The Dark Dyad (Tom Riddle & ofc)

Chapter 8. Vendetta

July 31, 1938

Sunday

The anxious crowd of children had long since dispersed to their rooms, but excitement still seemed to be in the air, hovering like a thundercloud. Mrs. Cole returned from the police station and was in her office with a couple of officers. Having made a description of the two missing boys and recorded the fact of disappearance, they soon left.

I didn't really care about this commotion. I creeped up the stairs to the third floor, lit by two old kerosene lamps. I hurried to the place where I could just be myself! As soon as I saw the shabby door with the dim numbers "37" on it, a pleasant warmth pervaded inside me. I was just about to push the door open, and a painfully familiar silhouette appeared in front of me.

"Irene!" it was all I managed to exhale. She wrapped her little arms around my neck, like she was trying to strangle me in a tight embrace. "Let go of me," I wheezed softly, stroking the curly mop of hair with my only free hand.

Irene recoiled and looked me up and down. I nodded silently, forcing her to finally go inside. When my world was separated by a shabby old door from the orphanage, I waved my hand confidently — a bright light flashed in the air, hovering in the center of the small room. The sly eyes across the room continued to prowl my body. Ignoring the fox's insistent gaze, I walked over to the table, where yellowed sheets of paper were scattered across the surface, most of them scrawled with faces.

"Is that your mother?" I picked up one of the drawings, which showed a middle-aged woman looking back at me, her charcoal hair gathered in a bun, big eyes, thin lips, and a slightly hooked nose, with an arrogant, sly look in her eyes.

Little bare feet strode toward me. I held out the drawing to Irene. She frowned, as if desperately trying to remember who it was. Only now did I notice that she'd changed her chemise for a dress, but the braid was still the same, horribly braided, with curls loose in all directions, the unruly curl was getting into her eyes again. I couldn't tell from the flickering fire in the center of the room whether her face was coal black, or whether it was a trick of the light.

"I don't remember," Irene grumbled, pulling the drawing out of my hand. She tossed it carelessly on the table.

I climbed into the bed, and she began to collect the drawings in a small pile, which she soon placed on the edge of the table. She hung around for a while, and then climbed in next to me like a big-eyed little kitten and snuggled up next to me. She gently put her head on my chest and froze for a moment, waiting for my reaction. I touched her long hair and slowly brushed through the curls that shone blue-black in the flickering firelight. I felt an amazing sense of serenity and calmness from the fact that Irene seemed to feel what I wanted and did everything exactly that way. She was just there and silent.

"I wonder where you're from?" The silence was broken by my calm voice. "And why don't you even remember your last name?" Irene didn't answer any of the questions, and I continued: "This is the very last place you or I should have been. These are the last people we should have crossed paths with. You're special. So am I. And they think we're crazy. I've heard Mrs. Cole discuss with someone several times how much she wants to put me in a home for the mentally ill. And also this situation..."

Irene fumbled, freeing herself from my hands, and then sat down next to me, leaning against the wall.

"How did you end up here?"

"My mother..." There was an invisible lump in my throat. "She abandoned me. She died, leaving me in this filthy place. She was so... Weak. I'm sure my father is looking for me, he just can't find me yet."