Author's Note: This is a Fanfiction from the perspective of Lord Voldemort. I was heavily inspired after reading Wicked and so I decided to do something like that. If you like it, please favorite or follow me. I'll be posting new chapters every week or so (depends on whether or not I have time).

J.K. Rowling, the creator of Harry Potter, has full ownership of these characters. I own nothing!

They told me the day I was born, the petals of a geranium growing in a clay pot by the windowsill fell off one by one.

That was how they did it back at the orphanage. Instead of remembering memories as stories, they associated memories with flowers. The day little Billy died in his sleep, they said that apple blossoms were snowing. The day Amelie had her child, moaning in pain on the same table my mother died on, they said that the child was blessed with the smell of roses.

All kinds of flowers existed in my gray world then. The flowers were the only splash of color in my life.

Now, the only color in my life is red. Redness in anger, in madness, in blood.

And soon enough, everything will be white.

Just you wait.

They called me Tom back then in the orphanage. Thinking back on it now, I do admit it seemed like the perfect name. The name is gray and drab, just like the colors of the peeling wallpaper or the wrought-iron bars of my bed that would never stop creaking. How many Toms do you know that stand out in the pages of history? Not enough to outnumber the population of Toms hiding in the background or melded into the audience.

They drilled that into me from the start. You are nothing, they said. You will become nothing. You will die as nothing. Your whole life is full of nothingness. You are just a pathetic little orphan who will die unloved and broken.

Their bitter remarks, stinging like angry wasps, drove me to my room, where I hid in fear and in shame. The only companion I had in my earliest years was the cool London rain outside my window. I sat huddled on the only chair in the room, looking outward to somewhere better than here. I could not cry.

I wished someone would have taught me how to cry.

It seems like a valuable skill to possess.

I heard them whisper, "Why isn't he crying? He was fucking pushed by that mean Jim, but why isn't he crying?"

It was because I didn't know how to cry.

There was no mother there to wipe away my tears. There was no mother to soothe me and rub my back when I felt scared. There was only Mrs. Cole, a spiteful woman with a thinly drawn face. Her vividly colored fingernails were always wrapped around a glass of gin.

They told me she died giving birth to me. They told me if it wasn't for me, my mother would have lived. Such a pretty girl, they said. Such a young girl, wasted.

They hated young people who met unfortunate ends, apparently.

They told me I had no father. They called me a bastard's child.

I had often dreamed something that all orphans dream- that we would be found again. When I used to walk by the Lost and Found in the City Hall, I always looked wonderingly at the dozens of hats, gloves, and scarves. Because the next time I came, no article of clothing was the same. I wondered why it was so easy for hats and gloves and other inanimate objects to be found, yet there I was, stuck in the orphanage day after day after day, year after year after year. I wanted to be found again. I wanted my mother and my father to ring the doorbell to the orphanage one day, with shining smiles on their faces.

As impossible as it sounds, I wanted to be loved.