Disclaimer: I own Nothing. Nothing is a great fellow, but doesn't give me much money... All character's, places, and situations you recognize belong to the great and powerful JKR, and I bow before her mightiness.

Also the description of Stockholm's doesn't belong to me either. I got it from a link at the Harry Potter Lexicon. And no defamation is meant against Stockholm's. I'm sure it s a great place, but for my stupid little story I'm making it a bit nasty.

Thank you so much to Deirdre for reviewing my story! If it hadn't been for your review I probably would not have continued my story.

Sorry this took so long but I had a terrible case of writers block.

Fee free to review, or not review, or flame. BUT please be gentle, this is a first for me.

His Greatest Weakness

Nearly eleven years had passed since the night of the terrible storm in Little Hangelton and the world had continued much as it always had. The sun still rose and fell over the little town, illuminating the small cottages where the same families had resided for decades. The Cromwell's were still nearest to St. Michael's; the Riddle's still inhabited the mansion across from the old church and cemetery; and the Paterson's still lived in the small chalet beside the local pub. Yes, very little had changed.

In fact, the only real change that had occurred over the past several years was when Fleming's orphanage for boys burnt down a year or so ago, leaving an enormous empty lot in its place. No one really knew what had caused the fire, and very few even cared. Most even viewed it as a Godsend. "It was a no good place, full of ruffians," Mr. Riddle commented as he looked upon the ashes. "It's better that its gone." No matrons and very few boys survived the inferno. Those that did survive were sent to Stockwell Orphanage for young lads several villages away. Many of the surviving boys were later overheard saying that the orphans who died in the blaze had it far easier.

Stockwell, physically, was a lovely school. At the entrance to the orphanage was an ornamental arch, surmounted by a bell-turret. On the piers of the archway was the strangely unsettling inscription; "A Father of the fatherless and a Judge of the widow is God in his holy habitation." On looking from under the arch one would be struck with the size and beauty of the buildings, and the delightfully airy and open character of the whole institution. One would assume by its construction that it was a place of sweetness and light, where merry voices ring out, and happy children play. However, that was certainly not the case.

If one were to look more closely they would see that there was a distinct coldness surrounding the grounds. A strange and overwhelming sense of loss and misery that clung to you, enveloped you, and suffocated all those who entered. In place of happy and rosy children playing games were sallow and bitter young men who thought of nothing but escaping this place of pain, hunger and disease. Most of the boys, having never even known love, or comfort, or a gentle caress, turned to violence against one another. Like a pack of predatory animals, with the consent of their own Headmaster, they would pick out the weakest and turn the poor child inside out until driven mad... or worse. Although rumors had floated by for years in the nearby villages, no one could actually confirm how many of the orphans jumped off the roof before their eleventh birthday, preferring death to one more excruciating hour in a place that hated them.

The Headmaster of Stockholm's was a cruel and fanatically religious man by the name of Reverend Frederick Glockstill. The boys feared his punishments more than anything their peers could offer. According to one of the older boys, Joseph McClain, Revered Glockstill once starved a young boy to near death for accidentally dropping his Bible in the halls. Everyone lived in fear of the Reverend, even the staff.

Well, all that is until the day a young ten-year-old boy named Tom Riddle came to Stockholm.