Thank you minidraken for inspiring me to finish. This is for you, and your wonderful conversations. :)

(It changed a bit from how I intended originally to end it, but I think this works better. Your talking about Tom, Harry, and writing in general is enlightening!)

Warnings: Tom never considered himself a nice boy.

Also, I toy with formatting on this one... let me know if you are terribly confused.

Saturday, August 9th

There are times when I must do unpleasant things to reach my goals. That's when all you can do is grit your teeth and bear it…. Or smile to yourself and fool any who see you into believing anything you'd like.

Mrs. Cole seemed pleased. She'd graciously nodded. "We'd be happy to have you, Mr. Riddle." She said in her most formal voice. I nodded seriously in return, and she offered a rare smile. "Oh, Tom!" and odder still, she helped me find the clothes.

Apparently I was of a similar size to her brother….her older brother who'd died in the war. My lips twitched at that, but I listened.

She was happy with that, and so she suspected nothing.

"Don't be too late now," she warned. "I know you like your books…you forget your dinner more often than any other boy your age, and what, with food so scarce I don't know how you'd manage…" but when they left for town, her kind worrying ceased. She forgot about me altogether, and I was left to make my own way, the same as any other orphans who wanted to go.

During the war, towns like this one arranged for dances to be held on occasion. The fear that would crowd the Muggles when alone would be only a trifle amongst their fellows. So girls would wear their dresses—the ones that swished and billowed almost like robes, and the boys would wear whatever they had that was decent.

When I arrived, I took my place amongst the dancers and watched them take their steps. I'd smile when acknowledged, and many a matron would look on me with surprise (how curious…),and a mix of lust and suspicion.

It made my skin crawl.

I let them look on me, and I prowled carefully through the crowd. I stopped when a girl crossed dangerously close.

Batting her lashes girlishly, she simpered, "Good evening."

I practiced my charmer's smile, and she obligingly blushed. Stupid creature. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You look handsome in those new clothes…" she was rather heavy-handed with her praise, and I nearly scowled instead of raising an eyebrow.

Then I sketched a gentleman's bow. "You're too kind." If she were someone I wanted to impress, I would have added, my lady, but she isn't, so I dropped the smile and give her my attention.

"Are you visiting for the summer?" she was clearly trying to grope for information, but her words were borne too neatly. Without the complex webs of words veiling intent, the 'traps' were all too plainly laid.

It reminded me of school.

"You know how the moon looks in the morning sky?" I'd told the boys in Slytherin house two years my junior. "That pale blue-white is the same color of a water snake in Asia….Salazar Slytherin came across it in his travels after having left Hogwarts. They called it a 'great water dragon,' and legends of it as a guardian of waterways and rivers colored the way they were seen. The people feared it, but held it in awe, too. The witches and wizards who met Slytherin were a strange sort, but this is the tale they told him…"

The girl's dress had lighter blue lace for the trim, and she wore a pale stone at her wrist. The bracelet was plain and nothing fancy, but it reminded me of the tale. But this girl was no witch, and she'd never know the significance of the color.

"What do you think of Little Hangleton?" she pressed.

I shrugged. "It certainly has a plethora of beautiful sites." My gaze wandered from her to the thicket. "I could almost understand the Romanticists and their Sublime nature, with the places here…"

Her face went blank for an instant. "Oh. Do you mean the Church?"

I turned away more fully. "No." And with that, I left her standing there, awkwardly staring after me as I wove through the crowd.

There was a hint of rain on the air, and a touch of suspense on the wind. I noted with interest that it was only the young or newly enlisted who danced wholeheartedly. The people with experience and knowledge of wartime, though? They were not so keen on dancing. It was fascinating, this intrigue. The way the adults hid their feelings from easily discerned words, only to spill their secrets with a glance, or reveal their affairs with a touch…

How easy they are to read. Playing off them would be a simple thing.

Ah. I inadvertently had wandered closer to my legal guardians. Mrs. Cole, chatting with some women from town to my left…and there was dear Mr. Cole, who had worn his Sunday clothes and pressed his tie. He claimed he was there to 'keep an eye out' and 'watch those kids.' He's as suspicious as ever. I imagine he's ready to see the lot of them off to war and be quit with it.

Which of them hurt my boy? he wondered, but his beady eyes could not perceive it.

"I think he's ready to go back." I spoke quietly to Mrs. Cole, who looked up in surprise when she realized I was there.

She could have replied, 'Oh, but that's men for you. They'd rather gripe in silence between cigars than spend a day out!'

But instead her tired face tightened, and her eyes shifted nervously from me to the others. "What are you on about?"

"Mr. Cole. He doesn't seem happy to be here." I clarified with a soft smile, as though we shared a joke. "He'll have the men riled up in no time, Mrs. Cole."

She didn't understand the joke. I suppose she thought me a tediously serious child. "Off with you. We've no time for your nonsense." Then it occurred to me at last—any more words from me would endanger her position among the ladies. She might show me affection in private, but never in public. The Coles were like that.

I looked at her, faintly annoyed, and nodded once. She had inadvertently given me the key to dominating her… what better way to thank her than to throw her fears in her face?

I noted the other women then. They observed me in silence. The woman in dark forest green had a tiny smirk that marked her unkindly, and the other's wide eyes proclaimed her a fool. She stood there, dressed in a pinkish gray, and she eyed me with something between wonder and apprehension.

"Good evening, then." I bid them.

Faces turned toward me in the dance—I saw someone who could have been Petulant Paul Wenman's older brother, and unfriendliness seemed to surround me. The music would change, and he would seek me out. Surely he'd heard a thing or two from his little brother. Things could get out of hand if I wasn't careful…I don't know how things would have turned out if the whole of the village actually roused itself against me. Were witch burnings possible in the modern era?

I hoped not, and hurried away.

I saw Mr. Cole soon after. He was there in the shadows, looking like a festive corpse looming too tall. Something had spooked him—his face was gaunt and his eyes were hard. A wave of uncertainty washed over anyone close to him, and the magic in me pulled at his emotions and distorted them.

He was afraid, I saw, and it gripped his heart. That fear was mine, for a moment. Then it tore at him rather than gnawed, and it burned in his eyes.

My heart quickened to see it, for it was not me hurting. The beginnings of a smile tugged at my lips. To see him so…I knew then who held the power, and it was not Mr. Cole. It never would be again. I turned away, knowing he would follow. He could sense my amusement, and that is what cast fear to anger.

Oh, come and watch. This is how a petty man falls.

I watched him as though in a dream. In the best of dreams, you know what's coming. I had a feeling this would be one of those.

This is a dance, Mr. Cole's mind told him. At the same time, This is the
wild, my magic urged, and there are things waiting for you in the shadows.

Mr. Cole looked on at the indifferent world, and he saw a glimpse of madness. There would be no one here in his mind's eye—the milling Muggles would be unseen. He would hear his feet on dried leaves, and he would sense me in the dark.

He edged closer, all unaware of the ladies he cast aside. They were all aflutter.

I smiled.

He came closer, and the dark opened up to show him a series of long, irregular forms hanging in the copse of young trees. Unhearing, he walked past the band—a paltry pair of country musicians—and he swayed on his feet.

Dark. Dark and shadow carried him closer still. One step after another, dread and anger filling him. (Memories of mine amplified his errant heart, and he hated me. so. much.)

He reached out.

"My son." He moaned, and it was piteous to hear. His heart jumped, he stumbled, and he put his hand toward the phantom in the copse.

The dancing stopped then, and the music dwindled to a fine line. People turned to watch him, our fierce Mr. Cole, and he stalked and jostled forward toward me. His open mouth trembled.

"You." He said.

I did not reply.

He found me in the half dark, and he snarled. "What have you done to my son?" he demanded.

I made my eyes wide and tucked my chin in just a bit. I've grown since spring, but for
now I'm sleight enough to look half a child, half adult. I'll use this body of mine to full advantage while I can. To the crowd, I'll be a frightened boy. And him?

He would play the monster. He'd be the Thing to rally against, the one that threatened their idyllic village safety.

"What do you mean?" I asked slowly.

In his eyes, a wrong thing stood before him, and something terrible behind. He croaked out, "Murderer."

I did my best to quaver before him.

Strong arms reached for me. I didn't have to feign stumbling back. "No, Mr. Cole—I didn't—"

There was a commotion as others tried to find Mrs. Cole, and in the meanwhile, we
played cat and mouse. Mr. Cole tried to swipe at me, tried to choke me as he would have were we alone at the orphanage, and he seethed with unspoken anger.

The mocking, accusing refrain tore at his throat. "My son! My son."

Finally, Mrs. Cole lurched toward us, between us, her thin frame shaking with anger, embarrassment, and (yes), horror. She tensed and winced against his oncoming fist, but the magic released him just enough to recognize her. Not before he clipped her shoulder with a damaging blow, though. If it were me, that would have been my jaw.

She cried out in pain.

Mr. Cole froze, alarmed. "Where is Owen." He demanded.

"He's fine." She got the words out between a gasp. Her whole arm would be afire, I knew.

"Where's Owen?!" Mr. Cole's mounting terror was touching, really. How many people would fight so hard (against me, no less?) for their child? But I had little time to marvel.

The same people who had brought Mrs. Cole forward to calm the raging beast had also found Owen Cole. His bruises were much improved after more than a week to heal. He kept those covered, mostly, but a sudden growth spurt left his wrists showing, and where the rope had tied him was a sight to see. "Sir," Owen called out hesitantly, dejectedly.

He hadn't wanted to come.

My heart again surged at the thought. He'd caught sight of the pattern. He knew what would happen, and he wanted no part of it. I could hardly keep from grinning, from applauding his uncommon sense. But no. That would reveal too much.

"See here, Cole, Owen's safe." One adult soothed.

"Safe and sound." Another agreed, and he put a hand on Owen's shoulder. Like the boy was a prize calf. "Have a look, man!"

But Mr. Cole was not reassured. He looked past his son's face, and he remembered my eyes. My words.

You can't hurt just anyone you please, Cole. Not without the power to back your claim.

Such was his arrogance that he would assume it a challenge, not a promise. He would think it perfectly fair to strike out. He hurried toward Owen.

The others stepped back to give him space. They assumed Mr. Cole was acting out of passion, out of a sincere love for his boy, and some were nodding in approval. Some watched with distaste, as such things were not meant for a town dance, but everyone's eyes were on the Coles.

When Mr. Cole was near enough, he no longer saw anything at all. Only my face, my eyes, my magic. So Mr. Cole took his son, the 'sweet light' of his life, and he spat in his face.

Mr. Cole punched Owen hard in the gut and pulled his fist upward, knocking into the ribcage. Owen was knocked aside, and he fell—

—magic is a curious thing.

It connects me to the world, and like I said? Magic loves me. And I it.—

—he falls.

(The cliffs are high around the coastal village, and there is a place where none may go safely but me. It is a secret place. It was meant to be mine.)

There's nothing but the wind in his ears, the chill sea air and a sense of down.

.

He hears footsteps behind him. There's a soft sigh of breath and sniffle of fear wiped out by terrible words.

"You never deserved to live." Owen said to me.

(I repeated it back to him.)

He falls, and he remembers.

.
.

There's pain. There's fear; of course there's fear. Fear of falling, fear of dying, fear of what lies below.

(There are creatures in the dark. There are monsters who crave children's blood, and when they cannot have it, they are sullen. When soft flesh comes near, they leap and they fly. They have sharp, sharp teeth.)

He falls, and the moment is an eternity.

He knows he will die. And he knows that he has not yet truly lived.

Owen opens his mouth and screams.

.

The silence was thick on the dance floor. Magic released Owen, and he lay there, damp with sweat and scared. Mr. Cole saw what he had done, and his eyes went wide. He started to deny it. And then everything started happening at once.

"What are you doing, man?" someone shouted.

"Putting a hand against your own child!" they began to push Mr. Cole away.

Mrs. Cole was shocked. She had no words. "Please," she begged. "There's been a mistake." Her voice shook, and for a moment, I pitied her.

"I…"Mr. Cole said, abashed. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you." He said to the floor. He took a hesitant look up, and I saw the child he must have once been in the uncertainty, in the pain. "Owen. Please."

Owen's eyes were blank. There was blood under his nails, and if anyone were to check, they'd surely see strange marks where he pressed them into his skin, trying to find purchase on a cliff wall that wasn't there.

Mr. Cole couldn't wait long. He said to the rest of them, "I only meant to touch him. T-to…I don't know what happened."

But I do. Mr. Cole's feelings were real, but he was fooled into seeing me where he ought to have seen Owen. The rest, I'm afraid, was all him.

"Owen?" he asked again, his voice plaintive.

And then he left, shamed. I watched him go.

Owen would not respond for several minutes, and when he did, he was disoriented. He didn't seem to know the place at all, and his teeth chattered in fear. He would never like heights after that. I was sure of it. He couldn't follow me again if he wanted to.

"D-dad?" he called out quietly. He avoided looking for me in the crowd at all.

"Your father's gone home, dear…" Mrs. Cole murmured, heaving him to his feet and having him lean onto her. "We'd best be going." She did not speak around to her townsmen, who looked on with indifference at best.

"Good riddance." Someone muttered.

Mrs. Cole stiffened. And when she and her son walked away, she spared not a glance for anyone or anything else.

My heart finally began to slow, and the excitement left me. After that, I started to feel tired, started to wish away the people who no longer stared at me, but what I'd done.

People are too much for me sometimes. I wish they'd all go away.

Thinking back through this night's events, this past week in my head, I think this plan well carried out.

.

The magic came easily to me, to be true, but even so. It's not easy to make a split second feel thirty times, no, a hundred times its length. It's not easy to make another man remember what you do. But I will be a master Legilimens, so that much was possible, even today. Even now.

Mr. Cole has not returned yet. I wonder, what holds him up on this night road? Could it be the monsters under the hill? Or is it a more common thing?

Guilt, they say, could eat a man alive.

I wish him the best of it.

Epilogue

Friday, August 15th

Mr. Cole left for the war.

The family is in disgrace.

Sunday, August 17th

I am left to pursue my textbooks in silence…and peace.

As it is, another summer begins to wind itself to a close. And soon, I can resume my magical studies in more conventional ways. Away from the Muggle countryside and beside my magical peers.

If I can do this much with intent and wild, incidental magic….well. My mouth waters with what I could accomplish if I could more study and test myself in a magical environment.

Maybe next year I will not have to come back here. There is a war, after all.

This year's books are tucked away out of prying eyes, and no one comes to bother me while I read. It is an ideal end. I was almost tempted to use my wand, but they say the trace is stronger on wanded magics…soon, they say, in a few years time? The trace will be bound to an area, and not so much the wand. I wonder then what would become of 'accidents' like mine then.

But that will come to pass on its own. In the meanwhile...?

I will pave the wizarding world with great achievements, in the years to come. And it will start…with the next one.

(end)

A/N: thank you for reading! if you've managed to read this far, please do let me know. Conversation is adored, and gentle critique is admired. )I hope you enjoyed this exploratory fiction. Please do drop me a line if you want to chat, or just to tell me what you thought. Authors live off of comments, chocolate frogs, and gentle critique. :)