Power
A child sat on his snow-white sheets cot, an harmonica stolen from his schoolmate in his hand, an engrossed look on his facce.
And he tried again. He thought about how he felt good before, when he removed from Jackson Hills his most dear object; he felt the anger growing inside him... that little, insignificant child belonged something so beautiful, something with so much value, something which belonged to the dead mother too: when Tom didn't even know the face of the woman who fathered him.
Why was such a privilege granted to him?
The irritation grew more and the harmonica started quivering into Tom Riddle's pale hand... just a second and the object caught on fire, a fire cold, wicked.
Just like the smile of the child who caused it.
