I don't own J.K. Rowlings characters.
If you read and review and I get more than five I'll put up the second
chap.
Snake Speaker
Thomas Marvolo Riddle's heart was beating at the rate of a humming bird's wings as he walked down the dark hall from the orphanage's recreation room to the office. The man waiting on the other side of the office door was not a pleasant man; he was, in fact, very nasty and became even more so when drunk, which was now four out of every seven days, which had increased since the war started. The orphans in those days were beat more often, deservedly or undeservedly; and if someone had the guts to rat on that man, he would adopt an oily manner and say he was only disciplining his charges. All the orphans in that orphanage were afraid of that man. But tall, gangly, green-eyed, black haired, fifteen-year-old Tom Riddle wasn't. Perhaps he should have been; after all, he had been beaten more times than anyone else, sometimes for no discernable reason. However, there was one good reason Tom wasn't afraid of this man, but it was a secret- Tom could do magic. Tom would never risk doing magic, lest he be expelled from the only place he could call home. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. What shook Tom from his thoughts was not the man on the other side of the door yelling for him, it was the fact that he had reached the door that made him stop dead in his tracks. Tom stood before the door, long, spindly fingers hovering over the grimy brass doorknob, taking deep, even breaths and trying to summon enough courage to squash his sudden, instinctive fear. Before Tom even started the process of squashing down the fear, the door flew open to reveal Mr. Worthington; the dreaded disciplinarian of the orphans and head of the orphanage. The man's butterscotch hair was unkempt and messy, his clothes looked like he had worn them for several days, not to mention nights. And, as was customary, he was roaring drunk. Mr. Worthington reached forward and grabbed Tom by his throat and yanked him into the room. Tom collided with the desk, massaging his throat.
"Mr. Worthington," began Tom in his deep, sweet voice. "Please-" And that was about all he managed to say before Mr. Worthington's half-clubbed hand hit hard across Tom's face. The blow was hard enough to snap the boy's head back and to make him loose his footing; he fell back onto the desk, knocking over Mr. Worthington's bottle of gin. In his daze, he felt his thin hips jerked up sharply as his old, cracked leather belt was yanked off violently. The rest of his undressing was a confusion of the smell of stale sweat and boos, the feeling of hard, blunt hands, hurt and coolness, leaving Tom on the desk, clutching a black eye. There was the telltale sound of a brass buckle clinking and the sound of leather rubbing against linen. "Little freak. Too many times over too many years." Tom heard Mr. Worthington grunt. "Get down on your hands and knees." Tom sat up, hunching over his naked legs and gasping. A spell, he had to think of a spell, even if he didn't have his wand. He had to think quickly before- Mr. Worthington slammed his fist on the boy's handsome face, knocking his naked body from the desk to the floor, leaving his long, starved body sprawled on the floor.
Avada Kedavra
Avada Kedavra
Avada Kedavra
Mr. Worthington's leather belt snapped across Tom's back, scattering his thoughts like leaves. A howl escaped the boys throat before it was silenced by a kick hard enough to level a full-grown man aimed at his ribs. Throughout the whole beating Tom managed to stay conscious until Mr. Worthington kicked him in the head, sending his world spinning into oblivion. When Tom opened his eyes and gained a tremulous hold on consciousness the first thing he noticed was that Mr. Worthington was gone. The young man swallowed back some blood from a split lip and began the arduous process of picking himself up from the ground. Twice he slipped in his own excrements of sweat and blood and twice he doggedly picked himself back up. Somehow he managed to pull on his pants and shoes but didn't bother with his shirt; it would probably be his undoing. Especially since he needed to focus his attention on getting away from the orphanage. "Accio wand." He whispered, sitting against Mr. Worthington's desk. In a few, bare seconds, the wand squeezed between the crack below the door and to his hand. Tom slunk from the office and out the back way to the orphanage, not realizing that he hadn't met any of the other orphans. The darkness was falling quickly in London and Tom called upon reserve strength he hadn't known that he possessed. He staggered down the foggy streets, to the only place he could think of: The Leaky Cauldron. And when he finally did reach his destination, he didn't recognize it, and so he collapsed against a street-lamp, taking in shallow, laborious breaths. The door to the Leaky Cauldron opened and a figure approached the boy. Tom looked over, tears starting to fall down his face, to the tall thin man. It wasn't the auburn beard he looked at or the green wizard robe or even the half moon glasses. It was the eyes that Tom recognized, those piercing, light blue orbs that could only belong to one man. "Professor Dumbledorr." Tom gasped, staggering forward. " Professor." But Tom never got to finish what he was saying, for his legs gave out and he started to crumple where he stood. So it was quite natural for Albus Dumbledorr to reach froward and catch the young man. He looked down at the young man whose body he had just wrapped his arms around and whispered in shock, "Tom. Tom Riddle!"
Snake Speaker
Thomas Marvolo Riddle's heart was beating at the rate of a humming bird's wings as he walked down the dark hall from the orphanage's recreation room to the office. The man waiting on the other side of the office door was not a pleasant man; he was, in fact, very nasty and became even more so when drunk, which was now four out of every seven days, which had increased since the war started. The orphans in those days were beat more often, deservedly or undeservedly; and if someone had the guts to rat on that man, he would adopt an oily manner and say he was only disciplining his charges. All the orphans in that orphanage were afraid of that man. But tall, gangly, green-eyed, black haired, fifteen-year-old Tom Riddle wasn't. Perhaps he should have been; after all, he had been beaten more times than anyone else, sometimes for no discernable reason. However, there was one good reason Tom wasn't afraid of this man, but it was a secret- Tom could do magic. Tom would never risk doing magic, lest he be expelled from the only place he could call home. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. What shook Tom from his thoughts was not the man on the other side of the door yelling for him, it was the fact that he had reached the door that made him stop dead in his tracks. Tom stood before the door, long, spindly fingers hovering over the grimy brass doorknob, taking deep, even breaths and trying to summon enough courage to squash his sudden, instinctive fear. Before Tom even started the process of squashing down the fear, the door flew open to reveal Mr. Worthington; the dreaded disciplinarian of the orphans and head of the orphanage. The man's butterscotch hair was unkempt and messy, his clothes looked like he had worn them for several days, not to mention nights. And, as was customary, he was roaring drunk. Mr. Worthington reached forward and grabbed Tom by his throat and yanked him into the room. Tom collided with the desk, massaging his throat.
"Mr. Worthington," began Tom in his deep, sweet voice. "Please-" And that was about all he managed to say before Mr. Worthington's half-clubbed hand hit hard across Tom's face. The blow was hard enough to snap the boy's head back and to make him loose his footing; he fell back onto the desk, knocking over Mr. Worthington's bottle of gin. In his daze, he felt his thin hips jerked up sharply as his old, cracked leather belt was yanked off violently. The rest of his undressing was a confusion of the smell of stale sweat and boos, the feeling of hard, blunt hands, hurt and coolness, leaving Tom on the desk, clutching a black eye. There was the telltale sound of a brass buckle clinking and the sound of leather rubbing against linen. "Little freak. Too many times over too many years." Tom heard Mr. Worthington grunt. "Get down on your hands and knees." Tom sat up, hunching over his naked legs and gasping. A spell, he had to think of a spell, even if he didn't have his wand. He had to think quickly before- Mr. Worthington slammed his fist on the boy's handsome face, knocking his naked body from the desk to the floor, leaving his long, starved body sprawled on the floor.
Avada Kedavra
Avada Kedavra
Avada Kedavra
Mr. Worthington's leather belt snapped across Tom's back, scattering his thoughts like leaves. A howl escaped the boys throat before it was silenced by a kick hard enough to level a full-grown man aimed at his ribs. Throughout the whole beating Tom managed to stay conscious until Mr. Worthington kicked him in the head, sending his world spinning into oblivion. When Tom opened his eyes and gained a tremulous hold on consciousness the first thing he noticed was that Mr. Worthington was gone. The young man swallowed back some blood from a split lip and began the arduous process of picking himself up from the ground. Twice he slipped in his own excrements of sweat and blood and twice he doggedly picked himself back up. Somehow he managed to pull on his pants and shoes but didn't bother with his shirt; it would probably be his undoing. Especially since he needed to focus his attention on getting away from the orphanage. "Accio wand." He whispered, sitting against Mr. Worthington's desk. In a few, bare seconds, the wand squeezed between the crack below the door and to his hand. Tom slunk from the office and out the back way to the orphanage, not realizing that he hadn't met any of the other orphans. The darkness was falling quickly in London and Tom called upon reserve strength he hadn't known that he possessed. He staggered down the foggy streets, to the only place he could think of: The Leaky Cauldron. And when he finally did reach his destination, he didn't recognize it, and so he collapsed against a street-lamp, taking in shallow, laborious breaths. The door to the Leaky Cauldron opened and a figure approached the boy. Tom looked over, tears starting to fall down his face, to the tall thin man. It wasn't the auburn beard he looked at or the green wizard robe or even the half moon glasses. It was the eyes that Tom recognized, those piercing, light blue orbs that could only belong to one man. "Professor Dumbledorr." Tom gasped, staggering forward. " Professor." But Tom never got to finish what he was saying, for his legs gave out and he started to crumple where he stood. So it was quite natural for Albus Dumbledorr to reach froward and catch the young man. He looked down at the young man whose body he had just wrapped his arms around and whispered in shock, "Tom. Tom Riddle!"