A/N: I feel kind of weird about this, but whatever. It's for Hermione's Harmony's 'Miserable Melody" Competition and my character is… guess who? Tom Riddle! I couldn't stay away from him for long!

Anyway. The song that I wrote this with is 'I Don't Care—Apocalyptica'. It's kind of loud, so watch out. I didn't listen to the lyrics too much but tried to get the overall feeling of resentment and desperation.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: You know what? I do own Tom Riddle. JKR treated him very, very badly in her series so I think it's only fair for me to get a chance—me, a person who is fully aware of Tom's wonderfulness. Don't you agree?

Thanks to PhoenixFanatic999 for Beta'ing this for me!

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If you were dead or still alive

I don't care, I don't care

Just go and leave this all behind

'Cause I swear, I don't care

-'I Don't Care—Apocalyptica'

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It's the best and the worst day of your life.

It's good because of breakfast—money's been tight lately, and it's ohso nice to have milk that's not watered-down for once. The hunger pangs are still there, of course; they're as much a part of you as the dark hair and the dirty clothes. But they're fainter, and you can stand—not doubled up in pain—and really, that makes all the difference.

It's bad because of Mary Ann Nelson—or at least they think that's her name; nobody's really sure when it comes to you orphans—and the tantrum she throws. Mary's just a kid, really; she's three years younger than you and at eight she can yell. You spend the morning in your room, fingers stuffed inside your ears because why won't she bloodyshutup and by mid-afternoon you have a raging headache.

It's good because Billy Stubbs, your long-time bully, has the chicken pox and he's left you alone for a while and maybe he'll learn his lesson—because you caused it, didn't you? You wanted him to hurt and he got sick and now you feel a strange mixture of joy and pride and guilt and fear.

You don't like the fear, and you don't like the confusion. You're Tom Riddle and you know things—that's your specialty; you can never be weak. Knowledge is power and you are bloody powerful—you are! You're sure of it, because none of the other children can do the freakish things that you can. You must be different, and therefore, you are special.

You have to be the best.

Otherwise, you're nothing, here in this dank room with the mildewed walls and the smelly sheets and the splintered door. You're nothing and you'll be nothing—never leaving your footprint on this world—and you can't have that, now can you?

It's bad because you're sitting in your lonely little room, aching with hunger and bruises and hurt, and then the matron comes in and she says there's someone who wants to see you—and really, why would they? You might be special and different but you're nothing, really, except a freak and a devil and—after all, you aren't deaf. You hear what they say about you.

You don't blame them, not really. There's a reason you hate washing up—there's a reason you don't look in mirrors. You don't want to see yourself. You don't want to look and see a boy with dark hair and grey eyes and pale skin—like a ghost or those black-and-white pictures on the telly—you want to see colour. That's life, Mrs. Cole says; life is rainbows and colour and green and blue and red, but there's only whitegreyblack when you look in the mirror and so you decide that she has to be wrong.

It wouldn't be the first time.

All the same, you don't look at yourself—because you might take pride in being different but there's still a small, shameful part of you that wants to be like them.

It doesn't make sense, though, when you think about it—the orphanage isn't a happy place but why does everything look so dark to you? It's like you're looking at a different world, through different eyes, and sometimes you think the matron isn't taking about colour at all, but emotions like happy and sad and love and afraid—

—you don't feel those, either. Your life is a long road of grey and numb and cold. Sometimes you hate it, but the confusion's rather bothersome, after a while, and so you just don't care.

It doesn't matter, in the end. The end is all that matters.

So you don't really believe her (why would someone visit you?) but you nod, like the good boy you are, and Mrs. Cole leaves and then a stranger steps into the room—and your first impression is colourcolourcolour.

So much.

He's white and blue and gold and red and all those things you've always wanted to see—here they are at last—and for a moment you're happy. Then, of course, the dull grey walls wash over you again and you frown because happiness is weakness and why is he here?

You ask, of course, because you need to know—you need the upper hand—and when he answers everything is clear.

"Professor? Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for—did she get you in to have a look at me?" You're angry and that's an emotion—you don't like those—which upsets you more and you feel your power stirring now so you take a moment to shove it into place.

You're not mad. You're not.

"No," the strange man says, and you don't believe him—of course he'd lie to you—but you pretend because you want information. You want to know—you want the truth but when you tell him that so his blueblueblue eyes go cold and suddenly you think you've done something wrong.

You're not sure, though, so you wait.

"My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school—your new school, if you would like to come."

You freeze because—what? His eyes, they still scream 'liar' but maybe, just maybe he's telling the truth—after all, Mrs. Cole seemed convinced, and there's something about him…

No. He's lying—he's trying to fool you and he can't. You aren't a child, after all—you never got the chance so why should you be treated like one? You leap away, furious, wanting to hurt, wanting to kill, and a small part of you feels remorse for the hate but really you don't care.

He stays calm, though; even as you rage and shout, and it scares you because the others would've left by now—what is it about him? He explains, then, ignoring your yells, about magic and Hogwarts and special and—

Wait. You're special?

You knew it.

You tell him so, in a fit of generosity—you offer honesty and say you knew you were special. It doesn't make sense; though—you're confused—because at your words his eyes only darken a little bit more.

Why is he unhappy that you told the truth? Mrs. Cole—she always said to be honest—she punished you for lying when she found out—so, was she wrong? Is it different, out there in the real world?

You don't know and the uncertainty makes you just a little bit more afraid, which makes you mad and then angry and so, again, you take a moment to push all that rampant power—magic?—deep down where it belongs.

Sometimes you've let it go, by accident—like in the cave—it wasn't pretty. You have to be careful, and this thought only makes you angrier because you're being so kind, so considerate—keeping yourself all bottled up so you don't hurt anyone—and they never even thank you!

It's why you don't feel guilty when you do let go, just a little. After all, they hurt you first—so what's a bit of punishment? You get the vague feeling that it's bad; maybe you shouldn't like hurting them back—but you do.

And really, you don't care.

You've lost interest in the stranger now, because he's cold and cruel and there's too much colour—it hurts to look at him, after a while, and you're starting to long for your normal blackwhitegrey—so you dismiss him without words.

Go away.

When you think that, reallyreally hard, to the other children and even the matron—they'll obey. For some reason, though, you get the sense that it won't work on this man and you're right.

He hands you money then—money! You've never had it before—to pay for school supplies so you forgive him for being cold and cruel. You think about thanking him—but no. When you thank someone it means they gave you a gift, and gifts always get stolen here.

You don't thank him.

Go away.

He tells you then—makes you be polite and respectful and you hate it because it brings back memories, flashes to the child you once were before you had your magic—

"Give it back! It's mine!"

"Aw… does widdle Tommy want his toy back?"

"You're gonna have to get it."

And they stole from you and hurt you and you have to make them pay—

No. Not now; not here in front of the colourcolourcolour man. You can punish them later, but right now you have to listen.

He gives you instructions, step-by-step, telling how to do this and that and blathering on and on about nothing. Then he says your name and suddenly you taste acid, stomach roiling at the sound.

"Tom. Little Tommy."

You hate that name—hate it so much—and when he notices you say "Oh, there're a lot of Toms," because it's true and it really does bother you. You're special. You're different. You can't have a name like Tom or Bob or Joe, like the other children, because that makes you just like them and you can't be like them—you can't be another nothing in this dirty, hellish place—

To distract yourself from the anger you ask a question—does he know your parents? The old man shakes his head, and you try so hard but you can't fully squash the resentment. He really doesn't care, does he? He doesn't care enough to learn about you, about your life—how can he bloody teach you without learning what you know?

You decide that you just don't like him, plain and simple. It's no loss—after all, there are sure to be other, better teachers in the school he keeps going on about.

He stands up and leaves, and all of a sudden there's nothing in the world—nothing but grey and black and white. You find yourself missing the red and gold and blue that he brought—but that doesn't make sense, does it?

No matter. You tuck the coins under your quilt—full of thieves, the orphanage is—and think that maybe, just maybe you'll be getting out of this grim place. Maybe the school will be better.

You get your hopes up but there's a little part of you—deepdowninside—that knows it's useless. Hogwarts won't be better and life won't improve and you will fall. You're going to stay like this forever, a colourless boy who leaves no footprints where he walks, and not even the orphanage will remember your name.

You do hope, though, if only for a moment. And somehow it's that which makes today the worst day of all.

For the first time, you care.

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I read a quote the other day that said something along the lines of 'evil is nothing but a lack of awareness.' Needless to say, it stuck with me, especially after hearing this song. Tom Riddle doesn't care about anything—not at all. In fact, several times throughout the books I remember his eyes being referred to as 'blank,' and in death, his face was 'unaware.' So there you have it.

Anyway, all run-together words were on purpose. They aren't typos. Have I managed to bring any of you over to Team Riddle yet? It gets lonely in my little corner!

I'd really appreciate reviews—complimentary, scathing, anything! Even a flame would be nice…