Disclaimer & Notes from the Author

Disclaimer:

*I do not own Harry Potter or any of its original characters, the vast majority of which are contained (or will be contained) in this voluminous novel. Other characters I have created from my own imagination, but adhere to the same principles and rules of the Harry Potter universe and thus, aren't mine either. This merely my version of the untold story of Tom Riddle and his rise to Lord Voldemort.*

Notes from the Author: The following novel is my interpretation of Tom Riddle's life, and may not be entirely accurate. However, extensive amounts of research have been conducted in order to ensure that the facts (at least those that are explicitly stated in the novels as well as the extended universe, like Pottermore) are accurate. Certain small liberties have been taken, but they are minor. This novel is, by all intents and purposes, intended to reflect Tom Riddle's early years as accurately as possible, covering events as early as his childhood prior to his initial meeting with Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, where he learns he is a wizard, to events as late as the Battle for Hogwarts and his eventual demise at the hands of Harry Potter. At the end of every chapter, there will be a small section titled "Notes from the Author", which will detail my thoughts going into the chapter, as well as any of the "small liberties" I mentioned earlier and the decision behind them. Additionally, I welcome any and all feedback, constructive or otherwise, on this book which is, after all, a labour of love. If you notice any inaccuracies, spelling mistakes, or even grammar you don't like, please feel free to point it out. Finally, if anything in this novel is off, I would like to know. By that I mean dates, people or anything you find wrong. As I said, I have done a lot of research, but the world J.K. Rowling has created is growing larger every day, despite the books being completed, so if there is anything at all, please let me know and I will work to correct the oversight. I want this to be as accurate as possible, and I have done my best to adopt J.K. Rowling's writing style so as to fit with the Harry Potter series as best as possible. Thank you for giving this little fanfiction a chance. It's long, I know, but a gem – I promise you.

– CHAPTER ONE –

The Riddle Boy

There was something very odd about that Riddle boy. Everyone in the orphanage knew it – even some of the children could tell something was off about him – but none of the staff could ever agree on exactly what it was that unsettled them. One of the staff said that Tom Riddle was very intelligent for a ten-year old (too intelligent, to hear her tell it), and that he had a very unnerving habit of sneaking up on people when they were least expecting it. And yet others murmured that his eyes, pale grey and sharper than any young boy's eyes had a right to be, seemed to bore into you as though he were reading your very thoughts.

But what unsettled Mrs Cole was how the other children treated him. They were wary of him, often avoiding him entirely, as though they were scared of him. Mrs Cole had worked with children for a long time now and she had never seen children behave as they did around Tom Riddle. Normally, children would play with one another, and if not they would tease or bully those who didn't quite fit in, but the children did none of those things with Tom, and Mrs Cole rather got the impression that Tom liked it that way. Furthermore, Mrs Cole could never catch Tom teasing or bullying the other children, but she got the impression that he must have been. There was no other explanation for the way the rest of the boys and girls would act around him, averting their eyes whenever Mrs Cole asked about Tom.

Strange things seemed to happen around Tom, too. Just last week, Mrs Cole had been walking outside by the play area and heard Billy Stubbs – a rather plump, wheezy boy of an age with Tom – yelling at Tom about something. Tom had said nothing the entire time, and Mrs. Cole had approached the two to tell Billy to be quiet and find out what was going on. Though she didn't hear what had been said, when she'd walked over and asked what was going on, Tom said that it was nothing, they had just been talking about trading football cards, and Mrs Cole had suggested that they both accompany her inside. She'd been troubled, though, at the look of pure innocence on Tom's face as she left him in his room and the sincerity in which he told her that it had all been in good fun. She had been equally troubled by the look of stunned disbelief and almost terror on Billy's face as she walked him down the hallway and back to his room to feed his rabbit.

Well, not a day later Billy had come running into her office crying about how his rabbit was missing, and that it must've been Tom. They'd looked everywhere for him, but it couldn't be found. Eventually, they'd had to admit to Billy that it must've gotten away somewhere. Billy, however, maintained that the rabbit was dead, and that Tom had killed it. Mrs Cole had expressed her doubts about this to Billy, saying that his rabbit was quite old and that if it was dead at all, she was sure he had merely passed on naturally of old age. Yet somehow she had a suspicion that it had been Tom after all, particularly after the state she'd found the rabbit in.

She'd gone up to the attic to collect some old Christmas decorations for the holidays and she'd taken Billy along for a set of extra hands. Billy had pitched a fit, saying that he didn't want to go up there, because his rabbit was up there. When they'd arrived there, Mrs Cole found the door to the attic locked up tight, and when she said this to Billy, he shook his head, insisting that his rabbit was up there. Exasperated, Mrs Cole had unlocked the door at Billy's insistent urging with one of the many keys on her ring, and pulled on the drawstring that let down the stairs. Together, she and Billy had walked up and Billy pointed to the ceiling, where his rabbit was hanging from one of the rafters, a small length of rope tied round its neck, dead.

Well, Tom said he didn't do it, but Mrs Cole, of course, couldn't be sure. She'd placated Billy and then handed him off to one of the staff and asked Tom about it. Tom merely said that he didn't do it, and that he had no idea how that rabbit had gotten up there. He'd said it was quite impossible because he had been reading his book at the time and said that Amy Benson, one of the younger girls, had seen him at it. When Mrs Cole went to speak with Amy, she had to practically rip the blankets from out in front of her face because she refused to come out. After a while, Amy, looking frightened all the while, had said that she had indeed seen Tom reading his book quietly in his room while she went to get a glass of water, and so it couldn't have been him.

Mrs Cole sighed, swiveling her chair around to face the open window, which was letting in a cool, summer breeze. The sky was overcast, and the crowded streets of London, visible through the window of her office, bustled around like bees in their nest, going about their business. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a ring of keys of all different sizes, selected one of the smaller, and slid it into the bottom drawer of her desk. After a moment's rummaging, she withdrew a bottle of gin and a small drinking glass and poured herself a drink.

Can't blame the boy, I suppose, thought Mrs Cole as she leaned back in her chair, thinking of Tom still. His story was the same as every other orphaned child in her keeping and yet somehow different. His mother had stumbled up the front steps of the orphanage one snowy New Year's Eve, pregnant and muttering under her breath about something or other. Mrs Cole had been relatively new to the orphanage then, and had helped the then-matron carry her into the building and into the sitting room.

It had become apparent quite quickly that the girl – not much older than Mrs Cole at the time – was in labour, so the matron had asked Mrs Cole to fetch some blankets and a bucket, and they'd delivered Tom together on the very same desk upon which Mrs Cole now sat. Mrs Cole could recall even now that the clock had struck midnight at the very moment the girl's screams of pain and effort had subsided, to be replaced by the joyous exclamation by the matron that it was a boy.

Thinking back on it now, Mrs Cole remembered the strange feeling that had swept over her that night as she saw the matron clutching a struggling Tom in her arms. He hadn't cried, not even once, and the matron handed the boy to his mother and she crooned over him for a few moments and told them that the boy was to be named Tom Marvolo Riddle. An odd sort of name, Mrs Cole had thought at the time, but the girl was very adamant about it, and so the two women had assured her that he would be named such. The girl seemed to have known that she was to die because she hadn't said another word after that and passed on not even an hour later.

Mrs Cole shook her head and drained her gin in one, pouring herself another. Odd name, Marvolo, she thought again. That had been the girl's father's name, she had said. Tom, of course, was a little more respectable of a name, and it had been the boy's father's.

Well, they had done as she'd asked. The boy was named Tom Marvolo Riddle, and they had very well expected some Tom or some Riddle to come for him, but no such person ever came, and so it was that Tom stayed in the orphanage and grew up about as well as any boy in that situation could hope to. He ought to be about as normal as Billy Stubbs.

And yet…

'Mrs Cole?' came a quiet voice from the doorway.

Mrs Cole turned to see Joan, one of the junior staff members, poking her head cautiously threw the doorway.

'Yes?' barked Mrs Cole, a little more harshly than she'd intended. Her thoughts of Tom seemed to have put her in a strangely foul mood. 'What is it?' she added, more kindly this time, carefully stowing away the gin bottle in her bottom drawer again.

'We're all ready for roll call,' said Joan, opening the door a bit wider at the renewed kindness in Mrs Cole's voice. 'It's just that Tom –'

'What about Tom?' interrupted Mrs Cole sharply.

Joan looked taken aback at the harshness in Mrs Cole's voice and said, 'There was an incident, ma'am. Jackson Davies came to tell me that Tom had, well, I'm not quite sure what he did, but Jackson's in a right state, and –'

Mrs Cole frowned. Jackson Davies was one of the more levelheaded children here at the orphanage and wasn't prone to the sorts of complaints about Tom that the other children were. Jackson was fourteen turning fifteen besides, nearly four years older than Tom, who was eleven. Once again, Mrs Cole reflected on the oddness of the Riddle boy.

'What does Jackson say?'

Joan sighed and her expression shifted from one of slight stress to confusion. 'Only that Tom stole something of his. A book.'

Mrs Cole nodded once in a kind of jerky motion. This had happened before. Not with Jackson Davies, but the other children. Things had gone missing, and everyone seemed to point the finger at Tom, but they had looked through his room and found no hint of the missing items and had been forced to concede that the children must have lost their toys in other ways. Even now, Mrs Cole couldn't be absolutely sure that Tom had taken anything. The other children didn't like him very much, and she thought that maybe they were lying to get Tom in trouble.

'Thank you, Joan. I'll speak to him,' said Mrs Cole, straightening some papers in the corner of her desk. 'Can you go and make sure the rest of the children are ready? And make sure that Eric Whalley has his inhaler this time, won't you?'

Joan nodded and left the room. Mrs Cole could hear her speaking to a few of the children assembled just outside the door and decided now was as good a time as any. She stood up, straightening her blouse and adjusting the tight bun that kept her greying hair up, and left the office. She passed the five or so children assembled in the front hall, all ready to accompany Joan outside for some fresh air, and ascended the stone steps, turning at the second landing and stopping at the first door, which was open.

'Tom?' said Mrs Cole, knocking once on the doorframe.

The book which obscured Tom's face did not lower as he said, 'I'm not going. I'd much rather stay and wander London alone.'

Mrs Cole frowned. Twice now she'd gone round and done the roll call only to find that Tom was not in his room. Yet it seemed every time that the very moment she realized he was missing, he came around the corner, claiming to have merely been in the bathroom or downstairs in the small library they kept. She had a suspicion that he was sneaking out to roam the streets of London, but couldn't imagine what he could be doing – or prove that he was leaving the orphanage at all.

'Now Tom,' she said admonishingly, taking a seat in the straight-backed wooden chair sitting at his desk, 'you know you can't be off on your own. We've organized a nice trip to London today. Joan is going to take everyone to the market. You'll have fun.'

'No, I won't,' snapped Tom instantly, slamming the book shut and placing it carelessly on his bedside table. He sat up and turned to her with a defiant expression, which melted away almost instantly right before her eyes. She had never seen a child control their temper and emotions the way that Tom did, and it was just another thing about the boy that unsettled her. Mrs Cole looked into that charming face, which was strangely emotionless, his demeanor betraying nothing despite the quivering note of anger in his voice, and marveled again at how very innocent he looked. Tom was dark-haired and fair, pale it was must be said, but not sickly-looking. He was undeniably a good-looking boy and would no doubt grow to be a handsome man. Mrs Cole didn't know what the boy's father had looked like, but she must have imagined he looked something like this. Suddenly, another memory from the night Tom was born came back to her. His mother, having just given birth, had said to Mrs Cole, "I hope he looks like his papa". Well, Mrs Cole was pretty sure the girl had gotten her wish, because he didn't look a thing like the dirty, bedraggled girl that arrived on the orphanage doorstep eleven years ago.

'Tom,' said Mrs Cole quietly. 'Joan came to my office a moment ago.'

He didn't say anything, just kept looking into her face with that same innocent look in his eye that she was beginning not to trust.

'Can you guess what she had to tell me?'

'No, Mrs Cole,' replied the boy instantly, his hands moving from the edge of the bed to become folded in his lap.

Sometimes when she had to deal with Tom, he would act the innocent – big eyes, a confused expression… It seemed so natural on him, he was such a good-looking boy, that you couldn't help but believe him. And yet other times, seemingly without reason, Tom would grow angry and defiant. This time, it seemed, he was determined to play the innocent. 'Jackson Davies seems to think that you've taken something of his,' Mrs Cole ploughed on. 'A book?' Her eyes drifted away from his face momentarily and to the book he had just placed on the bedside table.

Tom's expression didn't change, but Mrs Cole thought she saw a flash of something behind those eyes – anger, perhaps – but it was gone before she could be sure, replaced with wide-eyed sincerity. 'Oh, that,' said Tom, picking up the book again. 'Jackson said I could borrow it, but if he'd like it back…' He handed the book to her and she took it, flipping open the front cover. It was a copy of Alice in Wonderland. Mrs Cole had never read it herself, but she knew enough about it to know that it had all sorts of magic and strange creatures in it.

Mrs Cole cleared her throat. 'Did you finish it?' she asked him,

'Nearly,' said Tom.

'And what did you think? Would you like to go to Wonderland?'

There was a pause, then Tom said, 'No, Mrs Cole. Wonderland is magic, and magic doesn't exist.'

Mrs Cole got that feeling again. It was a cold, uneasy feeling like a chill that crept up her neck. She got it sometimes when she was talking to Tom. It made her uncomfortable.

'Yes, well,' said Mrs Cole, clearing her throat. 'I daresay you're right, Tom.'

'Was there something else you wanted to ask me about, Mrs. Cole?' asked the boy, looking right into her face.

She had to consciously refrain from frowning at how specific the question was. 'Mason seems to have lost his favourite yo-yo. You wouldn't know anything about that, Tom?'

'I don't have anything of his, Mrs Cole. I haven't seen him all morning. I've been in my room.' He hesitated for just a moment, his eyes drifting to the left where a large wardrobe lay tucked into a corner. Tom kept his clothes and things in there. 'Would you like to look for Mason's yo-yo like before? Like when Eric lost his toy soldier?'

This time Mrs Cole did frown. The questions were far too pointed for her liking, and though he had asked them without a trace of accusation in his voice, Mrs Cole could sense it in the method of the questioning. Would you like to look for Mason's yo-yo like before? Like when Eric lost his toy soldier, or Amy her doll, and you didn't find anything?

Nor would she. Such was the way with Tom.

'No,' replied Mrs Cole, tucking the book under her arm and standing up. 'I am inclined to take you at your word, Tom. Now, run along downstairs. Joan will be waiting for you with the rest of the children. You're to go to London market.'

Tom didn't say anything or make a move to go and Mrs Cole was growing impatient.

'There won't be enough staff left behind to watch you, Tom. Besides, the London market is fun. I've given Joan enough money to buy everyone an ice cream.'

The boy nodded and stood up from the bed and walked towards the door. Mrs Cole had a sudden idea to give the book back to him and insist that he return it to Jackson, but thought better of it. The less interaction Tom had with the other children, the better for everyone, she thought. Once Tom left the room, she closed the door and placed Alice in Wonderland on the side table again so that she could search more thoroughly. The bed was made, and there was nothing between the mattress and box spring, nor under the bed itself. The side table drawer was too small to hold anything other than a few odds and ends, which left only the wardrobe in the corner.

Mrs Cole threw open the door and at first saw nothing but a mismatched assortment of threadbare clothes hung on a rail. At the bottom were an extra pair of shoes Mrs Cole had given Tom a few months ago. Second-hand, of course, she was fairly sure they had once belonged to Jackson, but there was little else she could do. Tom was outgrowing his clothing and shoes more quickly than most. She still remembered the look on Tom's face when she mentioned who they had once belonged to, and wondered if it was because of that reason that they were tucked away on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe, clearly unused.

She was about to close the door and give up when she noticed a small cardboard box on the top shelf above the rail, slightly hidden behind a neatly folded pile of pants. It looked to her as though the box had been purposefully concealed behind the pile of pants, albeit somewhat hastily. Mrs Cole couldn't recall ever seeing the box the last time she'd gone through Tom's room, and she reached up a hand and took hold of the box by the edge.

It was strange, she thought as she pulled it down, but the box felt almost cold, as though it had been left outside in the wintertime, yet everything else in the wardrobe was of a normal temperature. Certain that she'd merely had a bit too much gin, Mrs Cole shook her head and peered into the box, expecting to find all of the children's missing things.

Only, the box was infuriatingly empty.

She stared at it for a moment and then placed it back where she had found it and closed the wardrobe door. She walked the length of the room, a rather short distance, and grabbed Jackson's copy of Alice in Wonderland off the side table and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Well, she thought, looking down at the book in her hand. At least I've got this.

She started down the hallway towards Jackson's room, and a final, troubling thought came to her.

Aye, she thought. I've got this… But what else am I missing?

Notes from the Author: This Chapter serves to introduce Tom through somebody else's eyes at the time. I was finding it difficult to properly relay that information from Tom's perspective, as he is so sure of himself, and I thought it would be refreshing to see just how creepy and scary Tom could be from someone else. Alice in Wonderland was growing in popularity in London around the 1930's, while this scene would have taken place the summer of 1937. The choice of book was meant to be an allude to Tom's magical abilities. Finally, just to ease some confusion, Tom is already eleven years old. Clever J.K. Rowling made Harry's birthday over the summer, so he could get his Hogwarts letter right as he turned eleven. Tom Riddle, however, was born New Years' Eve, which makes that impossible, as it's the middle of a school term. Therefore, I decided that he would be admitted to Hogwarts after turning eleven, not before, since it's explicitly stated that students must be eleven before attending. Thanks for reading!