This is the result of years worth of brain fermentation, though it's nothing impressive. This idea came to me after reading Chamber of Secrets and it hasn't gone away since, so I thought I'd just have a go at it. Yes, this contradicts everything we've learned about Tom Riddle since, but I think my idea's better. Although I am sorry to post it now, what with Deathly Hallows and all, and the far too blatant comparisons between Gridelwald and Hitler. I mean, come on, that whole prison thing, with the message scrawled along the prison gates? Subtle, real subtle. But I don't mean to rant about the new book (see my homepage for that!) and I hope you enjoy.

Tom stared at the slop in his bowl, lifting a spoonful and watching idly as it fell back down with a small, wet glop. He wasn't hungry. And besides, the porridge wasn't even a proper breakfast. There was no milk to sweeten it, no raisins poking through the oatmeal. It was made in the kitchen every morning, in the large pot that they all took turns scrubbing. Sister Mary stirred it with a long wooden stick that was too big to even be called a spoon, making sure that as little as possible burned with detached, practical movements. She didn't talk as she worked, didn't smile or laugh, didn't smile at the children as they impatiently held out their bowls. The porridge tasted cold even when just ladled into the bowls, because it wasn't made by his mother.

And it was too cold in England, anyway. It was always foggy, and the city was far too large, and the people too distracted and busy. There were no smiles or friendly exchanges of 'guten tag,' no pudgy bread sellers placing their wares in the windows. Even the wind, which Tom had always liked, was cruel here, smelling of iron and gun powder.

And there was no mother.

There were good things too, the things that he tried to remind himself of when his heart felt as if it would manage to break yet again. Here, there was no yellow star to keep track of, no jeers in the street as he stumbled his way past his old school, past his old friends, and headed instead to the small synagogue to spend the day with the other boys, taught by the distracted rabbi in hushed whispers.

But the fear was there, still, but now there was no one to brush his long black hair out of his eyes and kiss him gently on the forehead, telling them that they were safe, that Yahweh would not let his chosen people come to harm.

And he'd believed her, clinging to her even though he was seven and halfway to being a man.

But then Abram had come and spoken to mother, and she had clutched the stick that she thought he didn't know about, and cried. He only heard a few words of that fierce conversation, but mother's eyes told him more than the words ever could. They were going to be taken away, forced from their homes, like the rumors said, because they were Jewish.

"Thomas," she had said, and he had run into her arms, ignoring the stoic Abram that frowned beyond his mother's shoulder. "Thomas, you are going to go to England, to your father's country."

"Without you." It wasn't a question, and his mother did not have to nod.

"My place is here. I belong here; I have never left, and no man, not even one so twisted as the fuhrer, will drive me from it. You come from a proud people, Thomas. Your forefathers were great men, men of power and of faith. One day you will learn of them, learn of the gift that flows through your veins, through the blood we share. But you cannot do that here."

"None of the other boys are leaving! They are staying. I will stay with you. I will protect you, mother!" Merope had smiled sadly and smoothed the collar of his worn coat.

"And I would not ask for a better guardian, Thomas. But you are not yet a man, and for just a while longer, it is my job to protect you. And I will do so, even if it means that we must part." She clutched him tightly to her, holding onto him as he was slipping away.

Pain spread across his knuckles. Sister Elizabeth stood above him, a frown on her face. "You have not said your prayers, Riddle."

"But I did!" he protested, dropping his rough wooden spoon into the bowl as the wooden ruler cracked across his knuckles yet again. "I prayed, and thanked Yahweh-"

"We do not pray to Yahweh!" she interrupted. "We pray to Jesus, who died for us all, to save us from eternal damnation. The Messiah has already come! You are an ungrateful wretch, to refuse his grace!"

"He hasn't come at all!" Tom argued, cringing as the ruler was raised once more. "If the Messiah had come, then my mother wouldn't be dead! Your Jesus didn't save her, and he hasn't saved the Chosen people from Herr Hitler." It was all he could do to say the name, and he couldn't bring himself to refer to the man as fuhrer. Even calling him 'herr' made the bile rise in his throat. "And until he does, I won't pray to him!"

"Then you won't eat breakfast, either!"

She yanked the bowl away from him, and Tom stared at his red, swelling hands, ignoring the titters of the other children. Why haven't you come? he demanded of the messiah silently. Why didn't you save my mother? She believed in you, and you didn't do anything

Magic. So that explained his mother's stick, but opened up an entire new realm of questions.

Why did you not save yourself, mutti? Why did you leave me here, in this cold place?

But magic couldn't give him the answers. It was a tool. A tool to avenge his mother, a tool to make sure that no other boys were orphaned.

Because if der messias would not come, then he'd just have to save them all himself.