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Ever since he was young, Tom Riddle has hated weakness.
He sees it all around him-in the orphans who cry for their parents, the snivelling children who whimper in their beds at night, as if there is ever a chance that, if they cry until their sweet little faces turn blue, their parents might bob back up again like those stupid jack in the boxes. Stupid. He hates them. They're all so stupid.
But he hates Mrs. Cole more.
He hates the way she fusses over them, ruffles their hair, gives them a kiss on the cheek each night. Hates the way she gives them her smiles, looks at them as though they could ever mean something to her.
Tom Riddle hates it. He hates it because it is weakness. It is weakness and lies and every time one of them cuddles closer, he has to swallow down the bile in his throat.
Weakness. Tom Riddle knows you have to be strong. And to be strong, you have to be better than the others.
And so those tears-those whines, those whimpers-are things for other children, not for him. They're things for others. Other people, weaker people. Not him. Not Tom Riddle.
Tom Riddle never cries.
So he holds himself stiff when they come near, glares back when they talk to him. Tom Riddle is stronger than them and they will know it. Tom Riddle is not their toy. Tom Riddle is not their friend.
And after a while they shrink back, look the other way when he comes into the room. Their eyes dart towards him, then glance away, like fingers darting out to touch an electric socket and dancing away before they get burnt. They watch him when they think he doesn't watch them. They fear him-he can smell it, smell it on them like a dog.
And that's exactly what he wants.
His only problem is Mrs. Cole.
She doesn't seem to understand that he wants to be left alone. She thinks he's just in need of a little extra love. A little extra attention.
Tom Riddle could tell her how much he loathes her hugs, but the last thing he wants to do is rouse her suspicions. He knows how it works. If she thinks there's something wrong with him, there'll be doctors and meetings and appointments. He could lie to all of them, of course, but why bother?
Better to play a little game, instead.
So, he lets her, for a few days. Lets her hug him, kiss him, ruffle his hair. Forces a smile to his lips each time she's near. It makes his stomach twist with contempt but he manages it. He's not spent years watching the other children for nothing.
And she falls for it. And smiles back. And hugs him. And tells him she's very proud of him.
Very proud, indeed.
And then comes the day that Tom Riddle decides it's time to test her.
Because she thinks she loves him now, loves him like one of her own, and why, it's his job to show her how pointless that is. How pointless they all are.
Love. The ultimate weakness and one that little Tom Riddle, even at ten, knows he can do without.
So, he decides to have some fun.
That day, he lets each dish fall out of the opened cupboard door and watches her exclaim over the fact there must be a draft. He ties little Sophie's pigtails together without touching them, and watches Mrs. Cole shoot doubtful glances in his direction as she resorts to cutting the crying child's hair with scissors. He turns the soup boiling hot so that half the children cry out at once when they spoon the liquid into their mouths and she has to waste half an hour of lunch time finding them ice to suck.
And then little Tom Riddle sidles up to her, as she stands by the dishes, her forehead leaning on her hands for a moment, and he says "You don't love me."
Mrs. Cole turns and stares at him. "Don't be silly, Tom, of course I do."
"No, you don't."
"Don't be silly, Tom-"
He's been waiting for this for days. He steps forward and smiles, reaching for a plate. "Would you still love me if I broke this?"
Her eyes widen. "Tom-"
He throws it to the floor.
It's cracked clean across the middle. He could have done it without using his hands of course, quite easily, but it's more fun to pretend for once. It'll make it funnier when he wins.
"Tom!" She reaches for him but he steps back.
"What about this?"
This time, two plates fly off the side of the sink without him touching them. Mrs. Cole stares at him. "Tom, how did you-"
He steps forward. Feels that smile play at his mouth. Sweet. Young. Wide-eyed. Just a little boy who couldn't possibly hurt anyone. Sugar smile.
"Do you love me, Mrs. Cole?"
She stares at him, the first flickerings of fear in her eyes. "Tom-"
Every dish in the rack crashes to the floor.
The shattered pieces of pottery spill around both their feet and Mrs. Cole claps a hand to her mouth. "Oh, for God's sake!"
She's warned them about taking the name of the Lord in vain. Tut tut. That'll get her into trouble.
Mrs. Cole sinks to her knees, and Tom watches. She stares up at him. "What did you do?"
He just smiles. He didn't touch them. She knows he didn't touch them. Of course she does.
"Tom?"
He stands still and she steps forward, slips and her hand catches the sharp edge of one of the pieces. Blood runs across her palm in a bright ribbon.
She cries out and covers her palm and Tom Riddle steps forward, smiling.
"You don't love me."
She's gritting her teeth, now. "Tom-"
"You don't." He's chanting now, the way the other children do, the other, silly children, the ones who don't know how weak they are, how strong he is. "You don't, you don't, you don't-"
"Tom-"
And he keeps going and he's driving her mad, he can see it, and he can see what's coming and he knows what's going to happen, and he still keeps going.
And that's when her eyes narrow and her face contorts and he still keeps going as he sees, as if in slow motion, her hand fly out and move swiftly through the air, until it makes sharp contact with his face.
Tom Riddle stops immediately. Not to ruin this now. He's worked too hard.
He lets himself fall silent, lets his jaw drop loose, let tears flood to his eyes. Stares up at her, as if she's hit him much harder, his eyes huge, lip trembling.
She's shaking as she stares at him, her hand rising to cover her mouth. "Tom. Oh God, Tom-I'm-" She takes a step towards him, lets her hand rest on his shoulder. "Tom, I'm so, so sorry-"
Tom Riddle takes a step back. She's desperate now, reaching for him. Exactly what he wanted. "You-" He lets his voice waver a little, for effect.
"Tom, I'm so sorry-" She has her hands clasped to her mouth and she glances involuntarily towards the door.
Tom Riddle knows she's broken the rules. Tom Riddle knows what would happen to her if anyone found out. And Tom Riddle could tell anyone he liked.
So he stares up at her and lets his voice tremble over the last words. "You said you loved me."
"Tom-" She makes a grab for him, but he's already turning and running out of the kitchen.
He's lying on the bed upstairs, before he lets himself grin, the smile breaking out over his face. He can feel that wild joy running through him, the same as it always does when he uses his power, like that time he made that stupid rabbit die and it hung there, twisting and jerking for a few minutes before it hung down limp, dead as the proverbial doornail.
He's clenching the pillow hard because now he knows. He knows something about Mrs. Cole. He knows she cracked. He knows she hit him. He knows her secret.
He knows and he could tell anyone.
He knows what'll happen next, too. She'll come in and she'll be crying. And she'll pick him up and scrub his face and kiss his head and tell him she's sorry, she's very, very sorry. And that she was very, very wrong. And that she'll never ever do it again. Ever. And that if Tom told anyone, she could get in so much trouble, and Tom's a big boy now, and he has to understand that sometimes grown-ups make tiny, tiny little mistakes. And does he understand?
And Tom will nod and smile, still sniffling a little, and she'll pat his head and he'll run off back to his room and everything will go back to normal. But underneath it all, he'll know.
He'll know and he can look at her and smile and know that she knows, too. And that he could open his mouth and tell anyone whenever he wanted to.
And deep inside, he knows she'll always remember. She'll always remember the feeling of her hand slamming into his cheek. She'll always remember the way his head reeled back under the force of her blow. She'll always remember the satisfaction she felt, just for a moment, when she looked down at his face and saw him crumpled, eyes brimming, about to cry.
She'll always know and she'll never be able to forget. And she'll always remember because she loves him.
Tom Riddle's lips curve into a smile.
She loves him. And he knows that. And he'll always know that. It's useful to know.
Love. He doesn't know what it feels like but he knows what it gets him.
Never forget. He chants it under his breath quietly, his fingers knotted into his pillow, his face hurting from smiling so hard. He chants it to himself, and lets his mind fill, with all the faces of all the other children, all the other stupid little things, running around, not knowing how stupid they are, not knowing how easy they are to play with, not knowing that they're weak where Tom is strong.
Not knowing. Not like he knows.
Tom Riddle smiles into his pillow. He is strong. He is strong. And that weakness is not his.
It never will be.
There's a timid knock on the door. "Tom? Can I come in?"
Tom Riddle sits up straight, pulls his pillow onto his lap and blinks a few tears back into his eyes. He takes a deep breath and lets his lip tremble again.
And then, just before he calls out a tearful affirmative greeting, Tom Riddle swings his head up and stares straight ahead into the mirror on the opposite wall.
And smiles.
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