Ernesh Balcom.
Ernesh Balcom was only two years old when he was dropped off at Wools Orphanage in London. The nun who brought him in barely spared him a glance, her lips pursed tightly, her eyes avoiding his gaze as she handed him over to the cold, sterile environment. She didn't speak a word, and neither did Ernesh. He was a small, quiet child with unnaturally dark eyes, as if his gaze had once seen something far beyond the confines of this orphanage. The other children noticed him immediately—the way he never cried, never reached out for comfort, just stood there in the corner of the room, his eyes observing everything with a chilling, almost predatory calm.
For the first few days, the other orphans were wary of him. They didn't know what to make of his silence, the way he moved with a strange stillness, as though his body was not truly his own. His little fingers never fidgeted, never reached out for toys or affection. He simply watched, his gaze always following the other children, lingering far too long, as though cataloging them in some unfathomable way. It made the other children uneasy. They couldn't look him in the eye for too long without feeling like they were being seen—really seen—in a way that made them squirm.
But none of them had any idea how different Ernesh truly was. They had no idea that his silence was not just a void—it was waiting. Ernesh wasn't waiting for something to happen. No. Ernesh was waiting for someone.
Two days after Ernesh's arrival, another child entered the orphanage—a boy named Tom Riddle. He was a year older than Ernesh, but in some ways, Tom was already far older than his years. There was something in the sharpness of his face, the cool, controlled way he moved, that made him seem as if he were always on the edge of something. Even as a child, Tom had the ability to make people feel as though they were simply characters in a story that he was writing. The nuns didn't like the way he never looked scared, never looked needy. He didn't beg for attention the way the other children did. He simply accepted what was given to him, his gaze always calculating, like he was watching for something—something only he could see.
Tom noticed Ernesh the moment he arrived. He saw the boy's cold, distant gaze and felt an odd sense of recognition. It wasn't that Ernesh was like him. No, that would have been too simple. It was something darker. Something purer. There was an odd, unspoken connection between them. Tom's eyes lingered on Ernesh, his sharp gaze cutting through the boy's stillness, and for the first time in a long time, Tom felt something stir inside him. Power. Control. The ability to make this child bend to his will.
And that's when it started.
At first, Tom didn't speak to Ernesh. He simply watched him—watched the boy's still, silent movements. Ernesh didn't interact with the other children, didn't play, didn't laugh. He was... empty. A blank canvas, waiting for something. Someone.
One day, Tom decided to test the boy. He approached Ernesh in the dining hall, sat next to him, and casually pushed a spoon toward the boy's plate. "Eat," he commanded, his voice soft, low, almost a whisper. Ernesh didn't respond. His dark eyes didn't even flicker. He simply continued staring ahead, as if Tom wasn't even there.
"Eat," Tom said again, more insistent this time. And that's when it happened. Slowly, quietly, almost like a puppet on strings, Ernesh picked up the spoon and began to eat. His eyes never left Tom's. He didn't chew. He didn't savor. He simply obeyed.
From that moment on, Tom knew something strange was happening. Ernesh was waiting for him. Waiting for his words, his commands. He didn't have to say much. A look, a gesture, and Ernesh would comply, always with that same unnerving stillness in his eyes, that cold, unblinking stare. There was no resistance, no protest. He didn't act like a child—he acted like a doll. A toy.
And Tom... Tom loved it.
At night, when the lights were dimmed and the other children were tucked into their beds, Ernesh would silently creep into Tom's room. He didn't knock. He didn't ask. He just appeared there, like a shadow, watching Tom from the doorway with those unnerving, dark eyes. Tom, for his part, didn't mind. He actually liked it. There was something... comforting about Ernesh's quiet, unspoken presence. It made Tom feel powerful in a way nothing else did. The boy didn't speak, didn't ask for attention. He didn't even seem to want anything for himself. It was like Ernesh was existing solely for Tom, to be used however he wanted.
"Come here," Tom would whisper in the dark, and without a sound, Ernesh would shuffle closer, his small, pale hands resting at his sides. His face was always expressionless, but his eyes—they were always fixed on Tom. It was as if nothing else in the world mattered except Tom. It was intoxicating.
"Sit," Tom would say, and Ernesh would immediately drop to his knees, his movements mechanical and eerie in their precision. Tom would pull out the clothes he'd chosen for him that day—clothes that didn't belong to Ernesh, clothes that Tom had picked out to make him perfect.
It wasn't about just dressing him. No. Tom was playing with him, molding him, using him like a doll. Sometimes Tom would take one of the girls dress and carefully place it on Ernesh's body. Sometimes he would rearrange the boy's hair, brushing it softly, running his fingers through the dark strands. He'd straighten the collar of his shirt, adjust the cuffs of his sleeves, smooth the fabric over his body until it was just right. He'd pull Ernesh's hands into different positions, as though the boy's limbs were made of pliable clay. And Ernesh—Ernesh loved it. He loved the way Tom took control. He loved the stillness that came with it. When Tom dressed him, it felt like Ernesh's very being was being shaped, remade into something better—something that belonged to Tom.
There were no words between them. No need for them. Tom didn't need to ask for permission. He didn't need to explain. Ernesh's compliance was all Tom needed. The other children watched from the edges, confused and repelled by the strange ritual that played out every night between the two of them. But no one dared to ask questions. The air between Tom and Ernesh was thick with something darker—something that made the other children afraid to even speak of it.
Ernesh never spoke, not unless Tom spoke for him. He couldn't seem to find his voice—not that he ever needed it. If he did speak, it was only in whispers, tiny breathless sounds that slipped past his lips, too soft to hear unless Tom was listening carefully. And when Ernesh whispered, Tom would repeat his words, as though he were the only one who could hear the boy. It was as if Tom had become the voice of Ernesh, the only one who could interpret his quiet thoughts.
One night, as Tom was brushing Ernesh's hair, he spoke for him again, his voice low and soft, laced with amusement. "He says he doesn't want to play with the others," Tom whispered, his lips curling into a smile. "He says he only wants to play with me."
Ernesh's eyes glistened, his face as still as ever, his hands trembling ever so slightly at his sides. There was no protest in him. He didn't look sad. He didn't look scared. He simply waited for Tom to tell him what to do next. To guide him. His body was like a vessel, his soul suspended in the strange pull of Tom's command.
Tom had become everything to Ernesh. He was the one who gave him purpose, the one who made him feel alive. The more Tom controlled him, the more Ernesh craved it. He didn't care that Tom treated him like a doll, made him wear ridiculous clothes, moved him around like a piece of furniture. Ernesh was content—more than content—he was fulfilled in his obedience. He would do anything to keep Tom's approval, anything to stay in his presence, to serve his whims. He existed only for Tom.
And Tom, for his part, reveled in the power he held over the boy. The other children could never understand. They could never understand how Ernesh could be so completely, utterly devoted to Tom, how he followed him without question, without hesitation. Tom could see it in Ernesh's eyes—there was something dark there. Something that made the boy yearn for Tom's control. Something that made Tom feel like the only person who could truly bend him to his will.
The orphanage, for all its coldness, had become a prison for everyone except Tom and Ernesh. The other children whispered about them—about the strange, disturbing bond between them—but they never dared to intervene. Tom and Ernesh.
....
