A/N: Because I didn't have enough stories already. Well, I can't help it. This plot bunny kept bothering me, while I was supposed to study.

Harry Potter does not belong to me but to J.K. Rowling

o.O.o

Prologue

31 December 1926

The sun was sinking down the horizon and stained the sky behind London city stained a pale lilac colour, lining the wispy clouds with a gentle golden glow. Winter air swirled around the grey outskirts of London taking up every bit of warmth. With the swiftly approaching darkness and the chilly night air outside the lone figure pulled her shabby coat closer to her form and tucked her chin into her old woollen scarf. She was heavily pregnant, her breath visible under the sporadic light of the street lanterns. The icy sidewalk beneath her feet was slippery and her breathing was already laboured. She couldn't go much further, and both arms wrapped protectively around her swollen stomach.

Her feet were freezing. The cold spell had arrived a few weeks ago, but it had only gotten worse during the past week. There was a hole in her sole and the snow was dampening her socks. The Muggle police officers had chased her away, thinking she'd been a beggar, and since then she'd been wandering around the subway.

When she arrived at the other side of Britain's capital, an old inn's lady and her husband had promised she could stay at an orphanage the night, darkness had fully set in. The cold moonless night threw an inauspicious shade over an otherwise wonderful. The woman felt her jaws ground together. Tonight her child would come into the world without his father and for that, she felt horrible.

Staring forward, she looked up at the square building of the orphanage. With the waning streetlight, it cut a grand shape, surrounded by high railings and little foliage. The gravel path creaked under her feet and when she knocked the large door was answered by a blonde girl, only slightly younger than the young pregnant girl herself. Her father would have scowled at the way the Muggle girl was dressed. Even with the poor clothing her father had possessed, the girl in front of her was dressed in an even rattier wool dyed uniform than any clothes the pregnant girl had been able to keep.

"Yes?"

The girl seemed hesitant, her fingers curling tightly around the wood of the door and her eyes were wide and frightened. Merope Riddle knew she'd seen better days. Although her clothes were only a fraction better than the ones the girl in front of her was wearing, she wasn't clean. Her hair was matted and her cheeks were coated with dirt. Life at the lower rings of Diagon Alley had been unkind.

Life as a blood-traitor carrying a Muggle's child had been even worse. Her father had only recently been released from Azkaban and hadn't taken the disappearance from his daughter too well. How he managed to set up such a large quantity of the Wizarding world in such a short time was beyond her, but only little wanted to help a girl in her situation out.

"I— I need help," she whispered. Her voice sounded wrong and hoarse from the long period of disuse.

The girl wrung her hands together, dull brown eyes lingering on Merope's swollen stomach before turning around: "Missus Cole!"

She retreated further into the building and Merope caught herself on the doorjamb, fingers digging into the splintered wood. Her waters had broken and a small puddle of liquid had started to form at her feet. Another cramp wracked her body and she moaned. Her father would have been horrified. She crouched down, cradling her belly in her hands and grimaced in pain. From inside the building, she heard the girl discuss what had happened only moments before and a woman with mousy curly hair came down the stairs.

"If this is another one of your jokes, Megan, I will be very put out with you."

"It isn't Missus Cole!" The girl called Megan whispered, tugging nervously at one of her pigtails. "This girl— she's pregnant. Very so."

Merope looked up with large, weary eyes. The people she's spoken to near the station had been shown her to the orphanage. The older Muggle man with the large moustache had been sure the matron of the orphanage could be of assistance to She was a bit younger than Merope and wore the same plain grey uniform as the girl who'd opened the door.

"Miss—" she asked carefully, kneeling down beside her, "Oh my God!"

"Megan, inform Bernard, with the recent sicknesses he should still be there. Miss, please come in. I'm taking you upstairs to the infirmary."

Warm hands helped Merope carefully to her feet and she cried out again. Her fingers curled tightly around the school matrons arms: "It's coming, it's coming now!"

"All right, I've got you." The school matron forcefully whispered, helping Merope up the stairs and down a dark dreary hall. "What's your name, dear?"

"Merope,"

"All right, Merope, dear, it's the third door to your left."

Soon the young girl was on a crisp white bed, crying out regularly as her body was wracked with cramps and aches. The face of the school matron was terse and even with the little knowledge she had about pregnancies, she knew she wasn't doing well. The healer, a doctor as the woman called him, had stepped up beside her. His silver hair was combed backwards and his wilted cheeks had dusted pink.

"The baby is already crowning," he barked harshly, "bring me fresh linen and warm water."

"You're going to be just fine, sweetheart," Missus Cole whispered, "you'll be holding your child soon."

Merope moaned again, her hands going to her stomach, yet the thought of her child made her smile: "I hope he'll look his papa."

The woman nodded slowly. It seemed she hoped so too.

The next thirty minutes flew by and in a short amount of time the shrill cries of a baby flooded into the room. The male healer held her pink baby boy in his arms and even in her state, she felt a swell of pride. The woman, Missus Cole took the child from his arms and carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. With a small smile, she showed the now silent child. His eyes were pinched closed and his lips were pursed.

"It's a boy, dear."

"A boy," she whispered softly, slowly tracing her index finger over the child's cheek and moaned again when a flash of pain surged through her. The matron, holding the bloodied, warm babe to her chest paled when the girl turned as white as a sheet. She was only a few years older and already her life was in shambles. Her frail frame shuddered on the bed, still bleeding heavily.

"—Tom, like his papa," she gasped out and Bernard shook his head as inconspicuous as possible. She was not going to make it. Missus Cole felt her grip on the child tighten, and watched as the girl pushed herself up on her pillows gasping out a ragged breath. "Marvolo, for my father!"

"Marvolo?" Missus Cole asked in a more sceptical tone. Unbeknownst to the young girl growing even paler, the young school matron wondered to herself if this gipsy girl had escaped from her life at a circus. She certainly looked as if her life had been very hard on her.

"Yes," she nodded "Tom Marvolo Riddle. I so hope— he'll look at his father."

Inhaling softly, she did not breath out again. It was her last breath of air before her eyes turned glassy and unseeingly and suddenly Merope Gaunt-Riddle was no more. Emily Cole rocked the small child carefully and slowly stepped out of the room, leaving the still warm body of the girl onto the bed. Not only was she young, she'd also died in less than an hour upon arriving here.

And now she'd left her poor child behind, a true orphan birthed at the heart of Wool's orphanage. Of course, there was a small chance the father of the child Tom Riddle would find his newborn son. Perhaps even the girl's father, although Emily didn't feel good about leaving a young boy to a man who might have favoured the street-life, would come for the boy.

She brought the child to the children's nursery. With the cold, many of the youngsters had died and little Tom was placed in a small, but adequate cot closest to the heaters. Emily Cole did not know it then, but she would be in for a few troublesome years. No would ever adopt him.

Tom grew up as a very silent child. Even as a babe he rarely ever cried. Yet, as he grew into a tall boy, Emily couldn't help but think something was wrong with him. Despite his pale seraphic face, the young child possessed a cold sort of intelligence and didn't get on with his peers. Even more troubling, when something happened, Tom Marvolo Riddle always seemed to be in the midst of it.

He became cunning and calculating. Emotions often deluded the boy, and therefore shunted by the rest of the children, remaining outside the social circle of his peers. How she wished he would be adopted, but as almost none of the children were orphans per se, just bastards, there wasn't much to hope for.

Yet, three days after his seventh birthday someone came…

To be continued…

AN: I don't know why I wanted to try this. Perhaps because Tom's character seems very difficult to understand (as he was a raging psychopath in the books), yet, interesting enough to write. I've read a lot of fanfictions (including various of Tom Riddle's school years — or at least part of Tom Riddle's school years) and several of them focused on the similarities of Riddle's and Harry's upbringing.

Personally, apart from appalling childhoods at the hands of caretakers who should have loved them, I don't see all that much similarities. Yes, they're both Half-bloods and grew up as orphans, hating to be away from Hogwarts (their 'real' homes), but I think the time Riddle grew up might have been an added bonus. Not only were orphanages not all that great during the forties (at least from what I read), but he also grew up during the second world war. Which means if Wools orphanage was near London (and I believe I read it was) than he was living in a city subjected to Nazi aerial bombardment with air raid sirens and planes dropping bombs. If your opinion about a group of people is already low; living through a war, having barely enough to eat (because daily meals were definitely not a thing with orphanages) and being considered a devil (I'm also quite sure people still believed in the devil being reborn in children), it might not get much better.

Thereby, even in England, there was a lot of racial hostility. I find the idea very interesting. Also, with Gerrelt Grindelwald an active politicus (as much as I do not appreciate that term for him) and Riddle sorted in Slytherin, where many children might think along the lines of purifying the wizarding race, it might have been a recipe for disaster.

Anyway, it made me wonder if things could have been slightly different, if instead of having to grow up on the slopes of London, suffering from poverty and neglect. Perhaps it might not change a thing, but we're going to see…

Enjoy and leave a review.