This is pure self-indulgence.
Tom Riddle was used to getting stomped on; by his peers, by the matrons, by life itself even. He was used to having to struggle for the most basic of needs, to fight tooth and nail with everything and everyone to get what he wanted.
He remembered locking out a 10-year old girl during a snow storm. When the new caretaker found her frozen corpse in the morning, with blood caking her knuckles, she had blamed herself for dismissing the bangs and the screams as the howls of the storm.
Tom heard the young woman had hung herself in her apartment during the weekend.
No one noticed how the dead girl's blanket found its way to his room and he felt no need to point it out. Blame Billy for stealing his blanket and the drunkard of the head matron for ignoring his request for another. Tom did what he had to do to survive winter, alone in his room, with no roommate to share body heat with.
He didn't want to die. Not until he got out of his personal hellhole at least.
On the rare occasions the matron had taken the orphans to expeditions thorough the city, Tom had observed. He saw people of all class, the rich barely hiding their sneer, the factory workers offering a tired smile or two.
He envied them all; for their freedom, for their ability to stretch their potential, to travel and never come back. They didn't have to sit in a tiny room with chipped paint all day for their own safety and stare out the window.
Day in, day out.
Get up early and sneak into the kitchen for breakfast they wouldn't give him. Hide behind his door until lunch and don't let anyone near his table. Do all the chores without complaining even though it was supposed to be someone else's turn. Avoid fights during dinner so his sleep wouldn't be interrupted by pain and nightmares.
Hurt them if they hurt you. Make them cower, make them fear. Ignore the whispers, the venomous words.
Endure it all.
Do not, under any circumstances, let hope rise.
Tom could handle broken fingers and bruised knees just fine. He just never figured out how to handle disappointment. Physical pain would pass, his body would heal and forget the sting of blood. Tom could always grit his teeth and wait for it to be over.
It wouldn't linger the way memories could, the twisting bitterness of hope dashed. It stayed in his mind, stuck somewhere between his ribs and behind his eyelids; festering, rotting.
A hopeful couple would take him in despite the warnings of Miss Cole. They would give him his own room and shyly discuss their future with him in it. He'd listen and adjust his behavior into what they wanted, what they were hoping for. A scared child, an obedient son. No matter, as long as it got him food and maybe even books.
But then he'd slip up.
No matter how tightly Tom would hold the fire in his blood and the ice beneath his heart, the power he had would spring up the moment his guard was down. After, there will be yells, accusations and trips to the nearest church. They'd call him a hell spawn, the Devil, and drag him back to Wool Orphanage.
He'd be lucky if they left it at that. Tom had known some couples that spread rumors about him, rumors about the orphanage. Less people would come, more children would be angry and Tom would have to sleep with one eye open.
He hated it.
So he hid in his room and waited for the days to pass as fast as possible. He celebrated his birthday. The day that marked the passage of one year; one more year he managed to survive, one less year he has to wait to be free. Maybe not rich, maybe not happy, but free nonetheless.
So yes. Tom was used to hardship, to everything jagged and resentful. All nine years of his life relied around strife and hunger. He was bitter, he was distrustful and cruelty was never a stranger to him. He didn't expect his life to be anything but hard.
So when a woman with blood-red hair and jade eyes made a beeline for his room on the adoption day, he thought that maybe she mistook his room for someone else's. He wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. The numbers on the door were old and some parts of it were chipped off. The nine on his door might be mistaken for three.
Still, she didn't leave the room when she surely realized her mistake. She just stood there, by the foot of his bed, looking right at him.
Tom cleared his throat, more unnerved by her eyes that he would like to be. Still, he held his chin high and didn't look away from her eyes, no matter how intense they seemed. "I think you were looking for David's room. It's on the first floor, closest to the stairs."
The woman smiled, the motion slow and calculated. "I'm here for you, Mr. Riddle. You are Tom Riddle, are you not?"
Without meaning to, he tensed up. People looking for him was never good news. He knew that men, pathetic as they were, would come, wanting to validate their meaningless existence. They'd call him demon, make it seem like everything that went wrong in their lives was his fault and then try to kill him. All for a bit of glory of finally killing the infamous witch child.
No one would help him. Not even his supposed caretakers. He learned that the first time. They would ignore his pleas for help and turn the blind eye and his power would slip from his grasp. Afterwards, they'd give him a wide berth. Not out of guilt, but out of fear.
Tom never expected a woman to seek him.
She was tiny, short and thin. Tom would call her poor and malnourished but the dress she wore was of high quality; the details of the cloth intricate and the color deep blue. Obviously a rich woman, born to old money. She was probably spoilt rotten too, greedy for fame. Tom much preferred them to be meek. At least then they'd leave him be.
He should not be polite in this case. Maybe a bit of aggression and a little demonstration of his power would make her run. Tom concentrated on making his face as blank as possible. Lack of emotion unsettled people; he knew from experience. Then he willed his voice to be monotonous and bored. "I am. What do you want?"
The door rattled, even though both of them knew no one was behind it.
The woman spared the door a glance, her eyes bright with curiosity. She looked back at him, her eyebrows arched in surprise. Tom waited, for the realization, for the shout and the slam of the door.
Instead, he got a dazzling smile.
Feeling wrong-footed in the face of her delight, Tom heard the crack of glass from the window. If anything, she grinned wider. Tom could feel his mask slip up, his eyes widening, his cheeks heating up.
He didn't know what to do with her at all. She wasn't acting the way she was expected to. Tom didn't want her around him. Unpredictable was never good in his books. It only served to make people more dangerous. He needed her to get out and take all the surprises with her.
As if sensing his thoughts, she laughed. Her voice was sweet and melodic, without a hint of malice. And then, slowly, she reached for him. He flinched back, his power gripping her wrists, a line of bruises appearing like a bracelet. That did little to stop her and Tom.
Tom was scared again.
His power had a certain limit; like energy it would have to be refilled. A lot of time Tom relied on people's fear of the unknown to show them their place. He bluffed a lot. So used to lying, he was a master at it. Most of the time, people scattered the moment they felt something grip their ankle. He couldn't hurl them at walls the way they thought he could. Tom never bothered to correct their assumptions.
But this woman.
She had seen his power and she was not running. It was as if she knew the limit of all the harm he could cause and Tom was afraid. He hadn't slipped up in his lies since he was seven and believed Mallory when she said she was her friend. She wasn't. Mallory had only wanted the extra sweets he managed to get from an old landlady for being polite.
He had pushed her out the second floor window when he heard her talk about him behind his back. Tom had lost a lot of energy then and he was locked in his room without food for three days. The matrons and the children tormented him, always so sure that every accident was caused by him and him only. They were right that time, he conceded. But he never regretted it.
He wouldn't regret it this time either.
He strained himself, stretched his power and kept pushing until he heard a crack of bone. Tom felt sweaty and weak and he could tell his glare did little to hide his tiredness but he made sure not to look away from her face. He saw her wince and just barely hide her grimace behind the smile that was surely forced.
She halted but then reached for him still.
Tom shrunk back, closing his eyes, expecting the sting of pain. Maybe she's slap him, like Miss Cole would when she was drunk and unusually brave and stupid. Maybe she's punch him. She was unlike anyone he met. He wouldn't be all that surprised if she fought like a man would.
Tom waited, hating every second he had to endure, anticipating pain and absolutely helpless to do anything about it.
Still, she did nothing to hurt him. He got a small smile, sadder and all the more genuine for it. Tom didn't see her expression but he did feel the gentle touch of someone running their fingers through his hair. Maybe she'd pull on his hair. His hair would regrow, far quickly that it should, but any kind of pain on his scalp caused headache.
But the woman never did anything Tom expected her to. Almost against his will, he leaned into her touch when it continued and remained soft and light. She got bolder after that, used both of her hands to caress his head, his hair and his cheeks. Ever so slowly, she pushed him towards her chest, circling her hands around him. Tom was startled to realize that she was hugging him.
She smelled like the aftermath of rain, wet asphalt and cold air.
He was going to choke on his disappointment later on, he swore. It was going to hurt so bad when she left, he knew.
Tom hugged her back anyway, gripping her dress tightly and nuzzling into her neck. Soft and warm, not at all jagged or painful. He savored everything. The tickling feeling of her blood-red hair, the even exhales of her breath and the steady beats of her heart.
His life was not kind; it would take her away one day. Either she'd leave him when she realized the ridiculousness of her choice, being affectionate with the witch child. Or he'd lose the control of his power again and hurt her, intentionally or not.
But he could prolong the inevitable. He broke her wrist and she hugged him still. She was a bleeding heart. Of that he was sure. Probably heard the stories of him and took them for what they were. The torture of a child, however hellish he may be. Her patience and tolerance might not be endless, but it should be enough for a while.
In the silence of his room, sacred and holy to him, she spoke up. Tom felt the weak vibration of her voice, as sweet and melodic as her laugh. "Hello, Tom. I'm Ari." And then she deemed him worthy of a kiss; a quick peck on the crown of his head.
Absolute agony her absence was going to be, he thought absently.
"I'm here to adopt you. Would you like that?" He nodded in response, shy in a way he never was, not really. The woman baffled him; undoing everything he used to protect himself with gentle voice and gentler touch. He had no idea how to act around her; didn't know what she wanted from him.
That didn't seem to matter much though. Letting the hug end, Ari pulled him up by his hand and guided him downstairs without letting go of it. Tom concentrated on the warmth of her hand. He ignored the glares of the children they passed on their way to the head matron. He could imagine them whispering to each other, thinking he couldn't hear them.
Landed himself a rich one, didn't he? That witch boy. What sort of evil magic did he use?
Tom ignored that too, doing his best to get a whiff of her scent again. Rain and storm.
It was only when he was in Miss Cole's office did Tom allow himself a reaction. He gripped Ari's hand tighter when the old drunkard asked, again and again, if Ari was sure, if she really wanted that boy. Didn't you hear, miss? Tom was cursed. Possessed by evil of which you'd never imagine. His face is the only thing beautiful about him. Everything else is rotten.
Better the devil you know, people say. But if Miss Cole drove Ari away before he could get at least a week with her, he'd mix the rat poison with her favorite drink and watch her wither away.
Fortunately for Miss Cole, Ari seemed to have a streak of stubbornness few people possessed. She kept insisting for the adoption papers until Miss Cole tried the single mother angle.
The old bat never cared if hopeful parents didn't come in pairs sometimes. As long as there was one less kid to look after, she would let anyone have at it. But Tom had to have a father to be controlled, apparently.
A special treatment.
Ari seemed to realize that too. Her smile dropped little by little until she was practically glaring at the matron.
It all blew over when Miss Cole implied that Ari wouldn't be able to look after Tom as she was practically a child herself. Ari cleared her throat, delicate and haughty, like a true estate lady with too much money and too little sense. Pinning Miss Cole with a smile that was obviously forced, Ari told her in no simple terms if the matron didn't hand over the adoption papers this instant, she'd ruin her and her entire career.
Tom hid his resulting smile in the folds of her dress. The material beneath his cheeks was the softest thing he'd experienced.
He corrected himself when he felt Ari trace circles on his hand with her thumb.
Ari was the softest thing he'd experienced.
When she was done with the papers, Ari turned to look at him with a beam. He smiled back hesitantly.
Without sparing a glance to Miss Cole's no doubt red face, Tom followed his personal piece of heaven to the front door. He let her guide him, doing his best to live in the moment. He'd get sent back, he knew that. He'd have to get used to pain again.
But until then, Tom would take what little kindness his life threw at him and hold on until he choked it.
Let me know if someone is interested in continuation. Writing a fic is harder than I thought it would be when English is not your first language but it's fun.