A Day in the Life of Voldie: The Early Years
By Bookworm
Young Tom Riddle's alarm clock sounded. "Avada Kedavra," he muttered and pointed his wand at it without even opening his eyes. The alarm clock exploded.
"Tommy! Are you up yet?" his aunt called. "Remember to put on some clean underwear!"
He groaned. He was living with his aunt and uncle since his parents got sick of him – they weren't dead, as rumored. But sometimes thinking of Tom they wished they were.
"I'm getting up right now!" he yelled. He got up and pulled a brush through his dark hair and pulled on a baggy black t-shirt. "Ready," he said as he sauntered into the kitchen.
His aunt put her hands on her hips. "Did you change your undies?" she asked sternly.
He groaned. "Yes," he lied.
She pointed a finger toward his room. "I can tell you didn't. Now go change them right now! Or else you can't watch Sesame Street before school!"
He sighed. He was sixteen, old enough to dress himself before school. Why did his aunt baby him? He thought to himself as he tied on his bib before eating his cereal.
At school, everyone stayed out of his way. Except, of course, the teachers. He attended a Muggle school, as Dumbledore was sick of him too.
"Tommy! Pay attention!" his math teacher, Ms. Ura Snotball, yelled at him.
He sighed. "Yes, Ms. Snotball," he said with impatience in his voice.
"Don't talk to me in that tone," Ms. Snotball warned.
Tom rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say," he muttered. He drew out his wand again. "Avada Kedavra," he said once again. The math teacher slumped on the floor. All of the kids started applauding. "You go, dude!" one kid shouted.
Tom took a bow. "Thank you, thank you," he said graciously. Then he grinned. "Now who's next?"
Everyone backed away and Tom made his way out of the classroom. He sighed contentedly. Another day out of school.
He strolled down Main Street, and watched all the people. They knew him all too well. They'd seen him kill a cat without even touching it – he had his trusty wand to thank for that.
He pushed open the door of the nearest bakery. The baker's eyes widened. "Hello, To-To- Tommy," he stuttered. "Wha-what can I do for you?"
Tom surveyed the breads. "I would like - that one," he told him, pointing toward a delicious-looking pie.
"Um, well, that's reserved for another one of our customers," the baker mumbled, silently praying that Tom would be forgiving.
"I said I wanted that one," Tom said through clenched teeth. When the baker didn't make a move to get it, he drew out his wand once again.
The baker finally moved, but it was too late. "Crucio!" Tom yelled.
"Ahh!" the baker yelled in agony.
Tom smiled ruthlessly. "Now, do I get the pie or are we going to have to do that again?" he asked politely.
The baker scrambled to get the pie. Shaking, he handed it to him. "Anything else, Tommy?" he asked, quivering.
Tom smirked. "That's it." Leaving the shop, he said, "Good day to you, sir."
He sat down at a bench in the park across from the bakery. Even the pigeons scattered. He was winded. Being evil was hard.