Tom Marvolo Riddle
So common...
He stared out of the window, hugging his legs to his chest and he watched and listened to the soft, rhythm of the rain dripping outside and sliding down his sill resume. His room in the foster home was dim, due to the electric currents apparently being somehow affected by the rain.
He took all of this in- the melody of the falling rain, the soft snores of his room-mates, and the dim, constantly flickering light on the ceiling. Somehow, none of it seemed right, he mused. It was too...normal for him. Abandoning his seat and walking noiselessly up to one of the mirrors of their dust cabinets, he looked at himself for what seemed like the thousandth time.
His elegant, dark hair fell over his forehead in waves. Even in the poorly lit room, his dark eyes shone with a strange gleam that anyone could intercept as a slightly non-innocent one for a boy his age. His body was slight, and he looked rather handsome, though young. His pale complexion was smooth and soft to the touch.
Surveying himself, he couldn't help but know, and know for sure, that he was destined for something bigger. He couldn't live among normal people. He couldn't be just another boy, just another toy that fate played with- just another human that was destined to die from the day he took his first breath.
No, he realized. He was something special. He could out-do them all. Somehow...somehow.. The gleam of ambition in his eyes intensified ten-fold as he took this in.
Tom looked at the peaceful, innocent faces of his room-mates- those who would grow to lead a mundane life, for sure. But his life would be anything but.
He didn't realize just how true that was...
The kids at the orphanage stayed away from the odd, strange Tom Riddle. They didn't play with him or invite him over anymore- oh no, they knew too well to do so. And Tom preferred it just that way- being with the others would change him...At least that was what he kept telling himself. Make him less...special. He didn't need them- but he knew they would need him someday. They would come crawling...they would beg...and swear. And then he would let a cruel smile curl his lips and take in the pathetic looks on their faces.
But one boy, one boy who was too huge to be nine years of age, had dared to approach the mysterious young Riddle, despite what the others warned. He was a big brute of a child- his young body unnaturally thick and a sneer plastered on his face. He hated how much attention the other children gave Riddle- what was the big deal about that bloke, anyway? He was just a scrawny stick- one he could snap in a second, no doubt.
So he came forward and squeezed his shoulder hard during one lunch session- he wanted to appear intimidating, so as to scare the young boy. It did not work.
No one believed Tony Jeropes when he told the nurses at the hospital how little Tom Riddle had send him flying across the room in a flash of red light, breaking two of his ribs in the process.
No one noticed the somewhat victorious look on the young Riddle's face.
The moment he stepped into the large and ancient castle, Tom Riddle knew he had, at last, found him home. From his fascination at the several things he could learn and do, to his amazement and jubilation, Hogwarts schooled all these emotions and controlled their time of occurrence. The second he took in it's enchanted cieling, or its glowing ghosts, or maybe the warm feel of his bed in Slytherin, he immediately knew that Hogwarts was his from then on.
Every year the young Riddle requested to stay there rather than be at that wretched orphanage with all its...muggles.
...And every year, he was refused.
Yes. He had known it all along- he had know he was special. And Fate was already proving him right.
This was a boost in his confidence which encouraged him to become the greatest magician the world would see.
Ask anyone in Slytherin House- or in any House at all for that matter. Merlin, you can even ask the staff- the answer will always be the same. Tom Riddle had built quite a reputation for himself- he was bookish. He spent hours in the library, reading, educating himself, learning. His decree of knowledge was impressive for that of a second year. Several people wondered why the boy wasn't a Ravenclaw.
A charming boy, the teachers would say, chuckling at his mention. Never one to step out of the line of rules- always alert, always knowing. But they didn't know just how incorrect all their assumptions were.
For the handsome young boy had a dark side to him- he had been in the library for so long and for several days that no suspected his presence there- leaving him open to the restricted section. Manipulating teachers into allowing him to read once in a while was still a working technique- no one would suspect hard-working, dear Tom Riddle.
Except maybe one person.
A sense of irritation always surged from within the youngest Riddle when he set foot in Transfiguration class- it wasn't the subject itself. He was rather good at it, just like was with everything else. But he was always being watched during that particular class, and he was aware of it. The fairly old teacher, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, was keeping a watchful eye on him at all time, as though he knew that Tom Riddle was up to something harmful. Tom did now show the old coot that he knew of his constant glances in his direction- he smiled at him when a question was asked and answered intellectually, impressing his classmates as always.
That only put Dumbledore at greater unease.
Third year came. His head held high, Tom passed Professor Dunken and steadied himself, a Riddikulus repeating itself over and over again in his mind before he nodded, confirming he was ready for his boggart and stepping forward to meet it.
Stephanie Reyem's vampire boggart turned into a corpse- a corpse of a young man, deathly pale, with lifeless eyes staring blankly into space. Tom Riddle's hand shook as he pointed his wand at his boggart, shouting the spell and taking in a horrified gasp of terror.
And at that moment, Tom Marvolo Riddle breathed his last, and Lord Voldemort was born.
During his stay at Hogwarts, Tom had learnt many things.
If you can fight, if you are worth something, if you can actually stand up to yourself and hurt back those who have hurt you once, then no one will dare touch you again. No one.
But there were other things he'd learnt, too- blood purity, and how it all mattered the most. His house mates in Slytherin kept boasting about their family heritage so much that he was intrigued.
The others spoke of how their parents told them tales of their great-great grandparents, how their family lines were tracked back to when there was no such thing as a filthy, undeserving mudblood, or even a tainted, hybrid half-blood.
Tom didn't know a lot about his family, but he did know he was a half-blood. So he did what any Slytherin in his case would have- he tracked the more prestigious line of his family...but this time, he kept the results to himself.
...Because they traced back to Salzar Slytherin himself.
-O-
His heart pounded in his chest as he felt agonizing pain rip through his body- the very blood in his veins was boiling, his chest felt as though someone had clawed at it- his body felt like it was being burnt- he wanted to scream for it to be over, to end it all...And then just like that, all the pain was slowly seeping out of his body. The sixteen year-old gasped, filling his lungs with air greedily as he stared at the glowing ring on the floor, in the ruins of the Gaunt Shack. It was glowing a bloody red.
Despite the pain, he let a smile grace his lips, ignoring the slightly empty feeling in his chest - the feeling of a missing chunk of his very soul - as he gazed in grim fascination at the dancing red lights of his very first Horcrux.
...He had no way of knowing that his eyes were glowing the same shade of crimson.
An equal? He though, enraged as he glared at the tiny little boy peering at the large dark lord. His eyes filled with an ignorant curiosity before they wandered to the corpse of his dead mother lying only a few feet beside him.
And he admitted to himself, that he saw himself in the boy. A youth, a poor youth ruined by a mudblood who tainted his blood because his father was foolish enough to consider filthy muggles worthy of his pure blooded self. He could not see what Severus saw in the foolish woman.
Though the young dark haired boy who was now looking at him with large, green eyes was much like him, he had not a single moment of hesitation as he raised his wand and pointed it at the boy's head.
The little child stiffened in fear, but Tom...no, Voldemort, paid it no mind. No one was his equal. No one was going to cause his demise.
"Avada Kedavra!"
It was only a moment before the green light rebounded that Voldemort truly regretted his decision.
And now, grown, seventeen years of age, and in a hall full of terrified witnesses, that very boy was fiercely pointing his wand at the Dark Lord himself.
Year after year, he had tried to kill the Potter prat. Year after year...And he had always failed. Why? Because Potter preferred to shield himself with those nearby him. It was all for nothing though- the brat would die.
The love, which that old Dumbledore coot so much loved to mention, would only end the boy's days rather than prolong them.
Avada Kedavra...Expelliarmus...And once again, not bothering to acknowledge the irony of Fate and how coincidental it was, Voldemort fell to the ground, dead, feeling much more fear than he ever had in all his life.
Because the after life wouldn't welcome him well...
Thanks for getting this far! So, I haven't really read anything like this, and re-reading Deathly Hallows inspried me greatly.
Next Chapter: Severus Tobias Snape.
Followed By: Harry James Potter.