Ops! Esta imagem não segue as nossas directrizes de conteúdo. Para continuares a publicar, por favor, remova-a ou carrega uma imagem diferente.
LONDON WAS NO STRANGER TO OPHELIA BLACK. She had grown up there and had seen it descend into madness as the muggle war reached its height. The streets were always empty, even on New Years Eve, as civilians feared to leave their homes. It gave the streets a gloomy aura, the streetlights that flickered causing Ophelia to itch closer to Tom, who didn't seem frightened at all.
The further they travelled, the more Ophelia began to realise that Tom didn't live far from her own home at all. She recognised the area to be near King's Cross Station and the Thames just like her own home in Islington - which was only twenty minutes from the station. But the area in which Tom was leading her to had clearly been hit hard by the 1940-1941 bombing by Germany.
"This is it," Tom said, a bitterness in his voice. She hadn't heard him speak like that before and looked up to see him glaring up at the building in front of them. "Where I grew up."
Ophelia turned to the building. It was a plain and square, surrounded by high railings. It looked rather old and run down, but not necessarily ugly. It was clearly well looked after. And by the railings was a sign. "Wool's Orphanage."
That's why Tom hadn't told her much about himself. Perhaps that's why he had been so closed off, so reserved up until this moment. He was an orphan. And considering how well respected he was in school by every student and teacher, he didn't want anyone to know. Ophelia took her hands out of the pockets of her coat, and she could feel Tom's stare burning into her. He was waiting for a reaction. He didn't get one.
"How long have you lived here?" Ophelia asked in a gentle voice, seeing how tense he was.
"I was born here. And my mother died here," Tom answered bluntly, staring up at the building with a hatred in his eyes. "Just after my father abandoned her. Like the coward he was. I expect no less from a muggle."
Ophelia didn't know how to respond but didn't want to tell him she was sorry for what he had gone through. She felt that pity was the last thing he wanted. Sucking in a sharp breath, Tom turned to Ophelia, placing his hand on her shoulder and pulling her closer.
"Come on, let's go inside. I'll show you my room," Tom says, before turning to the gate and opening it, the loud creak echoing through the street. Ophelia followed, albeit hesitantly.
"I suppose that most of us, on New Year's Eve, look back on the old year and count our blessings, and look forward to the New Year with hope. If we are wise, we also note our failings and resolve to correct them. Every one of us has had his or her particular losses and gains in 1943, but as a nation we can say thanks to the Old Year as it departs..." The radio crackled as the woman at the desk listened intently to the sound of Deputy Prime Minister Clement Richard Attlee, her cheek laid upon her hand as she stared blankly at the table. She hadn't even noticed Tom and Ophelia until the boy cleared his throat, putting his hands behind his back. The woman glanced up, and for a look of dread filled her eyes at the sight of Tom.
