The Piano
The room was old and dusty, unused for decades but for the single set of footprints through the dust, leading to the piano.
It was, the boy was sure, the only piano in the entire school. Why it was even there he did not know, and honestly did not care. All he cared about was that it was there, and that he knew where it was.
He sat on the bench and lifted the cover over the keys. The ivory piano keys gleamed softly in the dim light. It was as if he had been reunited with an old friend- he had not been able to play in so very long. Once his life had revolved around the piano, around music.
He banished such thoughts and gently stroked the keys. The grand old instrument was still perfectly tuned, one of the advantages of magic. He randomly picked at the keyboard for a moment and then took a deep breath and began to play.
It was as if he had breathed life into the old room. It had been silent for far too long, and now the strains of Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach filled the air with golden tones. It seemed no longer a dull, dusty, ancient place, but a grand old room that was aging gracefully with the music to ease its departure into antiquity.
Suddenly the boy slammed his hands onto the keyboard, causing a jarring note of chaos that cut off the previous harmony. A look of fury twisted his handsome face, blue eyes flashing in ire.
Music, he thought darkly. His weakness. One glance at a piano and he was reduced to a sentimental moron. Weaknesses meant someone could exploit you, turn you.
To us his thought processes are alien. But if one had lived his sad, lonely life, we would see that in his mind wolves constantly prowl searching for our weaknesses, and would use them against us. Even something so simple as the sentimental adoration for music.
He brought his facial expression back to a neutral repose with some effort, calming himself almost alarmingly quickly. He studied his hands, still laying on the white piano keys.
He knew they were what some called musician's hands- long-fingered and nimble. Those hands combined with a natural talent that made lesser mortals practically drool with envy made people say he could do anything musically if he wanted.
His mother had said that. He clenched his hands into tight fists, knuckles whitening from the tension. And her weakness had killed her.
His mother's weakness was his father. A sudden thought twisted his lips into a sadistic smile. The human voice was also an instrument of sorts- and oh, what music his father's scream of terror would be.
Tom Riddle gently closed the piano cover and left the room.