Note del auteur : So I've become completely and totally obsessed with the teenage Tom Riddle ever since I started RPing him on this one site, but as it turns out there aren't a lot of sites where he fits in. So instead, fan-fics! … yeah. This will be more like a collection of several short stories about his life in the orphanage… some from before Hogwarts, some from his torturous times summering there every year, and maybe even some reflections by the Lord Voldemort. I will probably make seperate stories for anything important that happens at Hogwarts, although I might include a few short ones here yeah. It might be in chronological order. I doubt it.
I clearly own nothing. :3 I'm sure it'll start off fairly rubbishy. I'm just toying with the mind of a child psychopath, you see...
The couple smiled at the boy, but in their eyes there was only a curious fear, and then they looked away; looked to the other children of the orphanage.
Tom Riddle's dark gaze shot down as soon as the eye contact was broken, seemingly uninterested, unphased by yet another rejection of the basest sort. All of these couples, these children less parents, these men searching for cheap labourers, had only to look at him to know that he wasn't the one for them. A sweet little boy of five, of six, of eight or nine.
He couldn't have been that frightening when he was still a babe, still hardly able to walk. But stories of his mother screaming about witches and wizards had made the orphanage staff wary of him. They had no interest in this boy, this boy that would turn out to be so different from the others.
Who knew? If they had treated him kindly, been warm and welcoming; if they had been given the funds to care properly for their children; who knew, maybe Tom Marvolo Riddle would never have found a need to use magic.
But the confused boy of four, the very angry boy of ten, had indeed used magic.
At first it had been an accident. But he was always so filled with anger; so desperate for survival in the horrible orphanage, and he had plenty of reasons to use his special talents. First it was for a good cause, to fend off those who would cause him harm; and then in vengeance, against those who thought they could control him, those who thought oh so stupidly that they might call themselves his betters- and then merely- merely if he felt like it. A flinch of pain, someone flying across the room, bizarre illusions, a floating boy, and always there were the snakes.
The hopeful would-be parents looked around the orphanage. The woman was plump and short, with reddish hair; the man, taller, with a tired look and short black hair. As soon as they turned away from him, Tom's eyes went back up, to glare at them through the backs of their heads. Always they did this, all of them; they would approach the boy who promised to grow into a handsome lad, but at the red flash in his eyes they would be reminded of warnings. Some of them can be violent sometimes… They always tried to play it down, never mentioned his name, but they all intuitively knew who it was.
Bitterly, Tom turned back to the book in his hands. It wasn't that interesting, but it gave him a satisfaction to turn the pages with a neat, angry snap; and to keep it away from the other children who wanted it so badly. The fifteen-year-old boy who used to try to beat things out of him, cowering away from him, looking hopefully at the parents and always sending those worried glances to the fellow orphan.
The couple decided on not deciding; on coming back at some later time. They cast Tom one last glance, full of both longing and interest, and a sort of primal, instinctive horror; made their excuses with embarrassed smiles, and said that they'd come back later, that there was still another orphanage to check, that it was so hard to make such an important decision so quickly.
Their backs were met with a sneer from Tom, a look of desperation from the other orphans, and a resigned sigh from the matrons.
It's all your fault, they used to say. It's all your fault that they won't take us. You scare them off. Why do you have to do that? Just because none of them will ever take you, it doesn't give you the right to ruin our chances.
Tom used to face these accusations fearfully, helplessly. It couldn't be his fault, because most of the children, invariably, were eventually given homes, or at least found work. It wasn't Tom's fault that he was different, just as it wasn't his fault that his mother had died from giving birth to him, just as it wasn't the fault of any of the other orphans that their parents were dead.
But now he had power. And what a power it was.
He could taste it, sense it all around him. He felt strangely connected to the world, to the dust on that window frame, to the desks and chairs in the building, the old dilapidated cots. He knew now that it was because he could control them- control them to an extent that had been hitherto unrecorded in the Wizarding world for such a young child, a child who knew nothing of his true identity, even.
He could feel the power he had; over the rain outside if he wanted, over the snakes. He could speak to snakes.
But more than that he relished in the strength he had, the mystical, mysterious power he wielded over the other orphans. He could make them play his games, and he always won at them; or if he didn't, he sought and received retribution in ways unthinkably harsh.
Even the matrons found it hard to believe, sometimes. Tom could be such a charming young boy if he wanted to: the face of an angel, the big brown eyes that could melt a heart as soon as pierce it with a gaze of ice; the innocent smiles he could give- it was so hard to tell when he was lying. An intelligent boy, an ingenious boy, the first to find out the most secrets of the matrons, of his fellow orphans, just through the work of his silver tongue.
In all honesty he was more like the angel from hell. There were so many things he did, so many strange things that they couldn't just explain away. Why the scrawny, malnourished child was able to throw off any of the others, any of the workers even if he set his mind to it. The things he could see in the dark, in the others' eyes. The way he listened so intently; the way he had with snakes. And the horrors he could pull from his mind, the ruthless, merciless tortures. He had an imagination, all right, like any child should; but it was not put to the use of innocent make-believe. Even in play he sought nothing so much as control and power over the other children.
Power was what he always wanted. It was what he needed, what he fought for- his one true goal. Control over his own young miserable life.
The dark mind of a young monster.