Written for SinghSong's Alternate Universe Challenges on the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum.

Prompt 037 (Finders Keepers AU) – Any muggles or squibs who manage to get their hands on a magic wand in this AU may in fact steal the owner's magic by doing so.

Nascentes morimur (From the moment we are born, we begin to die)

There was a strange man skulking around the orphanage, lingering in the dusty alleyway opposite the building with shifty eyes that watched the children playing in the courtyard too closely. The sun had begun to set then, the rusty light of London's polluted atmosphere casting ghoulish shadows across the streets and over that hunched figure in particular. Mrs Cole had frowned sharply when she caught sight of him with his dirty vagabond air and bizarre rags almost like robes, eyes narrowing. Casting a distrustful look behind her, she turned to herd all the children indoors early to clean up before supper.

Eight-year-old Tom was the last one to go, dark calculating eyes watching the stranger until Mrs Cole steered him firmly indoors with a hand clamped over his shoulder and slammed the door shut behind them.

Tom sneaked out of the orphanage under the cover of the foggy night, hours after the rest of the residents had gone to bed. As he had predicted, the strange man still remained in the dirty alley, hunched over as if in vigil. Shrewd eyes took in the unnatural stillness of the man, knowing that he was not asleep as most would assume him to be. Tom himself was no stranger to moving under the cover of darkness, the thin soles of his shoes making no sound on the cobbles as he moved into his intended position unheard and unseen. Then, very deliberately, he stepped on a broken piece of discarded glass, the brittle crack loud in the echoing silence of the deep night.

The vagabond started violently, whipping around in reaction to the sound and drawing something out from the shadowed depths of his rags, but Tom was faster. Lightning-quick, he darted out and snatched the item straight out of the man's hand. Something akin to static electricity thrummed under his fingertips the moment they touched the artefact, a spark that made all the fine hairs on his arm stand on end.

Dancing back out of reach into the shadows, he took a moment to observe the strange item in his hand. It was a thin wooden stick about the length of his arm, made of some pale-coloured wood and a strange bone handle with a wickedly curved end. The uneven ridges of the handle, unnatural though it should have been, fit seamlessly into his hand as he closed his fingers more firmly around it.

At first glance it looked unremarkable – a pretty trinket, if somewhat macabre in its design. But Tom's grip on the stick was followed by a surge of some inexplicable energy, a power that spread down his arm and through his whole body, singing its dark melody through his blood.

Tom was absolutely certain of two things in that moment. That the item in his hand was no mere stick – it was a wand. And that feeling, that heady delicious power, that was magic.

Tom turned his eyes back upwards, at the man standing in front of him.

Shocked eyes bugged out at him, mouth agape and bony hand outstretched towards Tom but frozen as if realizing the futility of the action.

No, it was more than just that. The man was actually frozen in the air, a stiff unnatural position as if suspended by invisible puppet strings attached to every muscle. The only part of him that still moved were his eyes, pupils dilating in wordless horror.

Had Tom done that? A delicious thrill ran through him. For the first time in his life, he was the one who had full control over an adult, not the other way around. He was the one who held the power. A slow, vicious smile spread across his face. Had any of the orphanage's caretakers borne witness to the scene, they would have crossed themselves at the maliciousness of the expression painted on such a young face, even eerier in the flickering darkness of the alley where the street lights didn't quite reach.

But none of the orphanage's staff and residents were there to see, not Mrs Cole nor Martha nor any of the children. There was only one spectator present that night, and he would soon be gone forever.

Pale eyes bulged and watered as they pleaded to Tom, grotesque in their terror. An adult, grovelling before a child. Pathetic. Beautiful.

Tom Marvolo Riddle drew his wand instinctively in a sharp, slashing motion and his first victim fell soundlessly into the moonless London night, mouth wide open in a silent scream.

Now just imagine the subsequent series of events going pretty much according to canon – and what bitter, twisted irony that would be. A magic stealer lording over pureblood wizards, prosecuting Muggles for the very same thing he did himself. Just think about it.

Thanks for reading and please do leave a review, feedback is always appreciated!

(PS – I'm highly unlikely to expand this verse beyond a drabble anytime soon, so if you feel inspired and want to take it up, send me a review or a PM and I'd be happy to let you do so.)