She was five when she realized that there was something wrong with her.

At first it was the little things.

She remembered computers, of machines that allowed instant communications, faster than the telephone. Of cars that were more elegant, comfortable and quieter. Of planes that flew the skies, with sound that tore the air as it passed by. Of television, where she'd cry and laugh and cheer at the antics of actors on the screen.

Then, she thought it was a dream.

A long, vivid, realistic dream.

In this world one writes letters and called rarely to speak to another. The cars were boxy, loud and bumped over each pebble. The books were few, the toys fewer - and guarded jealously. The one time she brought up the television, Mrs. Cole gave her an odd look and told her to return to her books.

Sometimes she'd stare and tried to force herself awake. She pinched, she'd slap herself and would mutter – 'wake up, wake up,' but to no avail.

She'd wept and wept and after an incident where she tried to jump in front of a car, Mrs. Cole locked her up in her room. She remembered crying, then screaming as Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Abernathy tried to calm her down and forced a foul liquid down her throat. A part of her wished it was poison, wished it was something that would kill her because she was sure that was the only way to wake up from the nightmare.

She barely remembered the worried whispers, of a doctor who seemed more interested in money than the scrawny orphan brat who laid weakly in front of him, the sound of locked doors and children chattering about the 'mad girl', of a young boy who begged (then demanded) for her not to die; not to abandon him like their mother had done.

She tried to forget those early years, when she was forced to reconcile with her new reality. It was hard not to. Though she became better and the jeers of 'Mad Mary' became less and less, part of her still yearned for death. It was the only thing that set her apart from her brother, her twin, who she knew would grow to fear death above all else.

It was because of him, she breathed still. She realized she had too.

For what other purpose was she reincarnated as Mary Riddle, the twin of the infamous Lord Voldemort if not to change fate itself?

#

When she was finally 'healed', the children kept themselves away from her, as though they feared to catch her 'madness'. She was glad for she hated them, hated their presence, the fact that despite their laughter, they reeked a desperate sort of sadness. Part of her despised herself for it. 'They are orphans, in a time where being an orphan was a fate most unkind,' she'd chide herself, whenever they get rowdy and loud. She could not help it. She still remembered a time when she had a loving family, of independence and being taken seriously.

She tried to wonder why she was re-born in this universe.

As an atheist, it shook her to realize there was such thing as a life after death, worse still, reincarnated into a world that was, at all accounts, fictional. She'd laughed when trying to imagine her mother – such a devoted Muslim – would feel like if all those times of trying to get her to pray, to fear Hell and God itself was all for naught. There was no hell fire; no Angels who'd forced her through pain beyond imagining and no judgment where all her deeds laid bare and weighed before she went to her eternal fate.

But it might as well been.

#

She had seen Voldemort onscreen and portrayed in so many works during her past life. The boy in front of her didn't come close to any depiction: he surpassed it.

Tom Riddle was a beautiful child whom she knew would grow to be a devastatingly handsome man in the future. Physically, his many portrayals came close to capturing those striking looks that she knew would ensnare many. However, none came close to the sheer aura the boy exuded from his very being. The books mentioned what a powerful wizard he'd become but it was one thing to imagine it, it was another to be in its presence.

She was lying in bed, mulling her thoughts when she felt him outside the door. It was locked, of course, Mrs. Cole, despite the clean bill of health, wanted her isolated until she learned to be less reckless. The key was always with her and by right the caretaker was the only person allowed to visit.

It didn't stand a chance against Tom's magic.

Tom was beautiful even when sullen. He was angry with her; angered that she had tried to 'abandon' him. Every day he'd come and sit by the bed, silent as a shadow, flipping through the pages of a book he'd found before slipping away as soon as he heard Mrs. Cole marching down the halls. He was never one to offer comforting words (rarely any of his words ever were). In a way, she believed that by not speaking to her, he was trying to punish her.

That she didn't seem to care must have riled him.

But today was different, he brought not books with him and rather than ignoring her as she lie down in bed, she felt two strong arms roughly pushing her away from the wall that had been her constant companion.

Her eyes widened as she came face to face with Tom.

"Mary, you have to stop this," he demanded, tightening his grip on her shoulders when she tried to pull away.

"No, don't you dare. Enough of this," he snarled and pulled her up as she slumped forward, dazed at the sudden touch. Her weakness seemed to fuel his anger as he turned to grab her face, his eyes bore straight into hers.

"You will stop being this pathetic. Get up," he all but hissed, his fingers dug deep into her cheeks (there would be marks later – she thought). Tom's body was shaking and she knew if he was stronger, he'd try to forcibly push her to her feet. However, he was still a small child, scrawny like most of the orphans and just as feeble.

They both seemed to be stuck in a bizarre dance, of an unwilling partner and an aggressive suitor; he pulled while she was quite determined to simply collapse. There was such fury in him. A tiny voice wondered what seemed to drive him to such anger. Voldemort was not a creature of love, of care – charm, yes, but only when it suited him.

The boy in front of her seemed animalistic, feral even and she could not understand why. In the books, he hated the other children, thought them beneath him. Yet, here he was, struggling for a reaction – anything – out of her. It was though…

Maybe it was the human contact – so long in its absence, maybe it was a dormant sisterly instinct waking after a long sleep but her arms suddenly moved and grasped the boy and pulled him close.

He stiffened at first; the hug unexpected and sudden (even for her) and when they parted they pretended not to see the wet patches on each other's shirt.

#