The Dark Dyad (Tom Riddle & ofc)

Chapter 7. Fjords

July 30, 1938

Saturday

The last week of July was especially hot, causing a steady stream of thunderstorms. The streets were plunged into daytime darkness, and then huge black clouds angrily dropped tons of water onto the streets of London, laying the dust to the ground. I loved it. The air after bad weather was beautiful every time, like the first time I got caught in a downpour, soaked to the skin, but didn't rush to the orphanage because the smell stopped me. Then I stood still, unable to breathe in the freedom and the intoxicating scent of it. And now there was someone who enjoyed those moments as much as I did. Irene threatened every time that she was ready to throw off her sandals and rush into the first puddle she could find and douse me. When I asked her why, the answer was simple: because it was fun. Fortunately, all her heroic speech remained only a threat and never translated into action.

Life got back on track and continued its monotonous run, which was more like a snail's crawl. Once a year, the Wool's Orphanage took all the kids on a field trip or an excursion. Of course, it was all very modest, since very little money was allocated for it, and the activities themselves were short-term. I looked forward to the planned general trip to the sea at the weekend. Irene was categorically denied participation because she had stolen a chess set and was caught after lights out. It was part of the "official" punishment. No one guessed that I knew about everything that happened. I was well aware that what really happened was that the boys and Mrs. Cole were just taking out their anger on her... Unpleasant shivers ran through my body. Who had ever given them the right to touch what was mine?

The long-awaited Saturday morning had come into force, and I had taken a moment to hurry up to the third floor. The familiar worn door, the lax handle mechanism of which obediently clicked under my onslaught, and there was an unpleasant creaking sound. My gaze was immediately drawn to Irene in a light-colored nightie sitting at the table. Without looking back, she spoke:

"Hi, Tom!" She shook her head, and her hair spread out over her light clothing. Only now did I notice how long it was.

"Good morning, Irene!"

She was doing something so enthusiastic and concentrated that she didn't even turn around once. What could be more interesting and important than me? I walked briskly into the room, looking at the small bed, which looked more like a laundry ruin: the blanket was crumpled, the pillow was about to fall to the floor. As soon as I was beside the pillow, I pushed it closer to the wall. Everything around this girl was tended to chaos!

Having eliminated the pillow, ready to take on the role of floor rag and pick up dirt from the floor, I peered quietly over Irene's shoulder. There were yellowed sheets scattered across the table, and one piece of charcoal was crumbled. Yeah, the slightest air movement and all that coal dust would be on the floor. I looked down, where the little feet didn't reach the floor. There was a weak breeze from the ajar window - some of the black crumbs flew swiftly off the table. No one would have guessed why I sighed so heavily. And the reason was that I imagined those same bare feet stomping across the cold tiles, grimy as a street beggar's because of the damn coal. My eye twitched faintly. I took one sheet from the table to quickly make an envelope out of it. With a slight wave of my hand, the scattered charcoal obediently soared upward and flowed smoothly into the paper in my left hand. That's better! I placed the envelope next to Irene, whose expression was still focused. Furrowing her brow, she blew on the loose curl that picked at her eyes. Her pale little fingers were black, because she had painstakingly drawn, blurring the lines with her fingertips.

"I'll come to you after lights out when we get back," I calmly announced my intentions.

Irene didn't seem to care. She didn't pay any attention and continued her work. I couldn't hold back any longer, so I ran my hands through the locks of black hair that were begging to be held, and gently moved them back. My tenacious, pale fingers fiddled with Irene's hair, and finally I did up her hair in a plait that looked as if it had been worn for six months or more. I shrugged. I don't care. I don't know how to do it. She'll braid it herself. I deprived her of endless dissatisfied blows to her forehead.