Chapter One
The Outcast
It was an icy cold day. The air was chill, and the numerous clouds looked like lumpy porridge in the lead-grey sky. It had been snowing, but not much. All the children, save for one, ran about with their friends, laughing and throwing the occasional snowball. The odd boy out sat under a tree shivering from head to toe. All the other orphans hats and gloves to cover themselves up. His had been stolen and thrown into trees by the other kids. The coldness stabbed him with every breath like a blade of ice against his lungs. He pulled his thin jacket tighter around him, still shivering. His breath hung mistily before him, mingling with the London fog. It was an hour after school on a Thursday, and the orphans were all supposed to play outside to get rid of their excess energy.
He gazed at the frolicking children with a mixture of jealousy and loathing. Not one of the rosy, happy faces belonged to anyone who had ever been kind to him. Even the girls, looking so innocuous in their frilly dresses and pigtails, even they were worthy of abhorrence. Every one of them had, at one time or another, taken the time to kick him in the shins. The boys, however, made the girls look like baby rabbits. He knew they despised him, and he detested them right back.
At a glance, Tom Marvolo Riddle did not seem the kind of person who would provoke generic hatred. He was quite tall and spindly, and he had a rather lost, lonely look about him. He looked like he never got enough to eat, which was true. His orphanage uniform was far too short in the arm and leg, but it was also baggy, and it seemed to hang limply from his shoulders. Tom had jet-black hair that clearly needed a good trim, but it was his eyes that drew the attention. They were bright turquoise, almost unnatural in hue, and when framed by his dark eyelashes, they were no less than striking.
Tom was an intelligent child, which was very bad for an orphan. The nuns who ran the orphanage under the rule of Robert Lister, believed that orphans should be meek and grateful. Tom was neither. He had earned several beatings for commenting on the way things were. The nuns had identified him as a trouble maker and Lister, who ruled with an iron fist, regularly needed to punish one of the orphans so that the rest would remain obedient. More often than not, Tom drew the proverbial short straw. The other orphans took advantage of the fact that Tom was the least liked by repeatedly beating him up. They and he both knew that even if he told anyone, the staff would do one of three things; they would either tell him to stop bothering them and send him back outside. If this was the case, the other orphans would beat him up again for telling. Or the staff would send him up to his room without anything to eat until supper to teach him to 'be strong', but in reality it was to get him out of their sight for a few hours. The last thing they could do was the worst: they could believe him and punish the orphans in question. This was a rarity, only happening when Tom had severe cuts, bruises or broken bones. Once punishment had been carried out he was attacked worse than before in revenge. But quite often when he was been beaten up, strange things happened around Tom than no one could seem to explain, which had branded him as a freak. Once, when he was seven, three older boys were holding him down and taking turns at giving him (very painful) birthday digs. Suddenly all three of them started screaming and shouting as they were covered with fire ants and were severely bitten. Tom had got a very long beating for this as Robert Lister was convinced that he had somehow covered the boys with jam to attract the ants. After been beaten, Tom broke his leg when one of the boys named Malcolm White had pushed him down the stairs for a thrill.
He had often thought about these instances when he was younger. They always seemed to occur when he was feeling angry or scared. Most of the time it had got him into trouble but there were occasions when something even stranger had occurred. People would forget about the event, or remember it differently than it had happened. Tom remembered one occasion when he was been held down by four boys and Malcolm was hitting him, he was so angry and scared. Suddenly, all four of the boys who were holding him down started screaming and holding their hands as though they had been burned. Malcolm on the other hand was flying backwards as if someone had given him an upper cut. Tom wasn't about to stick around. But as he was running, he could have sworn he had heard a loud pop and a flash of light coming from behind him. Later however, it seemed that Malcolm and his cronies had forgotten the whole incident.
Tom continued to look at the faces of the other orphans for a while. They had just finished classes for the day. Tom sat with his bag of work next to him and an open book of maths on his lap. He decided that he would start his work now. It didn't have to be in for a few days but if he didn't do it now he'd only have to do it later. Anyway, it wasn't like he was doing anything special at the moment. He took out a pen and began to work through his questions. Most of the other children around him would have to spend a lot longer on this work than he did (he smiled with amusement that he knew that some of the fourteen year olds at the orphanage couldn't remember the twelve times table). Tom always seemed to be able to absorb knowledge like a sponge. Although his brain often got him into trouble here, he was grateful for it.
He was torn away from his work when two stones hit him in the chest. Rubbing his chest, he looked up to see the three stooges; Larry Griffith, Denis Park and Morris Patrick, better known as Larry, Curly (Denis had very curly hair) and Mo. The trio had an old score to settle with Tom, but then again, most of the orphans did.
"Working hard are we?" Larry sneered.
"Some of us are," Tom retorted. He put his book back in his bag, in case a retreat was called for.
"Don't worry, Riddle. We're not going to chase you. On the contrary. We want you to stay so that you can own up to what you've done," Mo grinned.
Tom didn't understand what he was on about until he looked past the three. About ten meters behind them was a broken window. Tom realised what was happening: he was going to be used as a scapegoat. The rocks that had hit Tom were obviously similar to the one that had broken the window and if he ran, Lister would have him for sure. No one was going to vouch for him just sitting under a tree minding his own business. The only thing to do was to wait.
Soon enough, Robert Lister came marching out of the orphanage. He always marched, having been an officer in the great war. He was a porky man and was very intimidating. All the orphans feared him and, with expression on his face, to say that he was not in a good mood was putting it mildly. As he came out, Curly grabbed Tom to make it look like he had caught him running away, while Mo forced some stones into his pockets. Larry was the first to greet Lister.
"Sir, we saw Riddle running away from that broken window," Larry told him.
Tom said nothing as Lister approached him. He knew that he would never convince him that he didn't do it; Lister just didn't like him. Plus, if he did say what he was thinking, a beating would be a trip to candy land compared to what Lister would do to him.
"Turn out your pockets, Riddle," Lister barked. Tom complied knowing what was coming. He took out the stones and waited for the inevitable.
"Do you have any idea what was going on it that room when the window broke, Riddle?" Lister's voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "I was having a meeting with a couple who wanted to adopt one of you orphans. I was just saying how well behaved everyone here was when, at that exact moment we were hit by a shower of glass. The couple have now left and I doubt that they'll be back. Come with me."
Tom sighed and followed. He knew where he was going: the wailing room. That is what it was called by the children and Tom had been in there more than most. The room was in the basement, so no one above ground could hear any screams. It was a desolate room, the only furnishing was a ratty old twin bed, a small sink in the corner and there were numerous, unpleasantly bloody-looking stains on the floor, wall, and even the ceiling. Tom sat down on the bed, staring straight ahead of him. The furnature was there because, after the beatings, more often than not, he would be left there for a few days with less than usual to eat, if that was possible. Lister left the room and re-entered a few minutes later with a heavy leather belt.
"Take off your upper things, you know the drill," Lister barked. Tom removed his jacket and shirt. He shivered; the basement was freezing, and his undershirt was doing very little to keep him warm. He then knelt next to the bed and waited. Tom heard him raise the belt, and Tom braced himself, still staring straight ahead. The belt made sudden contact, and Tom bit his lip, his shoulders searing. It was quickly followed by another lash, and another, and another... Tom quickly lost count. He tried to focus all his energy on not crying out, or showing any signs of his agony, for that was what Lister wanted. Restraint, however, was coming harder with every crack.
"You-will-be-taught-obedience," Lister shouted, the belt coming down with each word. The belt impacted again and Tom let out an involuntary gasp of pain. Not only was Lister hitting him harder than ever, but he was using the end with the buckle. Somehow, he managed to hit exactly the same area every time. After several blows, Tom could not help it. He screamed at the top of his lungs, praying that someone would hear and call the police. Someone at the back of his mind reminded him that Lister was doing nothing illegal, he was allowed to discipline his charges, but Tom did not care. He shouted as loudly as he could, though this seemed to just encourage him. After what seemed like hours, Lister relented, and Tom collapsed, whimpering softly into the musty quilt of the old bed.
"Let that be a lesson to you,"Lister snarled, rolling up the belt as he rose to leave the Wailing Room. Tom, his face shiny with tears, glared up at Lister, his eyes blazing.
"That's two day you're staying in here, Riddle, and no meals!" he snapped. He stormed out of the room and slammed the door. Tom heard muffled voices out in the main basement area, accompanied by high- pitched laughter. Three seconds later, Malcolm White, Tom's archenemy, poked his head in.
"Heard you got the brains knocked out of you, Riddle," he giggled, his ratty little face splitting into a wide grin. "Two whole days and no food, eh? Don't worry, we're already planning a welcome back party for when you get out of there. Besides, you aren't going to get out of Sunday School, and this week's lesson is going to be fascinating." Malcolm smirked more widely, and he slammed the door. Once he was sure he was alone, Tom reached up and felt his back. His undershirt seemed damp, and was stuck to his skin. Tom winced at the slight pressure of his fingers, so he quickly drew his hand away. His fingertips were smeared with blood. Tom flinched and buried his face in the pillow.
The Outcast
It was an icy cold day. The air was chill, and the numerous clouds looked like lumpy porridge in the lead-grey sky. It had been snowing, but not much. All the children, save for one, ran about with their friends, laughing and throwing the occasional snowball. The odd boy out sat under a tree shivering from head to toe. All the other orphans hats and gloves to cover themselves up. His had been stolen and thrown into trees by the other kids. The coldness stabbed him with every breath like a blade of ice against his lungs. He pulled his thin jacket tighter around him, still shivering. His breath hung mistily before him, mingling with the London fog. It was an hour after school on a Thursday, and the orphans were all supposed to play outside to get rid of their excess energy.
He gazed at the frolicking children with a mixture of jealousy and loathing. Not one of the rosy, happy faces belonged to anyone who had ever been kind to him. Even the girls, looking so innocuous in their frilly dresses and pigtails, even they were worthy of abhorrence. Every one of them had, at one time or another, taken the time to kick him in the shins. The boys, however, made the girls look like baby rabbits. He knew they despised him, and he detested them right back.
At a glance, Tom Marvolo Riddle did not seem the kind of person who would provoke generic hatred. He was quite tall and spindly, and he had a rather lost, lonely look about him. He looked like he never got enough to eat, which was true. His orphanage uniform was far too short in the arm and leg, but it was also baggy, and it seemed to hang limply from his shoulders. Tom had jet-black hair that clearly needed a good trim, but it was his eyes that drew the attention. They were bright turquoise, almost unnatural in hue, and when framed by his dark eyelashes, they were no less than striking.
Tom was an intelligent child, which was very bad for an orphan. The nuns who ran the orphanage under the rule of Robert Lister, believed that orphans should be meek and grateful. Tom was neither. He had earned several beatings for commenting on the way things were. The nuns had identified him as a trouble maker and Lister, who ruled with an iron fist, regularly needed to punish one of the orphans so that the rest would remain obedient. More often than not, Tom drew the proverbial short straw. The other orphans took advantage of the fact that Tom was the least liked by repeatedly beating him up. They and he both knew that even if he told anyone, the staff would do one of three things; they would either tell him to stop bothering them and send him back outside. If this was the case, the other orphans would beat him up again for telling. Or the staff would send him up to his room without anything to eat until supper to teach him to 'be strong', but in reality it was to get him out of their sight for a few hours. The last thing they could do was the worst: they could believe him and punish the orphans in question. This was a rarity, only happening when Tom had severe cuts, bruises or broken bones. Once punishment had been carried out he was attacked worse than before in revenge. But quite often when he was been beaten up, strange things happened around Tom than no one could seem to explain, which had branded him as a freak. Once, when he was seven, three older boys were holding him down and taking turns at giving him (very painful) birthday digs. Suddenly all three of them started screaming and shouting as they were covered with fire ants and were severely bitten. Tom had got a very long beating for this as Robert Lister was convinced that he had somehow covered the boys with jam to attract the ants. After been beaten, Tom broke his leg when one of the boys named Malcolm White had pushed him down the stairs for a thrill.
He had often thought about these instances when he was younger. They always seemed to occur when he was feeling angry or scared. Most of the time it had got him into trouble but there were occasions when something even stranger had occurred. People would forget about the event, or remember it differently than it had happened. Tom remembered one occasion when he was been held down by four boys and Malcolm was hitting him, he was so angry and scared. Suddenly, all four of the boys who were holding him down started screaming and holding their hands as though they had been burned. Malcolm on the other hand was flying backwards as if someone had given him an upper cut. Tom wasn't about to stick around. But as he was running, he could have sworn he had heard a loud pop and a flash of light coming from behind him. Later however, it seemed that Malcolm and his cronies had forgotten the whole incident.
Tom continued to look at the faces of the other orphans for a while. They had just finished classes for the day. Tom sat with his bag of work next to him and an open book of maths on his lap. He decided that he would start his work now. It didn't have to be in for a few days but if he didn't do it now he'd only have to do it later. Anyway, it wasn't like he was doing anything special at the moment. He took out a pen and began to work through his questions. Most of the other children around him would have to spend a lot longer on this work than he did (he smiled with amusement that he knew that some of the fourteen year olds at the orphanage couldn't remember the twelve times table). Tom always seemed to be able to absorb knowledge like a sponge. Although his brain often got him into trouble here, he was grateful for it.
He was torn away from his work when two stones hit him in the chest. Rubbing his chest, he looked up to see the three stooges; Larry Griffith, Denis Park and Morris Patrick, better known as Larry, Curly (Denis had very curly hair) and Mo. The trio had an old score to settle with Tom, but then again, most of the orphans did.
"Working hard are we?" Larry sneered.
"Some of us are," Tom retorted. He put his book back in his bag, in case a retreat was called for.
"Don't worry, Riddle. We're not going to chase you. On the contrary. We want you to stay so that you can own up to what you've done," Mo grinned.
Tom didn't understand what he was on about until he looked past the three. About ten meters behind them was a broken window. Tom realised what was happening: he was going to be used as a scapegoat. The rocks that had hit Tom were obviously similar to the one that had broken the window and if he ran, Lister would have him for sure. No one was going to vouch for him just sitting under a tree minding his own business. The only thing to do was to wait.
Soon enough, Robert Lister came marching out of the orphanage. He always marched, having been an officer in the great war. He was a porky man and was very intimidating. All the orphans feared him and, with expression on his face, to say that he was not in a good mood was putting it mildly. As he came out, Curly grabbed Tom to make it look like he had caught him running away, while Mo forced some stones into his pockets. Larry was the first to greet Lister.
"Sir, we saw Riddle running away from that broken window," Larry told him.
Tom said nothing as Lister approached him. He knew that he would never convince him that he didn't do it; Lister just didn't like him. Plus, if he did say what he was thinking, a beating would be a trip to candy land compared to what Lister would do to him.
"Turn out your pockets, Riddle," Lister barked. Tom complied knowing what was coming. He took out the stones and waited for the inevitable.
"Do you have any idea what was going on it that room when the window broke, Riddle?" Lister's voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "I was having a meeting with a couple who wanted to adopt one of you orphans. I was just saying how well behaved everyone here was when, at that exact moment we were hit by a shower of glass. The couple have now left and I doubt that they'll be back. Come with me."
Tom sighed and followed. He knew where he was going: the wailing room. That is what it was called by the children and Tom had been in there more than most. The room was in the basement, so no one above ground could hear any screams. It was a desolate room, the only furnishing was a ratty old twin bed, a small sink in the corner and there were numerous, unpleasantly bloody-looking stains on the floor, wall, and even the ceiling. Tom sat down on the bed, staring straight ahead of him. The furnature was there because, after the beatings, more often than not, he would be left there for a few days with less than usual to eat, if that was possible. Lister left the room and re-entered a few minutes later with a heavy leather belt.
"Take off your upper things, you know the drill," Lister barked. Tom removed his jacket and shirt. He shivered; the basement was freezing, and his undershirt was doing very little to keep him warm. He then knelt next to the bed and waited. Tom heard him raise the belt, and Tom braced himself, still staring straight ahead. The belt made sudden contact, and Tom bit his lip, his shoulders searing. It was quickly followed by another lash, and another, and another... Tom quickly lost count. He tried to focus all his energy on not crying out, or showing any signs of his agony, for that was what Lister wanted. Restraint, however, was coming harder with every crack.
"You-will-be-taught-obedience," Lister shouted, the belt coming down with each word. The belt impacted again and Tom let out an involuntary gasp of pain. Not only was Lister hitting him harder than ever, but he was using the end with the buckle. Somehow, he managed to hit exactly the same area every time. After several blows, Tom could not help it. He screamed at the top of his lungs, praying that someone would hear and call the police. Someone at the back of his mind reminded him that Lister was doing nothing illegal, he was allowed to discipline his charges, but Tom did not care. He shouted as loudly as he could, though this seemed to just encourage him. After what seemed like hours, Lister relented, and Tom collapsed, whimpering softly into the musty quilt of the old bed.
"Let that be a lesson to you,"Lister snarled, rolling up the belt as he rose to leave the Wailing Room. Tom, his face shiny with tears, glared up at Lister, his eyes blazing.
"That's two day you're staying in here, Riddle, and no meals!" he snapped. He stormed out of the room and slammed the door. Tom heard muffled voices out in the main basement area, accompanied by high- pitched laughter. Three seconds later, Malcolm White, Tom's archenemy, poked his head in.
"Heard you got the brains knocked out of you, Riddle," he giggled, his ratty little face splitting into a wide grin. "Two whole days and no food, eh? Don't worry, we're already planning a welcome back party for when you get out of there. Besides, you aren't going to get out of Sunday School, and this week's lesson is going to be fascinating." Malcolm smirked more widely, and he slammed the door. Once he was sure he was alone, Tom reached up and felt his back. His undershirt seemed damp, and was stuck to his skin. Tom winced at the slight pressure of his fingers, so he quickly drew his hand away. His fingertips were smeared with blood. Tom flinched and buried his face in the pillow.