Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J. K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and all of her publishers.
It was a bad day at the orphanage. Not that there ever was a good day, but Tom Riddle considered any day that he survived with his skin intact a minor victory. This had not been one of those days.
He'd already been in two skirmishes after church and had a blazing headache from a black eye and bleeding knuckles on his left hand. He always did his best to avoid trouble, but when confronted, backing down was not an option, or he'd never be left alone. The first rule of survival among the boys at the orphanage was to stand strong, never waver, whether you were right or not.
He was sitting on his bed trying to read through blurred vision when Toby Jones approached that afternoon. Toby had an extra-bright glint in his eye and a superior smirk on his face that made Tom immediately want to hurt him. Jones slammed his book shut and watched him for a moment, waiting for a response. One of the older boys, he never ceased to remind eleven-year-old Tom where his place was in the pack order. Tom closed his eyes, prayed to himself for control and drew the book to his chest. Stand up, meet him eye-to-eye, he reminded himself. He was just rising, still clutching the book like a life preserver, when Toby snatched it away from him.
"What's this? Poetry?" he spat, before dangling the book by the corner above Tom's head as if it were a snake. "I always thought you were a pansy, but now I know for sure." He backed away and began to dramatically shred the soiled pages of Wordsworth's Collected Poems that Tom had rescued from a dustbin. Tom's fist shot out, then stopped in mid-air. Physical retaliation had proven ineffective against the muscular bully in the past, and he had no desire to spend the rest of the week in the hospital. He could get him back that night instead.
"Did you come here only to tear up my book, or is there some real reason you aren't torturing Henry and Will right now? I'd hate to keep them waiting for you."
"I'm supposed to tell you that Mr. Worth wants to see you right away... and by now you're really late." Toby threw the book on the splintery hardwood floor, its spine emitting a quiet crack, as Tom dashed out of the room.
* * * * * *
Michael Worth's face was flushed and blotchy, and he smelled nauseatingly of alcohol, not entirely unusual, but not common for a Sunday afternoon. His eyes narrowed to slits, almost disappearing in the fat folds of his pockmarked face. Gluttony in the face of hungry children was an unforgivable sin, as far as Tom was concerned. "You've had a letter, boy," he growled, "and on a Sunday." Apparently the arrival of post on the Sabbath was much more unholy than being drunk. "You've gotten into a school called Hogwarts. I wonder when you've had a chance to apply to witchcraft schools? Obviously--" He stumbled over the word a little and punctuated his point with a poke into the boy's chest. "--you've had not enough religion, after all I've done for you."
Done what? Tom wondered as he tried to recognize the name "Hogwarts."
He scowled and became more coherent. "I didn't have to take you in, you know! I was warned this might happen. Your father told me to look out for black magic and devil worshipry. You're just like his demon whore wife!"
"Don't talk about my mother that way!" Tom blurted. He immediately regretted it when Worth's eyes widened in pleasure. Don't let him know what provokes you. But he couldn't take back his impulsive mistake, so he had to stand his ground. Tom demanded more respect, despite the small voice in the back of his mind that squeaked at him to stop being an idiot or he'd pay for it. He didn't know anything about sorcery except the rumors about his mother, but he knew the letter belonged to him. "Give me my letter." His gaze focused on Worth's, as unblinkingly as he could manage. "Please," he added. Why don't you just beg for it?
Worth smirked and grabbed the front of Tom's old graying shirt with unexpected speed. His hot, foul breath caused Tom to flinch, despite his earlier resolve.
"I already burned it. I had to put a stop to this Satanism. You're never getting out of here, boy! You always thought that you're better--" Little flecks of saliva landed on Tom's cheeks. "--than the rest of us. Always reading books, and you never cry like the other boys. You're already unnatural, and now the witches want you? Your father should have left you to die on the street! I should have put you in your place a long time ago! I'll beat it out of you!" His voice crescendoed to a scream.
Tom tried to twist out of his grip, abandoning his dignity. Wildly, he struck out with his fist... and impacted the orphanage owner's doughy neck. The man gagged and wheezed but recovered before Tom could make his escape.
He lunged forward and broad, calloused hands began to strangle Tom, thumbs crushing into the tender hollow of his throat. The boy's scream became a squeal, silenced quickly by increased grip. His thoughts raced as he tried to struggle despite his lungs blazing and his head scalding with pressure. Should he try to resist or accept the inevitable? He was growing so weak, too fast... His eyes grew blank and watery, his hearing faded to a wavering buzzing. As bright flashes changed to blackness, flames faded to freezing, he decided to gather his strength, to listen to his heartbeat, to relax all of his icy muscles slowly and close his eyes. He found that he had gained a faint breeze of air into his lungs. He focused on it, ignored his pain and those horrible clenched fingers and chose not to gasp for a few long moments.
Suddenly panic rose as he felt himself slipping to the floor into the arms of the man he loathed. He tried to turn his head to bite or lift his arms to fight, but he found his body immobilized, thoughts coming sluggishly, and realized he was about to die. The darkness was not comforting as his pain melted away. There was no angelic choir, no sense of a greater power, no... beautiful Mother welcoming him with open arms. Terror overcame him, then fury. It was all a lie, he was betrayed, and Worth should be the one dying. He felt an intense tingling fill his head as whiteness lit up his vision like steaks of lightning, and an electrical shock pulsed within him. His pain mounted and then shot out of him with a silent shriek. And as abruptly as they came, the hands around his neck vanished.
Tom blindly groped about as sensation came back to his limbs and the iciness faded into the normal July warmth. The air scorched his lungs, but he could breathe again. The sunlight was streaming into his flickery vision, the birds sang again, and he became aware of his dragging pulse returning to normal. Then he saw him: Worth, a few feet away, lying on the filthy floor, clutching at his chest like his own heart was about to burst. Sweat poured off his vomit-covered face. Tom couldn't talk, was still too weak to move, but he imagined roaring his rage out at him. He could only watch with revulsion as the distended veins throbbed in the man's head as he flopped about helplessly, trying to rise. Worth's pulse was so loud that Tom could sense it, far too swift at first so that breathing and moving were almost impossible, then slower and erratic like a sprinkle of raindrops hitting a roof.
Stop, just stop! I hate you! He wanted so badly to be able to attack.
Worth's pathetic eyes met his, and the boy registered the fear in them. He drew away, disgusted, as the man reached out for him in entreaty, silently begging for help. You should beg to me. You deserve this.
Worth's head fell to the floor, heartbeats silent. Tom's voice came back to him, and he began to laugh from hysteria, a high, hoarse sound. In an instant, the orphanage owner had transformed from a living man to a corpse. If his grip had lasted a moment longer, it would have been Tom's own body there instead. He realized that life was fleeting and absolutely meaningless, and it was so ironic.
Then, strangely calm, pain drained away, Tom Marvolo Riddle rose and silently walked out of the room. He did not rub the burst capillaries in his face and neck; he did not go for help. He felt reborn, and he would never, ever let himself be weak again. If this was what the "devil" could offer, he swore to be the greatest wizard in the world. There was a new determined blaze in his eyes, and anyone who was foolish enough to harass him from then on would regret it forever.