This story delves into Tom Riddle's past, and is narrated from Voldemort's point-of-view.
Author's note: I wrote this back in the May before Half-Blood Prince; hence the differences from Half-Blood Prince. I claim no credit for characters or ideas. J.K. Rowling and W.B. own the Harry Potteri universe.
In my earliest memory I am four years old. I know I am four because a bulky nursemaid with black hair twisted up in a bun bursts into the room and stalks over to me, then jerks my arm to pull me out of bed and commands me to gather all my things; I ask why and she says, "You're four today. When children in the orphanage turn four they move out of the nursery." I have only a few belongings—some clothing and a broken toy train I must have stolen from another child or found somewhere—so in seconds I am ready and following the massive woman to a colossal room with rows of beds cramped together. She grabs my shoulder, drags me over to a bed on the far side of the room, and says it is my new home. Before I can ask anything, she leaves.
I know it is early; the sky is dim and the other boys are sleeping. Out through the window I see rain pouring so hard that it appears the orphanage is underwater, and I feel like I am going to drown. I begin to weep. It is the sole memory I have of crying.
The boy next to me wakes up. He is a bit older than I am, perhaps nine, with ash-colored hair. I wonder if the older boys are given decent food; he looks healthy, even well fed, compared to my emaciated self…and for now, I feel I have something to look forward to: Breakfast. I do not find out until later that the nursemaids treat the toddlers like royalty when contrasted with the elementary-aged boys, and that the more fortunate children—such as the one in the bed nearest to mine—sneak off each afternoon to pick berries and apples, and to beg among the townsfolk for pastries and other treats.
Wiping my face, I ask the boy, "What day is it?"
He mumbles, "Thirty-first of October." Then he falls back asleep and I am alone again.
I pick up the model train engine, running my fingers along its smooth surface. The train is either black or midnight blue; I can never tell which. Hold it up close, and all its imperfections materialize: the chipped paint; the scratched metal, not invincible like it hungers to be; the cracked smokestack; the broken metal track jutting out like a knife.
It is a reflection of myself.
But can a four-year-old construct such analogies? Perhaps I made these connections later in life. A hunch at least was there, some notion of correlation, of likeness, since I clung to the wretched thing for so long.
Hold the train at arm's length now; it is pleasing to look at. I sigh and stick the broken smokestack into my mouth. I lie there, sucking on the train, listening to the patter of the rain and the snores of the other boys. I have an idea. Rolling onto my stomach, I direct the track's protruding metal at my headboard and carve, "31/10." I do not want to forget my birthday.
The nursemaids know something is wrong when I give Henry Douglass a gash along one side of his face without touching him. I am seven years old, and infuriated because he called me a nutter. One nurse—the heavy woman who yanked me from the nursery that Allhallows Eve when I turned four, and whom I have been instructed to address as "Nanny Olga"—shoves the onlookers aside and pins me to the wall.
She lowers her gigantic head to my height, but she speaks loudly enough for the whole orphanage to hear. I know it is to humiliate me. "You are a rotten child," she says, squeezing my chin between her right thumb and index finger like pincers. "And you always have been. Ever since your tramp of a mother decided to come here to die, I knew you would bring us nothing but distress. Do you know what you are, child? You are a serpent! A bloody little viper that strikes its peers and spits on its caretakers."
Pure hatred surges through my being for this woman. I clench my fists; I've learned from experience that I should hold my tongue and take her berating in silence. But I don't. I swat her hand away from my face and scream, "Snakes don't spit!" Then, as a creative touch, I spit in her face. I feel pleased with myself, even as her blimp of a hand comes down on my shoulder and knocks me to the floor. She lunges forward to clobber me again and I scream.
Suddenly, strange men appear in the room. They are wearing robes, cloaks, and other unusual attire. Each man clutches a stick. The tallest one thrusts his stick into the air, bellowing a word I do not recognize. Then, remembering Nanny Olga and the others, I whirl around; but everyone present, excluding the intruders and myself, has frozen.
The men restore motion to their victims one by one, murmuring, "IObliviate!/I" They say that Henry Douglass was a naughty boy, wasn't he; he held a cat up by the tail and received a deep scratch, and now the nursemaids must fetch some iodine.
While most of the men finish modifying memories, three of them lead me out of the dormitory. A pudgy man with unkempt hair pulls me aside, close enough so that I can read the embroidery on the badge that is sewn on his robe: M.O.M. He grips my shoulders and leans forward.
"'Mom'?" I say.
He glances down at the insignia. "No, no," he says, lifting one hand and waving it in the air. "M.O.M. Ministry of Magic." He returns his free hand to my shoulder and leans closer. I notice he smells like burning tires, but when I open my mouth to comment on the fact he resumes his explanation. "You're a wizard, Tom."
He must have experience with children and such revelations, because he tightens his hold just as I start thrashing and kicking at him and scream that he is the fattest man I've ever seen. He turns to his colleagues, whom I have barely taken note of, and says, "A Slytherin, this one."
Facing me again, he continues, "We'll be in touch with you in a few years, when you're eleven. Until then, do control yourself, boy—and don't harm any more Muggles!"
My curiosity overpowers my rage. I stop struggling and ask, "What's a Muggle?"
He frowns. Then, realizing I know nothing of the world that he takes for granted, he tells me, "It's a person who can't do magic." He pats my back. I recoil, but he says, "There now, lad. All better?"
Behind him, a tall bearded man scrawls with a feather, mumbling, "Riddle…Tom." When the tall man looks up, he gives a single nod in my direction, and the crew disappears.
Now I sit here, over a half-century later, Nagini at my feet. ISixty-three years…/I