The standard disclaimers apply. Some places, events, characters, etc. depicted in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling.

This is probably not an original story topic, but I think it provides a different perspective on Tom Riddle's life.

Tom's Riddle

by John Fragile

Chapter One: The Diary and the Death

The lights dimmed depressingly in the small drugstore as a crack of thunder sounded outside. The rain was coming down in sheets, pummeling the street outside. A young man surveyed the scene with dread. He knew that he would be outside in a matter of moments, being drenched relentlessly.

            "Can I help you?" asked a voice from directly in front of the young man.

            "Yes, I would like to purchase this," the young man responded, startled out of his rapt survey of the outside climate, indicating a small black book with a small keyhole on the front. Although battered and worn, the young man knew this book would suit his purposes just fine. He handed the item to the cashier who looked interestedly at the book. "Going to keep a diary?" he asked as a slight smile crept onto his elderly but kind face.

            "Yeah," the young man responded simply. He knew it was best not to reveal too much information about his intended use of the book.

            He paid the cashier for the diary with exact change, thanked him and turned to the glass door which would lead him out into the storm. As he stepped through the door, he was greeted with the sharp sting of the poring rain on his bare face. He held the book inside of his coat to protect it from the elements. It was only a short walk back to the orphanage.

            The young man walked slowly down the soaked street being careful not to slip. The facades of the buildings glared at him ominously as he passed. He noticed light in several upstairs windows glowing through the gloom. They gave him a feeling of hope; he would soon be indoors, away from the harsh weather. He would no longer be an outsider, an outcast forced to wander the streets in the dead of night in the poring rain with no umbrella or other form of protection.

            The young man continued walking until he approached a low red-brick building. The brass sign above the door read John Sinnow's Home for Boys. A sinking feeling began in the pit of his stomach as he opened the door and stepped inside. His olfactory sense was immediately overpowered with a slight stench of stale fecal matter as he made his way down the indoor hallway. On his left and right were doors marked with various age groups. He made his way to the last door on the left, opened it quietly and stepped inside.

            The interior of the room was hard to discern in the less than adequate light. Orange-brown illumination crept in from the streetlights outside which allowed the young man to move down the rows of various beds to his own. A feeling of immense relief washed over him as he sat down on the bed. I made it, he thought to himself.

            He took the diary out from the protection of his coat and took out a long stick-like object from one of the numerous pockets. He seemed to regard this item with immense pleasure. As he twirled the stick object in his fingers, he could remember the instructions given to him. "Make sure you get the charm right the first time or the Ministry will be able to sense it and will send an official warning. Make sure you will not be disturbed."

            With a wave of the stick, he muttered the words "incatatem invisibilus." Nothing appeared to have happened, but the young man seemed satisfied nonetheless.

            "To create the thought stream from your mind to the diary, tap the diary once with your wand, then tap your head twice and say the words pensere rio. Your thoughts will then be connected to the diary and you can start the process of creating your memory within it."

            The young man followed these instructions flawlessly. So what's supposed to happen? he thought. Then, the diary opened and the pages turned quickly with a quiet whoosh and the words "So what's supposed to happen?" appeared on the first writable page of the diary in a gothic, flowing script, not unlike his own. The words promptly disappeared.

            "After the thought stream is set up, think hard and long about your first significant memory and say the words vita repetere. This will allow all of your memories from this point forward to be transferred into the diary."

            He waved his wand and said the words and felt a strange sensation wash over him. It was like floating above his body. The scene abruptly changed with a flash of white light…

            The meal area of John Sinnow's Home for Boys was loud, obnoxious, and the last place anyone in their right mind would want to eat. Several long and somewhat unclean tables occupied positions around the moderately sized room. The smell of overcooked meat and undercooked vegetables assaulted the nostrils when first entering this area of the Home. The janitors had been cleaning the same food stains off of the cheap wood floors for years.

            Along the back wall, there was a window through which the food lady would offer choice vittles three times a day. Outside the window, about forty boys stood in line waiting to be served. One solitary figure stood a few feet away from the last person in line. It was a young boy of about ten with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He would move up every so often with the rest of the line, but was not really a part of it.

            An ugly blonde-haired boy of about the same age as the dark-haired boy had just gotten served and sauntered up to him and stated quite matter-of-factly, "Look Tom, they're serving your face today." Loud laughter rang out in the rest of the line. Tom looked at what the blonde kid was referring to. He had drawn a crude smiley face in the refried beans. It smiled stupidly up at him as though willing him to respond with a swift kick to the groin.

            "How clever of you, Otto" Tom replied quietly. "You've finally learned to draw."

            "What was that?"

            "Nothing."

            "I thought so." Just then Otto's two large-sized friends walked up with an heir of superiority and the three of them went to a table and sat down. Every once in a while they would look up and start laughing at Tom for no apparent reason.

            Just another day, Tom thought as he moved up a few feet to keep with the line. Tom was used to being treated horribly by not only the other boys at the orphanage, but also the staff. He was not a conformist and as a result was treated with open hostility. But, at least the staff tried to hide their disapproval and annoyance with him. 

            "Tom, how are you today?" asked a kind voice from behind him. The voice belonged to Rory, the janitor. He was perhaps the only person who did not dislike Tom. But, he was only a janitor and did not have the authority to make things better for Tom.

            "Fine," he lied. He couldn't tell Rory about the constant torment he was suffering. He never did. Talking about it would only bring more disapproval and perhaps sour the only friendship—if it could be called that—that he had.

            "Salisbury steak today," Rory said mock-excitedly.

            "I know. It just doesn't seem like beef. Have you ever noticed that there are no birds around here for like a five-block radius?"

            "You know, I have."

            "Well, the chicken nuggets, Salisbury steak, hamburgers, and fish sticks all taste the same."

            A slight chuckle escaped Rory's lips as he said, "Well, they haven't given me the net in a month, so I reckon it is beef."

            A smile broke across Tom's face and he almost let out a laugh. Rory could usually make Tom smile, at least a little. His were the only jokes that Tom heard that weren't about him.

            At six feet five inches, Rory towered above most of the students and staff at the orphanage. Although he was tall, he did not have nearly enough meat on his bones. He had sort of a gangly look about him with sunk-in cheek bones and a head that was too small for his tall frame. Coupled with the five o'clock shadow he wore, he was downright scary to behold.

            "That's the first time I've seen you smile in a month," Rory stated. "You look good when you smile, you should do it more often."

            "Thanks," Tom replied, unsure how to take such a complement.

            He reached the window and was handed a tray with "food" on it by a plump woman with a very round face. Most of the food looked indigestible, but he needed to eat.

            "I gotta go scrub the toilets," said Rory. "I'll see you later."

            As Rory walked away, Tom walked around the meal area looking for a place to sit. The crowded tables all looked uninviting and as he approached some, he thought he saw kids spreading out so that he could not sit down.

All of a sudden, he stumbled on something, then he was flying through the air, the tray floating in front of him. The tray suddenly came up to meet his face and he had a face full of refried beans. He heard hysterical laughter all around him as he hit the floor with a dull thud. He scrambled to get up, but right in front of him was Otto.

            "They really were serving your face," he said and a thunderous round of laughter ensued once again. The embarrassment of it all was too much for Tom. He just lied there, face stinging. "I've got a riddle for you Tom. What's red, brown and ugly? Give up? Your face!" if it was even possible, the laughter got louder still.

            "That's enough Otto," said a cold voice. It belonged to the 9-12 supervisor, Dolly. She was a real piece of work. "I'm sure that Mr. Riddle is very sorry for tripping right in front of you."

            The rage inside of Tom Riddle could not be quantified or explained, there was so much of it and so little opportunity for release. Before he knew it, he was running out of the meal area toward the bathroom, down the long hallway. He reached the bathroom door, opened it and bolted inside and slammed it shut with a loud crack.

            He walked over to the sink and looked in the dirty and cracked mirror bolted to the wall above it. He could see the mad gleam in his eyes. He had never felt this angry before. His hatred for Otto had grown today, grown taller than the volcano that was erupting within his mind, spilling hot magma with sharp vengeance. When it cooled, the magma would become hard and change him forever.

            Tom proceeded to wash the beans off of his forehead. The cool water had a soothing effect, calming the rage, easing the pain.

            "Tom, are you alright?" asked a familiar voice.

            "No, Rory, I'm not."

            "What happened?"

            "I don't wanna talk about it."

            "I think I have a pretty good idea anyway," Rory said while he walked over to where Tom was washing. He put his hands into the running water and started washing Tom's face for him. Tom could smell the harsh smell of the cleaning chemicals that Rory had been using on the toilets. "You can't let people get to you. Just ignore it and eventually you won't be the target anymore. They'll move on to someone else. The quicker the better."

            "What about the people they 'move onto?'" Tom asked.

            "Don't worry about them, you have yourself to worry about," Rory replied. "That's all you can worry about in this place." Rory had stopped washing Tom's face and was gently stroking his back. From anyone else this would have been reassuring, but for some reason, it made Tom uncomfortable. He made some excuse for having to leave and walked quickly out of the bathroom.   Once again he was walking down the hall, but instead of going back to the meal room where he should have been, went the opposite way down the hall. He came to a door marked with the numbers 9-12 and went in. He made his way to his bed which was along the opposite wall right in front of a dusty and dirty window. He flopped down on the bed which gave a small squeak of protest and fell asleep.

            Tom woke up some time later with a start. Apparently, the boy in the next bed had given a loud snore. He looked around the now darkened room with apprehension. He found Otto was sound asleep three beds down from him. Seeing the face again brought back the memory of what had happened, with the memory came the anger, with the anger, the rage, and the rage brought on a desire for revenge so strong it overwhelmed him. He thought back to all the times he had been tormented by Otto, beaten up, teased, made a fool of.

            Otto's breathing began to get louder and deeper, as Tom's anger grew to new heights. He needed an outlet for all this rage. Otto began to wheeze and woke up with a hiss and began to wheeze like someone having an asthma attack. He began to scream with fright. Tom was almost enjoying himself. Revenge is sweet, he thought to himself, even if it is only a dream.

            "What is going on here?" yelled a startled Dolly. She looked around the room quickly and her eyes fell on Otto whose face was now turning blue through lack of oxygen. He was no longer screaming, but wheezing very heavily. Tears were running down his ugly fat cheeks as he fought to stay alive.

            Dolly quickly yelled to her assistant to call an ambulance as the lights came on and the headmaster of the orphanage strolled in. By now, everyone in the whole orphanage was awake and watching with horror what would transpire.

            "What is happening in here?" asked headmaster Duke. "Oh dear God!" he exclaimed as his eyes found Otto who now had ceased breathing and had a dark purple face that looked like an overripe plum.

            Tom knew that Otto was going to die and for the first time in his life, he felt at peace. The anger was gone, the rage subdued, and the desire for revenge fulfilled. He fell back to sleep wondering when he would wake up from this amazing dream.