where the sky isn't blue
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters, places, and terms are property of J.K. Rowling.
A tall, dark-haired man grins lovingly at them, lifting the blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby up to touch the bright blue sky. His pretty wife smiles endearingly at them, her long blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight. The baby shrieks in delight, loud peals of mirthful laughter streaming out of her tiny, perfect mouth.
It's utterly revolting, Tom thinks, a sneer gracing his pale, handsome features.
The small park is full of vivid, vibrant colors—green, green grass and blue, blue skies and many, many flowers in a dazzling array of colors—and Tom hates it all. The bright, bright sun and bright, bright sky and bright, bright smile on every single damnable face are suffocating him, mocking him, crushing his warm, beating heart.
He is young, nearly eleven years of age, but by the orphanage's standards, that is far, far too old. He used to dream of them—the man is tall, dark-haired and handsome like him, and the woman is kind, her beautiful face lighting up when she smiles and looks at him with love in her bright, bright eyes. The latter half of this dream dies within him when he overhears that old hag Cole telling the new scullery maid about his birth, and subsequently, his mother's death.
There's still his father, of course, but he doubts it—the man has had an entire decade after all. No one will ever come for him. No one will ever come for a dark, peculiar boy like him.
The thought makes him angry and he glances at the tarnished watch that had once belonged to Charlie Page on his wrist. It is 2 'o clock in the afternoon and the younger ones will have woken up from their nap by now. They'll need to exercise their little lungs and become accustomed to the misery of the place and he's the perfect person to help them with it.
Momentarily appeased, he gets up from his seat on the wooden bench at the loathsome park full of good and happiness and everything he's not. He scowls darkly at the laughing baby and it immediately bursts into tears, shocking its parents out of their negligent reverie. Slightly pleased with himself, Tom leaves the park, glaring at the shining blue sky as he did so. It darkens, and droplets of rain fall, slow at first, then quick and steady as his beating heart. His eyes widen when he feels that familiar surge of warmth in his chest and he runs, a wild look of joy marring his pale, handsome features.
The Londoners who spotted the tall, dark-haired boy running happily home that day did not think much about it. The lad was most likely running home to busy himself with an enjoyable activity or whatever it was that youngsters like him did these days to amuse themselves. They were right, of course.