A/N: Double update!
WARNING (PLEASE READ): I'm raising the age limit to 'M'.
This is a decision I've made due to the amount of violence that will be introduced, language of a vulgar nature and possible sexual themes, of which were foreshadowed prior in the novel with euphemisms to imply such things. If you don't want to read a very dark step into the twisted side of this beautiful earth, then this fic probably isn't for you. There will be molestation and implied rape, but no outright sex scenes (I'm a wimp). In England, the age of consent is sixteen, so if it isn't where you live, then this may be rated as under age/non consensual.
Thank you!
Trembling as I read over the script, I reassured myself, albeit weakly, that I was ready for whatever it was that Mr Cole was about to throw at me.
A knock interrupted my reading.
" Tom? You're supposed to put the clothes inside of the wardrobe on." Amber's timid voice informed me.
" Thank you Amber." I responded, quietly. I heard her soft footsteps recede before opening the wardrobe.
Hanging in sparseness was a set of sixteen copies of the same outfit- one for each year, if the age of majority was to be correct. It was somewhat strange, watching as the clothes got smaller and smaller each time I moved my eyes a little more to the left.
Oh my God...
I picked up the smallest one from the end.
It was enough to fit a newborn baby.
This one was the only one different from the others. The white shirt was grey with age, the dungarees suffering from the same discolouration. Except, the tailoring of the clothes seemed different- at least, different from the other orphans. This set of rags looked as if though it was proportionate to the child's body, not just bought off some store like modern day fashion.
It almost took my breath away when I remembered whose room this was- the orphan who scared the others.
The monster.
The freak.
A breath caught in my throat when I realised; I was staring straight at another child's life. There was a story behind everyone- every person, from the homeless man on the streets to the Queen (Shouldn't it be the King on the throne?..).
And I had yet to make my own.
With that thought, I put the baby clothes away (how old is that orphan now?) and took out the eleventh item in the row. I pulled it out, noticing how similar it looked to my own clothes in terms of stitching and material.
Instead of a pinafore, a washed out shirt hung off the hanger, a frayed jacket on top. A pair of shorts was folded beneath it, knee-high socks hanging off each shoulder. Even a pair of dusty shoes was tied around the hook of the hanger by their laces.
All of these items were grey.
Grey with colour, grey with age.
Grey with damage.
" I suppose I shall be wearing these clothes, then." I sighed.
•••
I wore the uniform, feeling slightly uncomfortable.
I am wearing the clothes of a child fifty years gone...
I surveyed my reflection in the barred, dusty window.
A heart achingly handsome face for a child of my approximate age stared back at me; high cheekbones sculpted by nothing more than powder and blessed genes. Hollow cheeks accentuated that fact, my lips slightly downturned in contemplation and my skin pale, my hair making a stark contrast between the warring colours. Not a single blemish- except, perhaps, for the faint bruise on my wrist that I quickly covered- was visible.
I looked like an Adonis.
I looked male.
But the only thing that could give the whole thing away was my large, undeniably expressive feminine eyes.
I just hoped that I could pull the whole thing off, only looking like a slightly feminine boy. I sighed, running my hand through my slightly damp, neatly combed hair.
I suddenly heard a surge of excitement from downstairs- and Millie (another one of the toddlers) kept exclaiming:
" New daddy! New daddy!"
Confused, I walked towards the window and spied out of the dust coated, barred glass.
An old man strode through the streets of sunny London (for once), looking incredibly fearful. His long, silver beard was tucked into his leather belt that punctuated his eye-sore of an outfit: an orange, floor-length tunic with yellow triangles printed on it overlaid with a starry purple robe. His pointed cap made no effort to hide itself, perking straight toward the sky. His half moon spectacles were perched on his nose, but I couldn't make out his facial features from such a height and distance.
He must the man who Robert said I would recognise.
But alas, I couldn't recollect anything from his appearance.
Curious, I tilted my head slightly. The man seemed to have quite the eccentric style.
I put the script under the undisturbed pillow before Milly's exclamation filled my head.
Perhaps he is here to adopt...
With that thought, I jumped into action, dusting off the entire room (is that a spider?) with nothing but my hands, smoothing out the sheets and sweeping the window sill and the table. I paused, slightly confused when I noticed a set of seven stones on the bay but didn't move them, feeling that I may be intruding on this person's desired setting of his room.
Well. At least I know what gender the orphan was.
There was also a picture of a cave propped up against the window, huge black waves crashing against the cliff face, but again, I didn't move the picture.
I moved over and closed the wardrobe doors before two things caught my eye.
First, there was a cardboard box that contained odd trinkets lying on the oak floor.
Second, there was a brown book filled with pictures inside.
Frowning, I bent over and picked it up before closing the doors and going over to the desk, flicking through the pages, expecting it to be some sort of diary in which I could learn more about the orphan. Unfortunately, I was sorely disappointed as the book proved to be a coverless version of a book called 'Mein Kampf'. I raised an eyebrow once I realised I could understand it and interpret it as 'My Struggle'.
I was bilingual before I lost my memories?
A quiet part of me whispered 'yes'.
I put the book down, pictures spilling out once the book made contact with the table. I took a seat, staring into space with my hand lingering loosely on the book.
A knock.
" Tom? You have a visitor, Mr Dumbledore." Mr Cole stood at the doorway, clean shaven and looking far more presentable- and a tiny part of me noticed that he would have been handsome had he taken care of himself- before I forced down the thought with a barely repressed shudder of disgust, recalling the way he slammed me repeatedly against walls, the way he'd hurt me if I did something wrong. " I'll leave you to it." He said, nodding briefly at Dumbledore, even managing to look somewhat worried as he spared an anxious glance in my direction.
Fake.
Despite all these thoughts, however, I kept my gaze locked on the man before me, trying to appear as cold as possible.
Now that he was in front of me, I could see his weathered features in more clarity. He had a crooked, long nose of which his half-moon silver spectacles sat on, his skin wrinkled and his hair long. I swallowed- the man had a very intimidating and powerful aura about him that told me he wasn't in the least happy. His eyes were narrowed to such a degree that they could be slits and his jaw was set.
" How do you do, Tom?" He greeted, coolly. All of my breath left my lungs and I felt vulnerable- cornered- albeit to a differing degree to Mr Cole, but it scared me just as much anyway.
There was just something about the man that terrified me- so much so that I felt the same way that a child would feel without their parents to hold their hand on their first day to primary school. Suddenly, I felt a longing, an aching, for someone to be here and hold me. Not Xavier, I felt like I had to maintain a certain standard around him. And certainly not Yahya or Louise- they had enough on their backs as it was.
Perhaps a brother or a sister might suffice, like Zainab had Yahya and Brandon Amber?
Hand shaking as I extended my right arm, Mr Dumbledore somewhat hesitantly clasped it with wary eyes. I swallowed and was about to make an automatic false smile to mask my fear, but remembered how cold I was supposed to be and shook his arm limply before returning it to my side, my face somehow expressionless.
" I am Headmaster Dumbledore," I internally cursed- the man said Headmaster instead of Professor- and the script was now void. I would just have to improvise and stick as closely to it as possible. " Usually, I send a Professor to introduce you to our world, but you seem to be a case of particular..." He paused. " Specialty." I bit my lip, curious, trying not to tilt my head to the side as I usually did when piqued.
" You mentioned 'Professor'-"
" We aren't doctors, Tom. We come from a school- a place your father and possibly your mother attended. You may or may not have heard of it from your guardian. My boarding school is called Hogwarts- and it's where you may be attending, if you accept." My breath almost hitched when he said boarding school.
I'll be away from this God damned place! I'm going to be free...
But it must come at a price.
Of course...
My muscles tightened. I sat up straighter almost unnoticeably.
That price... It was cutting my hair.
But it's a price well worth it.
How hard can pretending to be a boy be?
I realised something else.
" How do you know if my parents had inflicted any harm to me? How do you know if I even have parents?"
Those were the first two questions I'd asked when I had been told that I was suspected of being victim to parental abuse.
" You said my father may have attended this school." I stated, trying not to let my voice strain.
Dumbledore's eyes suddenly lighted like fire had passed through them, his cornflower-blue eyes full of barely suppressed anger.
" Of course. How can I forget Tom Marvolo Riddle, the man of who you share your name with?" He asked, bitterly.
It felt like a blow to my stomach.
" Oh yes," He continued. " Tom Riddle was a very intelligent student. Very intelligent indeed. Very much like you, if I am not to be mistaken by that book your arm is leant against." I cast my eyes downward at the beige book beneath my arm. " He was the moon amongst the stars- a beacon, an epitome, of a perfect student. But-" He sighed, wearily. " What's done is done. And he went on to become something..." He struggled to find the right word. " Someone well-known." He finally settled with those words, sinking onto the bed opposite me, and his hopeless gesture suddenly made him look an aeon of age.
He crumpled his face into his palms, tired. I licked my lips, my mouth feeling dry.
I've completely skived off the script.
" What did he study?" I asked, trying to coax the all-important 'm' word from Dumbledore.
Dumbledore froze.
" Magic." He said, once he lifted his head from his hands. I swallowed- here goes the part where I am supposed to stick to the script- and schooled my features into one of shock, then excitement.
" Magic?" I repeated, whispering, a feverish heat spreading across my body. Dumbledore's face was contorted with horror- no doubt recalling that he'd seen exactly the same reaction from the same orphan that lived here.
There was a long silence.
" That's right." He finally breathed, still stunned.
" It is..." I paused; the script had shortened those words. " It's magic, what I can do?" I asked again, my hands clenching and unclenching- but not because I was excited, but because of the overbearing apprehension and terror that mingled in my gut- lying to the man felt like I was lying in God's face.
" What is it that you can do?" He asked. Here I was stumped- I couldn't quite remember what the script said, but I remembered it being somewhere along the lines of hurting people.
" All types." I said, trying to dredge up as much as I could remember. " I can move things without contact with them." He paled. " I can direct animals to do my bidding without prior training." Dumbledore suddenly looked ill. " And if people irritate me... I can hurt them."
It wasn't the same, I knew, but it was similar enough by Dumbledore's standards.
I swallowed, trying to lubricate my dry throat.
" I knew I was special- that I was beyond ordinary limits." I cringed- my voice sounded too monotonous for true enlightenment. " I always knew... It was in the back of my mind, but I always knew I was different."
" You were right, Tom," He said, " You are a wizard. Like I am." He looked as if though he'd dread what I was to say next.
" Prove it." I said with finality.
" If you are going to go to Hogwarts,-"
" I mean, sir." I hastily corrected myself before cursing- I'd done it too early. " Professor, perhaps you could show me?-"
Silence. Then the wave of a stick.
The wardrobe burst into flame.
My eyes widened.
" Stop!" I shouted, rushing to the shabby oak doors of the wardrobe. I glared at Dumbledore. " Whatever it is you are doing, stop it!" I shouted.
Dumbledore looked extremely pale.
" Open the doors, Tom." He whispered. When I made no move, his voice raised. " I said, open the doors."
Hands trembling, I reached for the door handles of the wardrobe, clutching them with madly shaking arms.
What have I done?
The doors swung open and I found the box full of trinkets rattling at the base of the wardrobe.
" Take the box out." He commanded me. Confused and scared, and feeling preyed on, I took it out.
The doors shut and the flames ceased to burn the tormented piece of wood, and I spread the contents of the box on my bed. I wanted to say that I had no idea what this was, that I didn't have any part in this, but I knew that this was all part of Robert's plan and I had to heed it if I wanted to go to the boarding school and far, far away from him.
The emptying of the box revealed small, everyday objects- a tarnished harmonica, a vintage wooden yoyo, a blackened silver thimble and a mess of others.
" Return them to their owners," Dumbledore said, voice shaking. " Return them to their owners with an apology, and I'll know whether you have done it or not." I didn't doubt that he did- Robert also had the same uncanny tendency to walk in on me whenever I did something even remotely wrong.
" Yes sir." I responded quietly, with a quivering voice.
" Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts. I shall not overlook anything like this again. Make no mistake, Tom, I will allow you to go to Hogwarts by law, but if I had a choice..." He shook his head and I felt hurt. " I will find a way to watch over you, Tom. Do not think for a second that I won't enquire into anything that goes wrong."
My heartbeat hammered in my ears.
" I understand, sir." I almost sobbed. Dumbledore pulled his hands over his face and gave a weary sigh, and I heard him quietly mutter:
" I'm not ready for another Tom Riddle."
I looked away, averting my gaze from the face of the old man.
" I do not have money-"
" You're an orphan, Hogwarts will provide for you. You will be given enough to buy a second hand set of books, uniform and equipment and possibly stationary if none of the nibs of the quills are broken."
Second hand. That's what I was. The baggage, the child everyone doesn't want.
My father hated me enough.
" You can buy all of these supplies from Diagon Alley. I don't care how well you know the route, I will be taking you with me. I don't trust you."
Those words hit me like a ton of bricks.
Robert is more trustworthy than I, I thought, bitterly.
" Yes sir." I repeated, bitterly.
•••
Robert glared at me as Dumbledore and I passed by him, walking towards the threshold of the orphanage. However, when Dumbledore's eyes caught his, he gave him a concerned look.
" Mate, I hope Tom isn't too much on you-"
" Oh no." Dumbledore cut in. " I assure you, Tom will behave himself under my watch. He certainly won't be hitting strangers as he does the orphans."
I bowed my head, tears starting to well up as I thought of Zainab, Amber and Brandon- several other faces staring at me, too- with red marks on their faces.
Was it only yesterday when my stomach had hurled at the fact that Robert had hurt them just to frame me?
" In that case, then, I hope that you have a safe journey."
" I am charmed, Mr Cole." Dumbledore said, a slight sparkle in his eyes. Suddenly, it died as he addressed me with a brisk voice. " Come along, Tom." He placed a hand on my shoulder and I nearly flinched; his hand had disturbed a lash wound.
" Yes sir." I said, quietly.
" Tom." Mr Cole said, his pleasant voice hiding his anger. I refused to raise my optics, for fear of what he might say when I made eye contact with him and he saw the tears in them. " Look at me when I speak to you."
Head heavy, I looked up at Robert, lips trembling and my eyes full of unshed tears.
" I apologise, sir." I whispered, regretting even thinking of the others.
" Will you allow me to pull Tom away to speak to him?" Robert asked, his anger thinly veiled.
Dumbledore, unaware that I was crying, didn't even argue.
Robert steered me away from Dumbledore and pushed me into the dining room, where some of the toddlers were shining the cutlery. My heart panged once I saw them- if I could stay here, if I could protect them and stop this all from happening…
I was interrupted by a slam to the wall and my head bounced against the bricks.
" I told you, didn't I? I warned you in the letter-"
" No!" I shouted, but the only thing I managed to do was a squeal as Robert swiftly silenced me with his hand, his eyes glinting with greed. I struggled against him, tears spilling out and blurring my vision.
NO! NO!
" No hurt Tom!" Horatio bawled, his eyes emitting streams of water. Soon after, more orphans started to join.
" Shut up." Robert hissed, but they didn't listen. " I said, shut up!"
" No!" They all exclaimed. Robert almost winced, but turned to me, his eyes murderous.
He let me go, sensing that too much noise would attract Dumbledore's attention.
" Don't think you got away with this, Riddle. I'll get you some day and it doesn't matter when. Expect punishments when you come back." He grabbed my collar, and my breath left my lungs all at once in surprise. " And you better be back at Christmas and Easter, or you know what happens." He picked up one of the knives that Penny had shined and brandished it against Horatio's throat. His crying stopped and he hiccupped.
I knew I would come back, anyway, but I didn't doubt that Robert would kill an infant to make his point.
" I swear it. I will come back, sir, just please, let Horatio go." I pleaded, paralysed in fear for the suddenly deathly silent boy.
Robert kept his knife-point trained on Horatio's pulse point, but growled at me.
" Leave. Go, and come back afterwards." I nearly jumped and ran for the door, but Robert's voice stopped me again. " Oh, and Tom?" I froze, my back stiff. " It's the thirty-first July. You've got a month left before Hogwarts. Expect a birthday present from me today."
What?!
" S-sir?-"
" Get out."
I turned tail and shut the door before a blade pierced the old wood.
•••
" Come." Dumbledore pushed me along the busy streets of Charing Cross road and into a dingy pub that I could swear wasn't being seen by anyone else.
Once we entered, a few shady people dressed in similar robes to Dumbledore watched us and a few women appraised me.
" What a pretty little boy!"
" If only he were my son."
" Merlin, if I were younger!"
I nearly winced.
" What's Dumbledore doing with such a beautiful child?"
" Is he his son?"
" His grandson?"
" Ah, hello Tom!" Dumbledore exclaimed, and I looked at him, confused at his sudden change of attitude towards me before bitterly realising that he was talking to the barman.
" Headmaster." The filthy barkeep, of which I unfortunately shared a name with, inclined his head towards Dumbledore. He had several teeth missing and eyes that had very slightly different colours to them- one was more of a silvery-blue than the other. Honestly, I could say with ease that they were the only physically attractive asset that the man had.
" We're just going to Diagon Alley?-"
" Yeah, be my guest." Tom waved a muscled arm toward the back. Dumbledore gave him a twinkling smile.
" Would you have happened to have seen my new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?" He asked.
" Ah, yeah. Funny guy." Tom chuckled. " Smelled like garlic, had a purple turban. What were you thinking when you hired him, Headmaster?" He asked. Dumbledore only gave him a mysterious smile.
I was too scared to feel indigent at being blatantly ignored.
" Oh Merlin, how could I forget? The Boy Who Lived is due to come in tomorrow, isn't he? It's his birthday today, right?" Tom exclaimed, suddenly looking extremely excited.
" We will see, Tom, we will see." Dumbledore said, with a small but merry smile on his face and it appeared that he had forgotten all about me.
Until we left the bar.
He silently moved the bins across to give him access to a wall with his wand and I clutched at myself, feeling vulnerable now that I was alone with him.
What if Cole only left me with him to finish off the job?
Dumbledore reached for my arm, and still immersed in my thoughts, I flinched violently when he put a hand on my shoulder.
" Do not touch me!" I shouted.
Utter silence ensued.
Dumbledore watched me with unfathomable eyes and I wished he would look at me the way he did at the other Tom, or that when he would look at me his eyes would turn soft like when he heard the mention of 'The Boy Who Lived'.
" As you wish." He finally said. I swallowed and looked away.
I had so many chances and I blew them all.
For the sake of making Robert happy.
If only I had a bond with him alike a father and son just like the way Millie had first exclaimed about 'New Daddies'.
Perhaps then he could have adopted me.
I was interrupted by the tapping of his stick on brick, like some sort of code judging by the pattern of bricks he rapped on.
Then the archway formed.
I was blown away by the bustling crowds of the Wizarding World.
" My Gosh." I whispered, staring at the people doing their last minute school shopping, robes being blown by the wind, animals screeching and the sound of footsteps on cobblestone predominant in the scene before me.
I ventured in with a single step and passed the threshold between the bar and the wonderland in front of me.
•••
Fifty Years Prior...
Tom Riddle stared hollowly at the wall, rage and utter, bitter depression clinging to his grieving bones as he wept uncontrollably.
Oh, Tia. Oh, Tia, how I've failed you.
I'm so sorry.
It had been five years since the incident- and today was the fifth anniversary of 'The Bombing of Hogwarts Train'. Five years since Voldemort had taken up every aspect of his life- five years since he had last had prolonged time to grieve over his beloved, dead twin.
" No one will remember." He whispered. " I've deleted every record of you. It took so much energy- so much power- but I did it." His words were steeped in regret and sorrow. He bowed his head. " You never went to Hogwarts. You never stepped foot into the Magical World- the Ministry's records of you were erased. The only records I couldn't delete," Tom let out a sob. " The only records I couldn't delete were the ones you valued the most. Our Muggle birth certificates. It was so damn hard, but I could have done it. But I didn't. I just- I just said that you were a stillborn." He put his head in his hands and cried like the little boy he was, the boy who lost his childhood to a tragedy he was too young to endure- his only family's death.
Oh God...
" No one remembers you. I put some sort of potion in the pumpkin juice goblets to make everyone forget, but I-I-" He choked out another tear, " I wasn't successful. I couldn't- I couldn't make Lily forget. She begged me so hard... She promised she'd never tell anyone. Not even Dumbledore remembers you. You're just gone. A whisper of a memory. You're a ghost to me." He buried his face in his hands. " Oh, but what I'd give to be in your place." He added, bitterly. " I'd die for you to live. But Voldemort,"
A flash of red.
" He won't let me. I tried so hard to end it all. First I did the basics- I tried to stab, hang and shoot myself... Then I walked out during the Blitz two years ago... I tried to sign myself up for the army last year to fight the Nazis..." His gaze fell on a piece of burnt, crumpled paper on the desk. " But he stopped me- thwarted me- every. Single. Time." Suddenly, with his back rigid with anger, the window gave a warning creak- a tell tale sign that it was going to crack. Relaxing himself, Tom took three deep breaths before he went on.
" I killed our father. I sent our uncle to Azkaban. I took his ring and I turned it into a horcrux."
Here, his trembling stopped.
" And I turned you into a horcrux." He swallowed. " I found out. Just a month ago. And I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you had to put up with my fears on your side. I'm so sorry that my horcrux inhibited your magic so that you couldn't do anything- I pieced it all together. Why you were so good at Potions but you were so bad at Transfiguration. If you hadn't been related to me, if your blood hadn't been so similar to mine that the horcrux almost seamlessly melded with it, then you could still get away with being a horcrux whilst having a substantial amount of magic too, but..." He drifted off.
Tom gazed at his diary that sat on his lap.
He flipped it open.
' Do not waste your grief on such a pathetic girl.'
Charged with fury, Tom threw the diary as hard and far as he could across his room, shouting out half-mutilated words of grief.
" I'm sorry!" He shouted, repeating the words over and over again, running his hands savagely through his inky locks of hair.
He stood up, heaving with agony as he strode out of his room, his eyes sliding over the hole he and Tia had drilled through using only a butter knife (the adoring gaze of green eyes peering at him lovingly through the hole, the laughs and pains they shared, he screamed inside) before opening the door to the room consecutive- Tia Riddle's room.
He took it all in, the undisturbed room that haunted him. A thin layer of dust coated everything.
He could still remember the day that this room was made for her- back when Mrs Cole still liked them both as equally as she did the other orphans. Where she had ripped Tom's room down to it's bare essentials with monotonous colours, she had gone a little softer on Tia (she is a girl, and therefore weaker, she'd say). She'd let Tia's room stay the same, with it's pastel blue walls and white furniture. Hearts were everywhere, painted on the ceiling, carved from wooden handles, strewn all over Tia's floor from the last project she'd done at school. Every single wall was covered in pictures she'd drawn of Tom and her, from the awkward and difficult to decipher images from her infancy to the remarkable sketches she'd done when she was eleven.
Tom took in a deep breath- it was too much, he'd never been in there since the day they'd left for Hogwarts for the first time.
He swiftly looked around the room and grasped all of the pictures of her and from her he could find- ones of her looking into the camera, ones with her eyes gazing distantly away, ones with her laughing, smiling, photos of her and Tom, smiling at each other, messing about, her with poppies woven into her hair by Tom's own hands... He took them all.
He bolted out of the room and shut the door gently before locking it (to this day, many orphans wondered whose room it was, never to remember the girl who was the sister of the boy who terrorised them all) as if though she were still alive- sleeping inside, never to be disturbed.
He turned and walked into his own room, grabbing the roll of sellotape that first caught his eye.
He tacked all of the larger photos onto the wall- a quick count proved that there were five- and put the smaller ones in his breast pocket when he found another piece of folded up paper.
He reached for it and unfolded it before discovering that it was another photo- one of him.
He lifted it and put it against one of the photos before discovering that they fit perfectly.
Upon this realisation, he picked up the sellotape again and taped the two pictures together, one next to the other.
And for a fleeting, sweet second, he could see her alive and beside him, eleven years old with her black hair out and her face graced with a smile as she reached out towards him and offered an embrace.
A single tear slid down his cheek when he blinked and saw nothing there.
Five minutes later, he'd returned to her room and was standing in the middle, A match in his hand, steadily burning, burning, burning as it neared his fingers. Tears slid down his cheeks and he kept seeing Tia around him, ghostly apparitions of their past flashing before his eyes.
Tia sat alone in the corner, two years old, smashing two toy trains together with a smile on her face and his heart ached because he wasn't there for her at that time- he was playing football with the boys outside.
Blink.
Tia was four and had a black eye, crying softly with her legs curled up on her bed with her head against her knees.
Tom wasn't there.
Blink.
She was six and was doing her homework angrily, her hair reaching her chin and still growing out since her hair had been cut short the previous year so that she'd look like a boy.
Blink.
She was eight, a multitude of bruises on her arms as she folded up her clothes and put them away, trying not to acknowledge the pain in her arms.
Blink.
A ten year old Tia was sitting in the middle, a bitter expression on her face that Tom remembered well- they'd almost been adopted, but Mrs Cole had persuaded the couple not to choose the 'Devils'. This had happened at least twenty-two times in their past (Tom couldn't remember when he'd stopped counting) but each time, the pain of hope and cold rejection hurt more than the last.
Blink.
A cautious Dumbledore interviewed a sullen Tia, still wary after the meeting with Tom.
Tom almost laughed; he was losing himself to his mind.
Dumbledore couldn't remember her now.
Blink.
The match burned his hand.
Oblivious to the pain, Tom only dropped it, showing no signs of being singed.
The floor caught alight.
Room 28- or Tia's room- started to burn, and Tom did nothing but cry as he watched Tia grow up before his own eyes, never to reach the age of sixteen as Tom did, but only in his mind as he imagined her. But try as he might, Tom couldn't quite construct an older Tia, her young, fresh face (so raw to the horrors of their childhood) forever immortalised in his memory.
That was, until, he started to choke from the smoke.
This is it, he thought, I'm going to join you.
I'm coming for you, Tia. And I'll make up for every little tear you'd ever shed because of me.
One breath at a time.
Tom doubled up and coughed, his lungs fighting to expel the gases from the fire, but he refused to move.
I love-
He looked up and saw a girl with black hair, flowing behind her, and he never thought she could look more beautiful than she did at that moment.
She looked sixteen.
It was as if though she'd never died.
But it wasn't until she moved forward that his heart broke and his emotions snapped.
A closer inspection revealed that she didn't have black hair, but brown hair and her plain face was contorted in an expression of fear.
" What have you done?!" She shouted.
Martha, Tom thought.
She tried to reach out for him, but he refused.
" No! Let me die! Let me die!" He sobbed.
But Martha only grasped his body and pulled him through the flames before calling for someone to put the fire out.
Tom Marvolo Riddle succumbed to the darkness.
That was the last time he ever broke through Voldemort's control.
A/N: Poor Tommy :( I've finally written in his perspective, though :) The next chapter will also have his perspective!
~ Annika