(A short one shot to test out my ability to write for Tom Riddle, I might start a series since few people seem to write about the boy.)
Dust coated this lonely room, invading every surface. It settled upon the rotting dresser, the ragged bed sheets, even in the dark hair of the young boy who sat nonchalantly, his back against the wall. Its present was inescapable, undeniable. It settled even in the lungs of those who breathed this stale air, causing them to cough and curse. It swirled in the shaky stream of dawn that filtered in from a cracked and dirk-streaked window.
Tom glanced over and watched, with only slight interest, as this dust settled on the boy of the twelve year old girl who was currently sprawled on the floor, her limbs in odd and unnatural angles. She wasn't dead, however, just unconscious and badly bruised. The boy stretched his legs and nudged her arm with the edge of his bare foot, testing for a response. She was still out cold. An almost amused expression flickered across his pallid and obviously undernourished face. This situation would fascinate him more, however, if he had achieved this result on purpose.
It wasn't as if the girl's intentions were innocent. She had crept into Tom's room at four in the morning on soft tiptoe. It was her intention to steal the boy's blanket, as it was in far better condition than her current comforter (if it could even be called that anymore). This was a common act at the orphanage; one that she had preformed on many other children in her time. Unfortunately for her, she had under estimated her victim; ignored the warnings that even at nine, Tom were incredibly violent and strangely strong for his frail body. As she carefully lifted the blanket, bright, fiery eyes flashed open, meeting hers. In the instant, Tom had managed to cling to his blanket, sit up straight, and without leaving bed, throw the girl into the opposite wall of his pathetic room. It was as if the girl was struck with an invisible bolt of silent lightning.
Of course, Tom hadn't done this on purpose. Acts like these never were, really. Yes, perhaps he did possess the intention and the will, but exactly how he managed to throw a girl almost twice his size across the room without even touching her was really beyond his comprehension. It was his emotions, and not his mind, that caused such odd events to occur, and incidentally, he therefore had no control over them at all.
Not that the orphanage owners would accept that as an excuse; Tom knew he was in deep this time. They blamed these little 'incidents' as a result of Tom having a violent temperament…and extreme strength that a boy his size shouldn't possess. Tom knew that the workers realized this could not be possible, but they were, for some reason, content to lie to themselves rather than face the fact that Tom had some 'supernatural' talent. It was true that they were rather frightened of the boy, but unfortunately not enough that they didn't punish him for his actions. Even yet, these incidents were somehow worth the meals he would miss or the time he would spend cleaning the absolutely disgusting bathrooms. No, perhaps he didn't have much. No family, no friends, no money, not even any control. But he did have power, and that was really what mattered.
More dust settled on the body, coating her pallid face, clinging to her eyelashes like old mascara. Tom watched still, a smirk finally pulling at the edge of his lips.
Six years later, the same boy now sat up suddenly, stiff straight, his sheets falling away to reveal an old t-shirt. Tom let out a sigh of exasperation; considering this was the fourth night in the row he had relived such a distant memory in his dream.
Tom really did not understand why he was still dreaming of his childhood, considering it was hardly relevant now. He was accepted in to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry the age of eleven, and this had obviously and completely changed his life. Tom went from a poor orphan boy with nothing, to a bright and quickly excelling student with a place to stay, with friends to support him, with professors that adored him. He even had control over his powers now. But for some reason, these mysterious dreams continued to reoccur, as if to remind him that there was something still missing. Something more he still desired.
There was something more that he desired, even if he didn't quite realize or understand it at this moment. It was like the dust in that ancient room. The desire coated everything in a thin but visible layer. It tainted the spring sunlight; it stuck to his lungs, reminding, calling, with every breath. This dust was power. Incredible, undeniable power. It was a desire from which he could not escape; it was a shadow that would haunt his every step. It was his siren's call.