessary. Even in summers when he was officially restricted from using magic, his emotions would tend to cause nasty things to happen when he was bothered. No one quite wanted to acknowledge it, but Tom's intense stare was enough to unnerve the most sadistic bully, even without the pain that anyone laying a hand on him or his possessions would endure.

And Mary was his possession.

There had come a time when the others didn't understand why they, why anyone, would want to spend time alone with a member of the opposite sex and just talk. So they'd started to have sex in the year they were thirteen, each privately thinking it a messy business, but useful for the purpose it served. It marked her as his, and so none of the other boys dared to try with her any of the terrible things that some of the other girls had to deal with, and it made sure that they were left in peace, with no one to disturb them as they lazily told each other all the good and funny things that had happened while they were apart. The darker things were revealed sparingly, with each telling the other only what wouldn't be too upsetting.

Today was no different.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Tom dropped his suitcase and started helping Mary, who was frantically tugging off her clothing. She reached for him, kissing him greedily, her hands moving quickly to push his coat off his shoulders. His hands were on her breasts as she efficiently unbuttoned his shirt and then his trousers, and soon they were naked and relearning each other's familiar bodies.

He'd had other girls. There hadn't been a shortage of witches who thought that Tom Riddle was attractive, if too dark to be classically handsome, and he'd gained a great deal of skill that Mary had never asked about, even as she thoroughly enjoyed the results of it. Still, with her it was different. He couldn't explain why; she wasn't the most beautiful, nor the ugliest. She was the only muggle, but that wasn't a mark in her favor, and for all that the other girls had mostly been pureblood witches with talents both magical and sensual, the only real release he found was in Mary's arms, and he rather thought he could hate her for it.

They lay together afterwards, her head on his shoulder and her eyes closed as she curled against him with perfect trust. His arm was around her, holding her close even as he stared at the ceiling and wondered if today was the day when he would break free of this unseemly attachment to a meaningless muggle orphan.

"Tell me about this family you lived with," he said in a deceptively mild voice. She cringed, knowing there was no way to avoid telling him everything. They could, and did, prevaricate, and lie by omission, but a direct question could only be met with the truth.

"It doesn't really matter, Tom. It's over now." He didn't say anything; he didn't have to. With a sigh, she sat up and rubbed her arms against the gooseflesh caused by the sudden chill of the room. "The dad was... Like that Joshua, who left last year for a soldier."

His voice was beyond cold, but someone who didn't know him might have called it pleasant. "Did he touch you?" Joshua had been the most persistent of the would-be rapists that Tom had had to warn off of Mary. It had eventually taken a compound fracture of the pelvic bone to get the point across fully. She had been shocked at the level of violence her dearest friend had shown, but Tom had soothed her until she could once again ignore the side of him she preferred not to see.

"No, no he didn't." She sighed and returned to lean against him, burrowing her face in his shoulder. "I stayed where there were other people, for the most part. We were only alone once."

"And?" He stroked her hair, waiting for her to speak.

"And, well, he slipped on some sheep doings and by the time he got up I had a pitchfork in hand. He accused me of assaulting him, and I got sent off back to London." She gave him a lopsided smile. "You should've seen him. The great fat toad who loved playing country squire, coated with muck from chin to knees."

Tom looked at the ceiling, studying the patterns made by patches and water damage. "They sent you back here even with the bombs and air raids still going on?"

She laid a kiss on his bicep and he flinched slightly. "It's all right, Tom. I've got to find a job anyway, and there's more of them here in the city. Maeve thinks the greengrocer might need some counter help--"

"Maeve's a whore. The only job she'll get you is on your back." He pulled away from her, pulling the sheet with him as he reached for the cigarettes that he only ever smoked here, with her.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging a pillow and letting her head fall forward so that her hair covered her face. "There'll be a job. I'll be okay."

The cigarette dangled from his lips, the smoke curling around his face and stinging his eyes as he jerked her chin up sharply and pulled the pillow away. "What aren't you telling me?"

"You- You're hurting me, Tom, let go." She tried to regain her composure, to look as calm and unaffected as he did naturally. Her breathing betrayed her, the slightest hitch affecting her voice as she said, "I don't want to be a burden, Tom. I just wanted to see you one more time, that's all."

He looked at her and she shivered. "I know you hate coming back here, that you only come back for me. And, oh, Tom, it's made me so happy, but I know that you resent it."

"You know nothing," he said fiercely, turning away from her and crushing out his cigarette in an ashtray.

She sighed. "Tomorrow's my birthday. I'll be of age."

"Fuck." Tom kicked his suitcase across the floor, glaring at it when it popped open. He'd known it was her birthday, but he hadn't thought about it, hadn't really realized how old she would be. Old enough to be forced to leave the orphanage, with a few pence in her pockets and the clothes she stood up in. "Fucking hell."

Mary started moving around the room, gathering the spilled clothes back into the suitcase, folding everything carefully as she laid it back in place. He watched her, eyes gleaming, and thought about how this, now, was the perfect way to just let her slip away, to scrabble in the gutter like the muggle wretch she was. If she was very lucky, she might find a respectable position that allowed her to starve slowly. Most likely she'd have to turn to whoring, either on street corners for randy soldiers or with the blessing and sanction of the church. What did it matter to him? It shouldn't.

But he'd be damned if he'd let someone else touch her, putting their filthy muggle hands on what belonged to him.

Finally she turned to him, smiling bravely. "It's all right, Tom, you don't have to worry about me. Just... Be happy. That's all I want."

"You're so stupid," he said, crossing his arms and glaring at her. "How can you think like that?"

She sighed heavily, tears filling her eyes as she pulled her dress on. He just stood still, watching her, until she walked to him and laid a damp, salty kiss gently on his lips. "Because I love you, Tom Riddle, and I know you don't love me."

Mary had opened the door and was about to step out when he slammed it shut, pinning her between the closed door and his body. "And so you think you can just leave? That I'll just let you walk away?"

She leaned her forehead against the cheap wood of the door and said quietly, "You should. It's what you want, it's what's best for you."

"That's for me to decide, not you," he said flatly, his breath hot on her neck as he pressed against her. "You've been mine since we were seven years old, and I will be the one to decide when and if that changes."

"Please, Tom..." What she was pleading for he didn't know, didn't think she knew, but all that mattered to him in that moment was making her understand.

Turning her around roughly, he took hold of her upper arms and shook her, once, before pressing her against the door once more. She looked frightened, and helpless, and he thought it was that, rather than any of the other emotions swimming in her eyes, that had him aroused again. "You're not leaving, unless and until I say so."

She whimpered as she felt his body pressing so intimately against hers, closing her eyes against the heat in his. "You don't--"

"Listen to me," he said, his breathing harsh as he stripped her dress from her body. "Tomorrow I will speak to the Matron. You will stay here. When I return from school, we will be married, and you will be a proper wife."

He pushed her against the wall and thrust into her unresisting body as tears streamed down her cheeks. "If you try to run away, make no mistake, I will find you."

He bit her shoulder, not quite breaking the skin, and Mary couldn't hold back a moan, whether of pain, of pleasure, or of defeat, he didn't know and didn't care. Brokenly, she whispered, "Yes, Tom."

She was still a muggle. She was still a weakness. But until he chose to rid himself of her, she was his.