A stampede of pounding feet rushed past the door and down the staircase. The squeaky stair- three up from the bottom- squealed in protest as the children ran towards the kitchen.

Tom Riddle slammed his door shut in irritation. His eyes swept the grim room that was to be his refuge for four more mind-numbing weeks. After three years at Hogwarts, his time spent at the orphanage had become ever more a searing waste of time. Time that could be spent elsewhere, doing...other things. He glanced at the neatly-made bed, strewn with the textbooks he no longer needed from his previous school-year. Not only because he wouldn't use them in class anymore, but because he knew everything that was written in them, and more besides. Long ago had he surpassed the mundane, juvenile spells that the professors at Hogwarts had to teach him.

He pulled out his wand, which he kept with him at all times, despite knowing he would never be able to use it whilst out of school. He rolled it around in his hand, feeling the warmth as it responded to his touch. Ollivander, the old wand-maker, had told him he was destined for great things. Tom smirked to himself; there was no doubt about that. It hadn't taken him long to realise that even among wizards he was special. Better than any of them.

There was a knock at the door. Tom hid his wand safely in his pocket and opened it.

"Yes?" He was always careful to keep his tone even with the orphanage staff. Things were so much easier when people thought you were a 'wonderful little boy.' It meant they turned a blind eye to the nights when he went out on his own, to what he kept in his room.

In front of him stood Deidre, a skinny, ugly girl of about nineteen. She smiled shyly at him. Tom knew she was afraid of him, in awe in some way. She was, after all, just a stupid Muggle.

"Tom," she said in her weak, watery voice, tucking a strand of her dirty blonde hair behind her ear. "Don't you want any breakfast?"

He certainly did want breakfast, but not the muck they had to serve the other children. He had a bag of fresh cheese scones he had stolen from the baker earlier that morning. He smiled sweetly at her.

"No, thank you Deidre; I'm not really hungry."

"Oh, you're not sick are you, Tom? Mrs Hall would like you in particular to see the Darberrys today." Ah, yes. The Darberrys.

"No, Deidre, I'm quite fine thank you. I'll be down to see Mr and Mrs Darberry." Her eyes softened when he said her name, he saw it. She left him with a quick smile and he shut the door. Stupid girl.

He was the only one in the orphanage who could get away with such things. Everyone was supposed to go to breakfast. Everyone was supposed to share a room. But he rarely went downstairs with the other children and he hadn't shared a room with any of them for over five years. That was why it was better to be feared than loved. There was more to be gained from people who were afraid of you; people who "loved" each other took advantage of each other's trust. Love wasn't enough to save a mother from death. Love wasn't enough to make a father find his son. But fear and power...they could get you anywhere, conquer anything. Even death.

Tom roused himself from his thoughts after he realised he was gripping the door handle so hard it was bruising his hand. Four weeks...four more weeks.