A Riddle to be Told (Hermione x Male Reader)

Chapter 1: A long day indeed

'Albus – we really shouldn't' said Professor McGonagall, a lady of greyed hair, with spectacles and emerald-green robes, with a pointed witches' hat. An elderly man with a great beard, of similar purple robes and half-moon spectacles, carried a boy in his arms and charged forth.

    'We must, Minerva; this boy is not safe in the wrong hands' he spoke, in a soft and quaint voice.

     'but great in the right ones' she responded. Albus paused in front of the dingy orphanage; it was a former factory a hundred years ago, with its chimney once bellowing smog, and the resultant bricks stained black as bog. The sky grey, and street leading to it just as depressing and decrepit.

     'he must stay here; the protection charm won't work anywhere else'. McGonagall sighed.

     '...I fear he may grow to be just like him, what with all this' she commented, staring at the expressionless child bundled in Albus' arms.

     'we can only say until we next see him; for now, he shall stay at Wools' he replied, knocking on its nature-stricken front door. It was within a flash, the two vanished. The baby remained neutral on the floor – it's eyes shone ruby red.

Chapter 1: A long day indeed.

Christmas holidays, 23rd December 1990.

    Tom Marvolo Riddle despised Wool's orphanage. The scenery was ill-inspiring, the local school was an impossible jungle, the caretakers were disrespectful and rude; as well as his room being comparable to a prison cell. Small and simplistic, with the brick cracked and wood half-rotten, creaking with every inch of movement.

    He himself, though, was different to Wool's orphanage. For whilst it was bad here – it was such for the rest of the town. It was rather regular; yet Tom, was anything but. A very handsome young man, of sharp and dark features, with great intellect, and – above all – different. Brilliantly so. He could do what others could only dream of. Move objects without touching them, make animals and little insects do whatever he wished – mainly snakes. They'd find him, and whisper to him.

    The others in the orphanage thought him mad. As did the caretakers; once, even, they had attempted to send him to a home for the mentally insane. Lucky no one showed up – they had taken the 'depository money' and left. Tom hadn't felt so good before – well, not since he first realised he could do extraordinary things. That was rather euphoric too.

     'Tom? We're off to Sandbanks soon – hurry yourself up' said Ms Gilford, a thin and ugly woman, with a great pimple on her nose, like Rudolph the red nosed reindeer. Tom hissed, though swiftly turned sincere.

      'But Ms, I am feeling ill. I am afraid I won't be able to go'. Ms Gilford opened her mouth, but stopped herself.

      'We need children to go, or no more funding. Now get your sorry-little-self downstairs, before I make you'. She snarled, before thumping back downstairs – perhaps to get a carrot.

     Tom sighed to himself; such a trip in this windy, cold, wet, and grey weather was ridiculous. Nevertheless, he put on one of his long – sleeved shirts, and his tattered raincoat. Slotting his book under his bed, Tom left his room swiftly – not wishing to face the wrath of Ms Gilford's horrible breath. From the screech of the stairs, the bundle of other orphans played and fought together, where Mr Wiltshire kept his eyes trained on Tom – a dishevelled, young-ish man who possessed wrinkles more pressed than most twice his age. They stood in the open area where every other room lead out of, the door of peeling paint to their front. With sighting Tom, Mr Wiltshire grumbled before opening the door, allowing the children to race out of the building.