Disclaimer: Tom Riddle belongs to J.K. Rowling, other characters belong to me, and may be used but please ask!

Tom was curled up underneath a discarded newspaper, shivering and wishing for warmth. He had no money, nor a place to go. He and his mother were rejected, thrown away bit of nothings, living off what they could. He had grabbed a few personal possessions, of course. A picture of his mother in her school uniform when she was fourteen, a picture of him and his mother in the park, and his mother's wand were all tucked into a ratty pillow case. He untied the pillowcase and pulled out the picture of him and his mother. Tom looked at her smiling face for a long time, gently stroking it. He felt his eyes sting with unshed tears, and they gently began to roll down his young round face. He watched intently as his mother bent and kissed his cheek and hoisted him up onto her lap. In the distance, he heard a cracking sound, and looked up to see storm clouds gathering. He realized that he would have to seek shelter, or else he'd be caught in the rain.

As he was walking up the street, a voice called from behind. "You there! Stop!"

Tom felt a rising since of dread. This couldn't be good. He turned around slowly, seeing a muggle police officer standing a few feet behind him. "Yes sir?"

"What are you doing out this late son?"

Tom stared up at the man, unable to think of an appropriate answer. "Trying to get to London, sir." He answered.

The police officer laughed. Which ticked Tom's nerves. "Where's you mum, kid?"

Tom's eyes saddened. "Back at our apartment."

"Ah, a run away, eh? Well, let's get you back home. Where do you live?"

"I lived in the building next to the old cotton mill."

The officer frowned. "That's not a good place for a child to grow up."

Tom frowned and shrugged.

"Alright lad, let's get you back to your mum now." He took Tom by the shoulder and began to guide him off, but Tom wrenched himself out of the man's grasp.

"My mum is dead." He said.

"Ah but you said she was at the apartment."

"She is, but she's dead."

The man paled. "Let's get you to the station, we'll send somebody out to check on your mum."

Before Tom could protest, he was carted of to the police station. He was sitting in the most uncomfortable chair he had ever set eyes on, shifting every now and then. A woman approached him and sat in the chair next to him.

"You said your name was Tom? Is that short for Thomas?" The woman asked kindly.

"No." Tom said shortly.

"Ah… Well love… Your mother… she…"

"She is dead." Tom said simply.

The woman stared at Tom, wondering how such a young child could speak so lightly of this, without shedding a tear. "Y-yes… but the important thing is, she has gone to a better place. And… and you are going to live in an orphanage until… until a nice family can adopt you."

Tom stared at this woman for a long moment. He did not understand the concept of an orphanage, but he merely nodded. She was obviously unnerved by this child's calmness, and in a stuttering mess, tried to take his hand. Tom wrenched his small hand from the woman's grasp, not wanting to be touched. It was his way of coping.

Three Years Later

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Tom was looking at the picture of his mum, stroking it gently. Christopher, a tall broad boy that was two years older than Tom came over and stood over him.

"What you got there?" Without waiting for an answer, Christopher ripped the picture from Tom's hand. "A blank piece of glossy paper?" Tom smirked, Christopher was such a muggle he couldn't even see the picture. "What're you smirking about? You're just a little rat, ruddy wanker." Tom reached for the picture, still not saying anything. Christopher moved it out of his reach, grinning. "I don't think so. Why is it so important to you?" Tom sat back.

"It reminds me of my mother." He said simply, reaching for the picture again.

"Aww the little baby misses his mummy…" taunted Christopher.

Tom felt his anger begin to boil. He hated Christopher with raw passion, and he had before launched at the other boy in his rage. That had only ended with his punishment, and more taunting from Christopher. So Tom sat back, watching Christopher carefully, his rage growing deeper inside of him until he felt he would bust. Then there was a loud crashing sound, and Tom though for a moment he had busted, until he realized a porcelain wash bowl behind Christopher had exploded, showering them with glass. Tom ducked his head, and he only lifted his head when he heard a raging scream of agony. He lifted his head to see Christopher had a large gash across his face, and Tom couldn't help but smirk.

"You." Hissed Christopher. "You did this- it's all your fault."

Tom's smirk slid off his face, and he stared at the older boy in disbelief. "It was all the way over there- I couldn't have!" Tom protested, but Christopher grabbed him up by the back of his shirt and drug him off.

Tom was sitting in a chair, looking at the owner of the orphanage. A tall, severe looking woman, her eyes bore into Tom's soul. "What happened?"

"Christopher took something of mine, and he wouldn't give it back." Tom explained.

"So you got angry. You took the vase and busted it over his head?"

"No!" Tom said angrily. "It just- broke. I think maybe I got so angry that it busted."

"Like magic?" The woman ventured.

Tom looked up at her, thinking maybe she knew about magic. "Yes, it must have been my magic, I can't cont-"

"Don't give me that nonsense, Tom Riddle. Do not tell lies. You will be punished for wounding another child and telling lies to an adult."

Tom wanted to scream at her, to yell and put her through pain, but he bit his tongue and nodded. He was paddled brutally and sent to bed without dinner. He lay in his bed, sore and hungry, vowing that he would never let muggles treat him like this ever again. They would pay.

A/N So how's that for a second chapter. Can you see where he's coming from now? Trust me- It gets better. Leave a review!