1943 was not a good year. It marked the death of so many in World War Two and it marked the death of an innocence in Tom Riddle that he was sure never existed. Grindelwald had fallen from grace and Tom knew it was time to act. He wouldn't get a second chance.
Little Hangleton was a surprisingly peaceful place, the air crisp as the soft sound of rain hitting the ground was heard. It make Tom sick. His Uncle Morfin was a sorry excuse for an Heir of Slytherin, overgrown and physically comparable to a barbarian, long dark brown hair falling into his grime filled face. The only use he had was taking the blame. Oh, it was perfect.
His grandparents didn't even see it coming, a flash of green and the light left their pathetic Muggle eyes. Tom Riddle Sr. was a different matter though. His father knelt in front of him, begging for his for his life. Tom Riddle Jr. showed him no mercy. He didn't show mercy for his mother did he? A part of Tom died that chilly July night, something he thought he always lacked.
Everyone is born innocent, but he was always an exception.