Chapter 5: Tom

It was a cold summer's evening, no different any other in this British town. The sun was sleeping behind a distant rock as the moon sauntered into the canopy of blue overhead. Stars shone from eons ago and blazed brightly onto the earth below. All was still; all was silent, until a young stranger interrupted the sleeping town. Trees whispered at his presence as the ghostly wind rippled through them, tickling their branches and leaves menacingly. A stiff breeze bumped into the young man who shivered from the bitter cold and his own all-encompassing nerves. Before him stood a stately manor looming in a sinister manner, daring him to enter. He lifted his freezing fingers, wrapped them into a fist and knocked twice on the hard oak door.

Upon turning 16 that frosty day in June 1942, young Tom Riddle was no longer welcome at the orphanage in which he had spent the majority of his life. Part of him was grateful for this; they had been the most miserable years of his life. All he was ever told of his parents was that his father had left them long ago and that his mother only lived long enough to name him. Although he never knew his parents, he always felt a jolt of happiness in his heart when he thought of them. His father had, of course, been terrified when he realised his wife was a witch, and deduced that his son would be the same. Tom had figured this much out on his own - the Muggle orphanage at which he was forced to live knew nothing of his mother's powers. But that was a long time ago and Tom felt the need to confront his father. He wanted to live a normal life, to be part of a family, be somewhere he would be loved.

He never knew love in the muggle orphanage. Not until he was 11 years old could he account for all of the strange phenomenon that he seemed to encounter. He certainly never thought it possible that he was responsible for these events. He remembered he had finished cleaning the floors in his boarding room and was awaiting inspection, only to be beaten as the Matron could not see her reflection in the floor. As the Matron had raised her hand to strike him, it inflated and hung as a dead weight. It only occurred to him years later that he had made this happen to avoid her punishment. Odd things always happened around Tom. If he was cold, a fire would erupt, if someone threatened him, they were harmed in some way.

There wasn't a day that went by in his youth that he wasn't threatened. He was ritually beaten every day he lived there. A lot of the time there was no reason needed and the rest of the time a pathetic new reason was coined. One damp, gusty morning as he and the other orphans were trooped to the church, his hair became ruffled in the wind. He was disciplined for his unruly appearance by standing barefoot in the rain for the remainder of the day. When at last he was bid to return indoors, he was hit with a switch until he bled. As he felt his flesh separate itself from his bone, the pain became so excruciating that his knees buckled and he fell to the ground. For this he was punished additionally for his weakness. He was whipped with a leather strip across his ribs until rivers of blood flowed from his frail young body. He fainted from the sheer agony of it all. He had only been 9 years old at the time.

Instinctively, Tom's eyes fell to his outstretched hand – he was still scarred. He also bore large red scars across his chest from his beatings, not to mention innumerable gashes and marks distributed throughout his body. He lifted his eyes once more to the large oak door before him and smiled a sad smile at the thought of leaving his old life behind. Standing as he was, trembling in the cold, he would have gladly conjured a fire but he didn't dare break the statute of secrecy and risk expulsion from Hogwarts.

Hogwarts was the first place that Tom ever really felt welcome – it was his first real home. There he had friends, was top of his class, and even made prefect. He was even considered one of the most handsome boys in the school, a title that he didn't acknowledge but didn't despise either. Hogwarts appealed to him even more than most knew about, however. The moment he discovered his mother was a Witch, the castle's walls seemed to whisper secrets to him as he passed by. He spent a lot of time trying to find information on his mother's family. In his second year at Hogwarts, he happened across one particularly interesting ancestor: Salazar Slytherin. He had always wondered why the Sorting Hat said what it did when it chose him to be in Slytherin house; "Ahh, I wondered when you would return to us. No doubt you are here to finish your ancestor's noble work; he has been waiting for you. SLYTHERIN!"

Tom had studied every book on the founders of the school and any book with any reference to Slytherin in it for 4 tiresome years. It was only in the final week in school this year that he found what he was looking for – although he was reluctant to act on it.

Tom was brought back to reality by the sound of fumbling latches on the other side of this heavy door. Excitement flooded through his entire being – he imagined this day for so long; his father's embrace, catching up on lost time together, exchanging stories, living together as one happy family. Surely he would feel remorse on having abandoned him as a child. His life would be so much richer with his father and he was certain that he could use his magic to enrich his life also.

"Who's there," a gruff voice said from behind the door.

Tom swallowed hard – the words caught in his dry throat and he coughed loudly to clear them, "My n-name is T-Tom," he began, shakily, "Tom Riddle."

There was no movement behind the door for some time, but Tom could sense their presence. There was a shuffling of feet and hushed voices followed by the sound of someone walking purposefully towards the door.

"Who goes there?" another voice said, much more impatient than the previous one, although there was a trace of fear hidden behind the strong male voice, "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Certainly not," Tom exclaimed, his anticipation at being so close to his father overtaking him. He was so close! There was but a layer of wood separating them. Latches were unlocked and the door creaked open a notch. A slither of light and warmth emerged from within, mingled with a strong scent of warm, freshly prepared food. Tom inhaled it all, smiling broadly. His glance met the man standing tall before him and as quickly as that his excitement was replaced by sorrow.

This man was indeed his father – he had the same strong features; chiseled bone structure, dark eyes and hair, same face exactly! The only difference was Tom Senior's obvious look of disdain as he fixed Tom Junior with his cold, uncaring eyes. Tom Junior's eyes fell to the ground – he did look rather shabby. He was still wearing his school uniform, as it was the only item of clothes he owned that looked in any way respectable. He sniffed quietly in the cold. He felt the temperature drop dramatically when twined with his father's icy stare.

"What on earth do you think you are doing coming here?" he hissed, his eyes full of loathing, his voice dripping with disgust. Tom Junior shifted his weight between his feet before returning his father's gaze. He couldn't help but crumple slightly beneath it. He looked so angry, so unforgiving. A strong surge of wind disturbed Little Hangleton and ripped through Tom, taking his hopes for a family with it. His eyes were streaming and he prayed that his father would account it to the wind; he did not want to be a disappointment to him.

"I… er," Tom stuttered. What was he supposed to say? 'I just popped by to play happy families, want to join me?' Instead he said, "I was looking for you, father."

This apparently was the wrong thing to say. Before Tom Junior had anytime to react, Tom Senior tore himself from his home and closed the door behind him. Once closed, he grabbed his son by the neck and pushed him forcefully against the door. He wrapped one hand around his neck pressing him hard on the throat as he fitted him with a stare that was filled with pure loathing.

"I am NOT your father, boy, do you hear me? Your mother was a rotten slut, a liar and a freak! How am I even to know that you are mine? And even if you are I want nothing to do with you, do you hear me? I bet you are just like her, aren't you? You stay away from here, don't you ever darken my doorstep again! You foul, dirty, disgusting vermin! Go back to the wretched place you came from, I hope you never return and that I never have the misfortune to make your acquaintance again!"

With that Tom Senior ripped his only son from his hands and from his life, throwing him roughly onto the hard stone path that led to their door. He opened the door and bounded into his house, fastening the many locks into place once more. Tom Junior heard him leave, the muffled voices ebbing away, taking his hopes for a normal life with them. For a long time Tom couldn't move from this place. He sat on the cold pavement rubbing his neck and gasping for air. There was a dull ache in his heart that far outweighed the pain in his neck. He sat upright and hung his head as tears flowed like streams down his face. His entire life he had never felt whole, never had a sense of belonging.

The harsh unforgiving wind howled in Little Hangleton and once again stripped Tom Riddle. This time it took with it his tears. Tom inhaled the strong scent of pine needles that riddled the ground at his feet, and felt a new sense take him over. No more tears would he shed over a family lost. No other filthy Muggle would make him feel this way. He would have his revenge – Tom Riddle Senior took his family from him, he would take his in return. 'An eye for an eye,' he thought to himself, 'but not tonight. When you think I am long gone, I shall return stronger than before and you will rue the day you abandoned me. You will pay for this with your life!'

Tom's thoughts turned back to Hogwarts – it was the only place he could go, and once there he would take over Salazar Slytherin's work, no more questions. Muggles everywhere would pay for his pain.

"No, please! I beg of you," Tom Senior whimpered, "Please, don't do this! Don't kill us! Have mercy!"

"Mercy? I do not understand the word, having never had the privilege of having mercy bestowed upon me," Voldemort spat, eyeing the quivering man before him with disgust.

"Please sir, if not to me, give mercy to my parents! They are old, have never committed any sins or done any wrong, never hurt a fly," he was crying now, his fattened cheeks sparkling with shiny tears, his face blotchy and appearance utterly deplorable. He showed nothing of the man who had stood intrepidly before him two years ago, but had let himself go to seed, tortured from the memory of his son's unexpected visit.

"The greatest sin they could commit is giving refuge to a filthy Muggle such as you! I promised myself you would regret the day you turned your back on me, and your day is up. This could all have been avoided had you accepted me!" Voldemort screamed, his body shaking with rage.

"Please, son!" Tom cried as comprehension dawned on him - this ghastly man who stood before him was his own flesh and blood, "Think about this! We can forget all of this please just reconsider!"

"I am not the son of a filthy Muggle, I am the descendant of the greatest Wizard of all time, Salazar Slytherin, and tonight you shall feel his wrath through me! I have thought about nothing but this for years now, and I grow tired of your pathetic ramblings. Farewell, I hope you rot in Hell. Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort spat before uttering the most deadly curse three times, killing the only remaining members of his Muggle ancestry, ridding himself of Tom Riddle. His high-pitched maniacal laughter grew louder and more powerful with every breath, and with a resounding 'pop' he vanished from the scene, never to return.

Or so he thought.

Voldemort stood victoriously above the motionless form of Lily Potter's body. The corners of his lips turned up and a high-pitched, cold laugh erupted from them. His eyes rested on her for a moment, 'such a powerful witch, a dreadful waste,' he thought to himself, as he threw the remains of her wand at her. He pushed her roughly to one side, clearing the way to the young baby sitting in his crib, innocently oblivious to the horrendous events of that night.

Voldemort rubbed his hand against his forehead where he had received a bruise from being knocked into the wall. He refused to believe his own stupidity, for being so foolish, for coming here alone. How was he to know of the powers these people possessed? It was unquestionable that he, Lord Voldemort, was the most powerful Wizard alive. He was feared and revered by many. Yet tonight as he stood in the nursery of his greatest threat, he felt like the old man that he was. These people had certainly taken him off guard. 'No matter, they are the worse for it,' he reassured himself.

Voldemort's eyes rested on Harry, who was gurgling contently to himself, yawning and blinking his heavy eyelids. Voldemort scoffed at him. He leaned on the railings of Harry's crib and eyed him suspiciously.

"So, you are this great Wizard eh?" he questioned the child, "Going to be the death of me, are you? You don't look very threatening."

Harry coughed quietly, leaned forwards and grabbed a hold of his foot. He lifted it to his mouth and looked up at Voldemort.

"That's disgusting," he hissed, "is this your great plan? Baffle and amaze me to death?"

Harry released his foot and replaced it with his thumb. He let out a series of incomprehensible noises and laughed at Voldemort, clapping his hands and smiling. Voldemort exhaled an angry sigh and leaned back against the wardrobe. He closed his eyes and cracked his knuckles, opening his eyes again to examine his hands. They gave him away – his fingers were long and narrow, his hands wrinkled. No matter what precautions he took against his own death, he was growing old anyway. He examined his face in the mirror on the opposite wall. The expense he paid for being the best he could be had taken its toll on his appearance. The many evils he possessed to obtain his current status had left him more monster than man, and in his weaker moments he remembered the man he used to be.

"You have no idea how lucky you are, do you, child?" Voldemort asked of Harry, but not really expecting any answer. "You have… had, rather, caring parents. They gave their lives to protect you, for all the good it did them. It need not have been this way; I could have spared them if they just gave you up, but alas the Gryffindor spirit remained strong in those two. Pity..." He glanced around the comfortable furnishings in this cosy nursery, choosing to ignore the crumpled heap that was Lily Potter sprawled on the carpeted floor.

"I gather from this place that you have been lucky enough to have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth. You have everything, Potter, more than most ever will have, and more than I ever had in my youth. Can your small mind even comprehend what it is like to fear to wake up every morning, and live to sleep at night where your dreams can take you some place that is entirely your own?"

Harry yawned in response. Voldemort wrinkled his nose and glared at him.

"No, you wouldn't, would you. And look at you now! You don't even realise that your parents are dead! That's right, Harry. I killed your mammy and daddy. And I shall kill you. And when I have killed you, I will kill anyone associated with you, anyone who has ever loved you. For you see, I was never lucky enough to be loved, and I begrudge you that gift."

Harry fixed him with a curious stare. For a moment, Voldemort actually thought that the child had understood him. Harry abruptly looked away and grabbed a hold of his stag teddy. He lifted it and pointed it at Voldemort, making a succession of 'dada,' noises before pulling it close to his chest. Harry sneezed from the hair on his toy tickling his nose, scrunched up his nose and rubbed his face with his small baby hand.

Voldemort pursed his lips and twiddled his wand between his fingers. It was about time he did what he came here to do.

He stood to his full height and squared his shoulders, sliding his wand between each bony finger in succession while grinning at the young child before him. Harry looked up at Voldemort, but didn't do anything. It seemed Harry was waiting for him to speak.

"I promise," Voldemort began, enjoying every precious moment, drawing out the pleasure of destroying the one person who was born to meet his doom, "this will hurt a lot. Avada Kedavra!"

Not for the first time that night, Voldemort was caught off-guard. He had not been expecting this of all things. The green light that emitted from his wand when the killing curse was uttered had reversed its target and was aiming directly for him. 'What is this magic,' he thought to himself, before agonizing pain burned through his body. He heard his own voice as though it was many miles away screaming in agony, and on some level he felt his own body writhing in agony, but the strongest sensation taking him over was fury. 'How is it that a baby with no extraordinary magical talent managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time?' He knew one thing for certain - this was not going to be his end. Imagine the embarrassment of it, thwarted by a mere infant! In a final attempt to salvage his life, he ripped himself from his earthly form, leaving his body behind him.

The force of this spell caused an eruption - an explosion of epic proportions, leaving the house in which that night's gruesome battle had taken place scorched, in ruins. Voldemort fled the site in his spirit form with faith in his loyal followers. Surely Pettigrew would raise the alarm and they would search for him. His Death Eaters knew of all the precautions he took against death, they certainly could not believe that he was dead. He would take form in a new body in no time, and once he had he would take care of Harry Potter, for once and for all. Harry Potter will die.