EXILE | T. RIDDLE¹

04. Caged Bird Singing (I)

I am like puddy in his hands as I nod in agreement. "That is fine. I just do not want to be late — I do not wish to upset Headmaster Dippet."

"Don't worry your little head about it," he flashes his teeth, "Dippet is very lenient with me. You'll have nothing to worry about."

"Alright," I agree, and with a deep breath, I allow myself to trail behind Tom and into the dark alleyway, cringing at the sights before me. Hardly anyone is lingering about, though the few people I do spot, veiled beneath the shadows, are the definition of unholy. They are utterly rotted, with bared teeth and aged skin despite the youth in their eyes. I would pity them, if I was not so afraid.

A hand falls atop my shoulder, and I let out a yelp, only to find that it is Tom's. "Don't be afraid, Rebekah," he mutters to me, just loud enough for me to hear, but unlikely that the rotted youth around me can. "They can sense fear."

"They can..." I repeat, bile rising in my throat as I trail off. "Tom, what is it we are doing?"

"Don't worry. It'll be quick," he responds, before turning the corner, pushing a door to a shop open and stepping inside.

I do the same, and when my eyes are met with the interior of the shop, I decide, as my heart sinks to the floor, that I much prefer the witches and wizards that lingered outside of the shops than what resides inside. The first thing I see is a human skull, placed atop a pillow the color of blood. I wonder if it was dyed with the blood of the human who owned that skull.

Tom's hand is still on my shoulder, guiding me through the place. He does not seem at all phased by the dark objects surrounding us at every corner, making it evident that he has been here before.

I am unsure what to make of that.

"Back so soon, Tom?" A man behind the desk at the very back muses with a smirk. His eyes are the deepest shade of red, just as the pillow I spotted, and I nearly stumble backwards out of Tom's grip.

"Alas, I'm in need of a new journal. I believe I submitted a request for one a few weeks ago — custom, with my name on it. It's already been paid for."

"It's rare we're given requests for something as simple as a journal," the shop owner presses his lips together as he pulls open a drawer in his desk, pulling out a leather bound book, with a black cover and gold trim. Real gold, I can tell by the way the sliver of light that seeps through the windows hits it. Written on the very bottom, in the same real gold, is Tom Marvolo Riddle. "Here you go, Mr. Riddle."

"Thank you, Mr. Burke," he flashes him a smirk, though before we can move to exit the shop, Mr. Burke's eyes flicker towards me, his eyebrows raising as our gazes meet. "And who might this be?"

"Rebekah Bailey, Sir," I give him a gentle nod. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

He does not say anything in response, instead fixing his attention back on Tom. "Bailey, I don't know that name...oh Tom, don't tell me you brought a mudblood here."

I blink, frowning at the word I do not understand, as Tom barks a laugh.

"You tease too much, Mr. Burke," he shakes his head, as Mr. Burke laughs too. "No, she's no mudblood. Rebekah is the granddaughter of Hogwarts's healer, Madam Bailey. I'm sure you've heard of her."

"I don't recall," Mr. Burke frowns. "But I'm glad to know you haven't lowered your standards to filth, Tom."

"You can always count on me." Tom slips the book into his free hand. "Thank you, Sir."

"Of course, Tom. And Rebekah, I look forward to seeing you again."

The breath I was holding only releases when we find our way back into Diagon Alley, and Tom's hand slips off of my shoulder. "My apologies, Rebekah. I see you didn't enjoy such a place."

I am completely at a loss for what to say, so I keep quiet.

"You're a flighty thing, I see that now," he continues when I say nothing, "Like a little bird, yes?"

My eyes grow wide, and once again, Tom's voice molds into Salazar's, his sly way of speaking, his charming nature. It's as if they're one in the same. "What did you just call me?"

He tilts his head to the side. "A little bird. Is that not okay, Rebekah?"

"It...it is fine," I breathe out through my nose, straightening my skirt with my hands. "It is fine."

*

"I see your venture to Diagon Alley went well," Dippet says in greeting as we return, shooting out from the fireplace. "Thank you again, Tom, for taking Miss Bailey to get her new wand. It is truly appreciated. Thirty points to Slytherin, for your willingness to help a new student."

"It was nothing, Headmaster," Tom flashes him a smile, before reverting his attention to me. "I believe I must return to my dorms. I have a mountain of homework to do. Rebekah, will you be alright on your own, or do you need my aid in anything else?"

"I am fine, thank you," I give him a smile that I can tell does not meet my eyes, eyes that are swarming with wariness as his voice rings in my head, over and over. Little Bird. There is no possible way he could know. It is a coincidence, yet, the way he looks at me...

My gaze is torn away from his, instead focusing on the floor.

"Miss Bailey, you should also return to the Ravenclaw common room, get some rest before classes begin. Perhaps you can meet some of your housemates."

"That is a good idea, Headmaster," I take a deep breath and look up at him with a forced grin. "Thank you again, Tom. I will see you in class."

"Of course. It was my pleasure, Rebekah."

I feel his eyes burning into my back as I step outside of Dippet's office, the fire from his gaze searing into my skin in a way I am sure will leave scars.

I'm on my way back to the Ravenclaw common room when I notice the gentle sound of footsteps somewhere behind me, and when I whip around, I find a man hovering behind me, his hands folded into his lap as he eyes me curiously.

"My apologies, Miss," he says when I raise my eyebrows. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It is alright," I give him a nod, and while I want to simply leave, I cannot help the question that slips off of my curious tongue. "Are you a professor? I am new here."

"I am," he nods. "Albus Dumbledore, professor of Transfiguration. And you are...?"

"Rebekah Bailey," I answer swiftly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Professor Dumbledore."

"And you," he bows his head ever so slightly in a polite manner I have yet to see amongst those I have been transported to the time period of. "I hope to see you in class, Rebekah."

When I walk away, just as Tom did, I know he is watching me, and once again, I am keenly aware that it is a bad thing.