Current Warnings: mention of blood. Tom is a bit horrid. Violence by chp.4. No pairings. Spoilers for Voldemort's past, eventual spoiler for Half-Blood-Prince.
Disclaimer: no money was made in the writing or posting of this fiction. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and those other copy-right holders—which I have nothing to do with.
On the time period & canon: Tom has finished his 3rd year, and has thus already turned 14. Set in WWII, with only minor hints to the war. Furthermore, I have never been to the UK, so please forgive any discrepancies, and then tell me about them so I can fix it. (:
Also, canon has the orphanage in London. I changed it to the countryside; closer to Little Hangleton. I imagined the Riddle House to be in Great Hangleton.
And the cover-art is drawn by me. You can find a big copy on my deviantART (artist-name: smallsmiles).
Thank you to minidraken. If you like Tom Riddle and a little slash to your complex plots, I recommend her writing very much.
A/N: some of the 'wild', incidental magic has similarities to Mr. Norrel and Jonathan Strange. Fitting, I think, since Little Hangleton is in Northern England…
A kept devil: Tom Riddle's Diary
~And so the demon cried to thee
look once, but answer
not at all~
Saturday, July 19th, 1941
The first thing I noticed about the orphanage after coming back was the way nothing changed. When I went to the door before the caretaker's husband, Mr. Cole had completely gotten out of the car.
"Untouched by the bombings, then." I said.
"You knew about the Blitz? The bombings?" Cole asked, careful as you please.
I smiled at him, playing nice as nice can be. "We have papers at school. I know things."
"Wouldn't think it." He muttered, kicking up dirt as he walked.
I ignored him, looking at the garden. It was deserted, and even the grass looked gray. Dull and as uninspiring as ever. That I have to stay another summer sets my teeth on edge and heat blazing behind my eyes.
Cole made a disgruntled noise. I realized then that he was talking to me. "You never so much as ask about us here, now do you?"
"I'm sorry, should I?" I frowned, bringing my features into a sculpted expression of remorse. I half wanted him to challenge me. That would be an interesting way to start the holiday…I thought idly of sending his blood boiling with words, riling him up until he got angry enough to hit me.
I could still make a project out of it, I suppose. I wondered if I could get him out of here, away from the young kids who don't know how to stay out of the way. I wondered if I could send him to war, even…he's not an old man. By all reckoning, he should be sent away. It's cowardice that keeps him here, when his countrymen are dying in droves and…oh, I don't really care. But it would be nice to throw the place into chaos.
After he mumbled something incoherent, he lets the slight slide. He briskly walked through the front door, calling out to Mrs. Cole. "We're back!" And he had the gall to look at me expectantly, as though I'd follow obediently at his lead. Like I were still some child.
I took my time, eyeing the edges of things. Everything is worn, and there is so little change between the orphanage now and when I was last here that you could fool anyone into thinking time just…stopped here. Cole thinks he can make me a helpless child by slipping into routine.
But I wasn't helpless then. And I'm not helpless now.
When Cole was good and vexed, I turned my attention to the house. Walked up slowly and nodded at Mrs. Cole when she came in to greet us. Valuable things, first impressions, especially after some time away. She knew me from old; however she didn't glower like her husband, but tried instead for a smile. I returned it. Even the most anxious heart will assume there's love there when before only apprehension and fear dwelled. If you make them think so.
But it's time for dinner, and I hardly think I ought waste time on the rest of this.
Monday, July 21st, 1941
There's a headache lurking behind my eyes. It turns my stomach and distracts me. I'm too dizzy to do anything more than sit in the dim room they provide for me.
I have to close my eyes for minutes at a time. I can't concentrate. Can't study. I hate being in this world, robbed of my powers.
Someone's going to be sorry. Misery loves company and all that.
Tuesday, July 22nd, 1941
My blood christens these pages through cracked nails.
It's a pretty picture, isn't it? Like blobs of red birds turning brown.
It's not much blood, really. Not enough to do anything big…but there's just enough to scratch a pentagram in red. Could nail it to the door, and wouldn't that scare them.
.
.
.
.
I'll kill him.
Wednesday, July 23rd
I thought I would die.
He pushed me to the rocks. I fell, but did not crash. I swayed in a gust of wind near the ocean, stranded far below.
I fell to the rocks, and they made a stair for me. My blood spilt there on the pale gray slabs, but I walked up it past all expectations all by the call of my magic.
But it wasn't without consequence. My nails cracked, like I wrote. My feet blistered after my shoes plummeted into the sea.
.
.
.
His face was bloodless. Obviously, he too thought I would die. And then he ran before I could catch him.
Oh yes, I will remember this. To think…he followed me to that secret place. It's mine. That a Muggle would dare go there after me…and one like Owen at that.
He's such a scrawny thing, Owen Cole. Takes after Mrs. Cole more than his father, I had thought. Anxious more than spiteful. His father is the quiet, brooding sort. The kind of man who holds grudges and never says anything truthful when he dislikes you. The kind of person who would choke a child if he thought no one would know.
Owen though, he was jealous. I never thought he would touch me…but he takes after his father after all. He wants me gone in a permanent kind of way, which is something I can't overlook. But killing him outright—
It would be fair.
It should be in my rights, as his friendly shove would have killed a lesser man—
But I can make him suffer.
And that might be better in the long run.
Friday, July 25th
I've thought of how to do it. How to make Owen regret trying to kill me.
I saw him today in the garden. He stood awkward among the smaller children, but his hopeful expression betrayed him. Unpopular as his parents are in the town—begging for money to support poor orphans does that—he probably doesn't have a soul to call friend.
"Good morning, Owen." I said, coming up beside him. We're barely two months apart in age, Owen and I, but I'm already taller than he is.
He flinched away. "Tom." He nodded curtly, imitating his father.
"Why aren't you in the village?" I asked slowly, scanning the ruddy faces of the children.
"Helping out with the kids." He said loftily. As though watching the brats meant something.
"Planning a game, then." I walked up close to him, leaning close enough to taste his discomfort. "Did Mr. and Mrs. Cole put you up to it?"
He nodded quickly. Too quickly. "Of course." Then he shot a glance at the kids.
They had their bug eyes on him, and sometimes on me. Some did it furtively, some blatantly. Even the stupidest of animals knows what to do when its better comes knocking, and they were trying to decide how things would pan out.
"Remember not to go too far." I advised quietly. "Don't be taking them anywhere dangerous." I doubt he could catch the hint of mocking amusement in my tone, however.
I went out of sight then, and listened quietly as he clumsily got the children to pay him mind. It ended with half-successful results. He was trying to act popular around the brats, but only half succeeded because he was also working.
Then it dawned on me. The beginning of a plan that could work. Oh, yes. I know how to make him fall.
tbc…
Thoughts? What do you suspect Tom will do?
Also, this Tom is inspired from the Prince of Thorns；you can see the tone of this writing is similar. If you like fantasy and really evil (but quite fascinating and somehow relatable ) characters, please read it. However, I do not recommend that book for children or very young teens. (My fanfic is not so very dark, though!)