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32. Lord Voldemort
"I saw a rainbow, once. I saw it a long time ago, before mum went away," Timothy Harris insisted.
"You're lying," Tom said coldly.
Timothy seemed to shrink under his glare, but stupidly opened his mouth for a retort, anyway. I'll … Ow!"
He clapped a dirty hand over his mouth, and then spat blood into it. He made muffled noises through his mouthful of rapidly swelling tongue. Tom knew that he wouldn't speak any more that night.
Tom Marvolo Riddle had always known that he was special. He had always been able to hurt people just by getting angry at them, and he also knew that he as much better than Timothy, no matter how many rainbows the kid had seen.
"Oh Timmy! Don't cry," Julie whispered, wringing her hands and glancing anxiously at the door. Some of the other children said Julie's parents had abandoned her because she was ugly. For all Tom knew, it might have been true.
I'll tell you a story, Timmy. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" She put an arm around his shoulders. Julie always told him the same old stories. But it didn't matter. People said Timothy's parents had left him because he was slow. For all Tom knew, it was most probably true.
He always pretended that he wasn't listening. But out of the corner of his eye, he watched a little girl with a dripping nose and tangled hair paint pictures in the darkness with her thin, hoarse voice.
They were pictures of yellow gold and red apples, of orange flowers and green hills, and of the smoky blue and purple of the sky at dusk. Perhaps that was what had prompted him to steal from the other children, he thought as he listened. The colors of the rainbow had always held a kind of magic for him. Perhaps that was why he hoarded the little toys that caught the light so well.
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The summer after his first year, they moved Julie to another room when her cough became more serious. There were no more stories.
But it didn't matter, anyway. He had learned that magic was more sophisticated than colored lights.
He visited her only once, just to remind himself that this silly little girl, with her dull brown hair and ashen skin, was a Muggle. To remind himself that she was weak, just like his mother had been. Even in her fever, she babbled about rainbow hues in a low voice, and finally, he saw her stories for what they were, only stories.
Now he saw the colors for what they really were, as well. Gradually the yellow of sickness replaced the yellow of gold, the jewel-bright crimson of blood replaced the rosy apple, brilliant orange flowers were swallowed by hungry flames, and the blue and purple of bruises blotted out the hues of the sky.
All of these colors were silly, Muggle things that could never hurt him, but brought everyone around him pain and fear. This angered him. Everyone was so busy with their silly Muggle fears that they underestimated a thin, young boy. He could show them real pain and fear. And someday, he would.
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Tom Riddle smiled to himself as he watched the green flash die away, and his own father with it. He glanced at the handsome ring that now sat on his finger, ignoring the thin rays of color appearing in the sky now that the storm had drawn away. He had placed himself above those stupid Muggle worries. He was the Heir of Slytherin. He was Lord Voldemort.
Green was the only color for him.
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By Mrs James Norrington