A/N: I had to make a thing out of Tom's accent at some point, so here we go.
And for the first time in a while, no one being violent/murderous/vindictive to the point of someone getting traumatized.
(I am going to put a TW for some vague-ish scenes involving self-harm - I seriously apologize for all the heavy content, but Tom has very few adaptive coping skills. Yes, I would love to write 'he took some deep breaths and had a good cry,' but...)
"ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ — ᴛʜᴇɴ?" ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ʜᴀʀʀʏ.
"ᴅɪᴅ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴍᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴡɪᴢᴀʀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇ? ɴᴏ."
Chapter Thirteen: Marvolo
-April, 1939-
As usual, the Great Hall was filled with chatter, but Tom stayed quiet. He was sitting squeezed between Yaxley and Cygnus Black, and the less they noticed him, the better. His endeavour to become forgotten had lasted for the better part of an hour, but it seemed that his luck had just run out.
"I hear the Muggles are going to war. Is that so, Riddle?" asked Yaxley.
Tom hadn't gone back to London for Easter, but he did listen to the Muggle-borns talk (he wasn't one of them). They had brought with them all sorts of strange news; the House of Commons had just approved Prime Minister Chamberlain's conscription act, which meant that several people's older brothers and cousins had been called up for the draft, and taxes had gone up. Tom had seen girls crying in the hallways, and when he asked someone what it all meant (taking care not to let the older Slytherins see him), he was told that they definitely were going to war against Hitler.
"They wouldn't come here, would they?" he had asked, not sure if he meant Hogwarts or Britain.
But the response had simply been a series of frowns, twisted smiles, and nervous laughter.
He nodded.
"Maybe," said Tom. "Germany's occupied Czechoslovakia and Lithuania."
To Tom, Czechoslovakia and Lithuania might as well have been the moon. But the other students talked about it with such gravity that it must mean something.
"You see?" crowed Abraxas. "Grindelwald was right—"
"Don't let Dumbledore hear you say that," Cygnus Black interrupted, casting a glance at the eagle-eyed professor.
"Please," said Abraxas, sneering disdainfully. "You can't be serious. In these things, there is a winning and a losing side, and I expect Grindelwald will win — at least a hundred to one."
"Still," said Yaxley, "I'm inclined to agree with Cygnus. Professor Dumbledore is—"
"Scared to face him," Abraxas countered. "Why else would the greatest sorcerer of the modern era hide away as a schoolteacher? The blood-traitors and Muggle-sympathizers have begged him to intervene — yet, he sighs and turns away like a blushing maiden."
"Perhaps it's personal," said Yaxley sensibly.
"THAT... is what we are fighting," said Abraxas, as if quoting something or someone. "That is the enemy: their arrogance; their power-lust; their barbarity. How long will it take before they turn their weapons on us?"
"If it's all the same to you," said Yaxley. "I'd rather be cautious. And even so, do you really believe Muggles are a threat to us?"
Abraxas smiled. "Ever the pragmatic one, Yax. Mudblood, what do you think?"
Tom swallowed hard. He had to choose his words carefully.
"I don't know much about Grindelwald," he admitted. "But if he was right about a war, he could be right about other things, too."
"Good job, Mudblood," said Abraxas, patting him on the head. Tom flinched. "There may be room for you yet, in the new regime."
"All I see are boys playing with ideals they don't understand," said Araminta, frowning at them. "You expect to worm your way into the inner circle; snivelling cowards like you?"
"And on what do you base that claim?" asked Yaxley.
She coughed sarcastically.
"If any of you were anything but cowards, you'd be plotting to overthrow the Ministry yourselves, not backing Fawley and begging Herr Grindelwald to notice your pathetic efforts. Hexed a few Muggles over the hols, have you — big deal."
Plotting to overthrow the Ministry. Now that's an idea, thought Tom. Not that he could fathom how to accomplish such a thing.
Hitler had made relatively quick work of Germany, he supposed, and Grindelwald was chipping away at all of the wizarding world. So it was not impossible, after all.
"I am not a coward, you ugly bint!" shouted Abraxas, slamming his fist on the table and making the entire Great Hall stare at him. There was a great commotion around the professors' table — Tom saw Professor Dumbledore and Slughorn get up — and Araminta froze, staring in disbelief at Abraxas, then turned tail and dashed out of the Great Hall.
There was something mentioned about detention and points being taken away. Tom watched Professor Dumbledore and Slughorn reprimanding Abraxas, looked down at his hands, and smiled.
The Astronomy Tower incident had gone incredibly well. Not only had Parkinson, Carrow, and Selwyn slunk into the Slytherin Dungeon early in the morning with their clothes rumpled and hair askew (evidence of Apollyon Pringle seeing to their punishment personally), but Slughorn roused each-and-every member of Slytherin House to watch them being berated.
"Get up!" he had shouted, pushing the door open so that it clattered unceremoniously against the wall. "Wake up, boys!"
Tom, who had only been asleep for the past few hours and who was the most used to having to wake up on command, was the first to emerge from the covers, shivering in the winter cold, and slip down onto the floor to put socks on (though they had holes in several places and didn't do much good to keep the cold from seeping into his feet).
Slughorn nodded at him as he trudged towards the door.
"Good boy, Tom," he said, smiling weakly.
Tom held his glance for a second. There was not an ounce of suspicion; he was not in trouble.
"Now, Mulciber, get up and stop faffing around — hurry up and get your socks on, Rosier — you'll catch cold—"
Tom went into the hallway; it was swarming with curious students, muttering about what Slughorn could possibly have pulled them out of bed for at two in the morning.
Some were excited that this might be some kind of secret Slytherin ritual, but most were simply annoyed at having been woken up at such an hour.
Tom was the only one who knew what could possibly be going on. And once he went up the stairs and into the common room, his hopes were confirmed.
"Out of the way, now!" called Slughorn, sweeping his maroon-coloured robes behind him as he entered the common room. The crowd of students parted like the Red Sea.
"You should feel ashamed of yourselves, boys — do you call this gentlemanly conduct? Worthy of this House, or your families? What example do you expect to set for the younger students — inebriated and out past-midnight on the Astronomy Tower?"
"Sorry, sir," muttered Carrow, his eyes glued to the ground.
"Sorry, Carrow?" barked Slughorn, his moustache quivering indignantly. "Sorry?"
"There will be detention, boys, starting when you return from the Christmas holiday and until the end of spring term. It will not be a pleasant experience."
Parkinson had caught sight of Tom in the small mob of sleepy students dressed in pyjamas, yawning and rubbing their eyes, and shuddered. The thrill that had gone up his spine was nothing short of exquisite.
But it was nothing compared to seeing Selwyn tremble at the sight of a glass of water. Or how Carrow went out of his way to avoid Tom, peeping at him with wide, scared eyes.
"There's something about the Mudblood," he'd heard Carrow hiss to Abraxas. "He's different. He's changed."
Abraxas would glance down the table, give Tom an appraising look, then turn back.
"I don't see it."
Of course you don't, Abraxas. You don't understand. But soon...
He put a hand in his pocket, feeling the cool metal of the ouroboros ring rub against his palm.
"I hear you've managed to win over the professors, Riddle. They've all got nothing but praise for you; our poor, brilliant, Mudblood Riddle," said Abraxas, snapping Tom out of his reverie.
If that's what he wants to call it.
"Hmph," said Yaxley. Tom could not tell if his tone was one of contempt or grudging respect.
He regarded Tom carefully as if trying to determine how the Mudblood had managed to survive this long.
"Why didn't you go back?" asked Yaxley. Some of the older girls sitting further down the table stopped chatting to pay attention.
Tom could feel their eyes on him, like watchful birds. He'd been up to the Owlery before, out of curiosity; he didn't have anyone to send letters to. But Tom hated the feeling of thousands of yellow eyes on his back, watching his every movement. That was how he felt now.
"I didn't want to," said Tom. Then, remembering a bit too late: "Sir."
"Is your father still away on his travels?" asked Abraxas, his voice full of contempt. "And how's that surrogate family of yours?"
In hindsight, it was such a poorly-constructed lie. Tom felt his cheeks heat with shame, and his grip tightened around the ouroboros ring. He took a deep breath, absorbing the calming effect of the cool metal between his fingers. Trying to stop it from all crumbling down.
"Yes," said Tom. Who knows? He might be.
Then, he glanced over to the group of girls listening to their conversation and thought of Araminta.
Maybe he was doing this all wrong, putting up this front of being normal and having parents, a good life, a home.
Maybe he could use this. Embrace being a victim. Being a poor, motherless boy. Poor orphan boy. And if his father never came for him in twelve years, maybe he was dead. Perhaps he didn't even know that Tom existed.
As Abraxas had put it, he was the poor, brilliant, Mudblood Riddle.
The best of both worlds: poor, brilliant, brave, orphan Tom Riddle.
That would do. That would certainly do. They would never suspect him, now.
He lifted his chin and stared back at Abraxas.
"He's dead," said Tom, with all the venom that a twelve-year-old boy could manage. If he wasn't vicious, he might crumble. He would not have imagined that words could sting that much had Abraxas not carved the bald truth of his existence in the wizarding world into his arm. "My parents are dead, and I don't want to go back to Wool's Orphanage."
Several people turned their heads as if expecting an embellishment to the ugly truth.
"Wool's Orphanage," said Abraxas, pronouncing the words as if the very sound disgusted him. "So not only were you born of Muggles, but you live with them? Poor ones, too?" He wrinkled his nose. "No wonder you smell like filth."
Tom knew the blow was coming, but that didn't make it feel less like a slap in the face, stinging and unbearably shameful.
You smell like filth.
Tom knew what filth smelled like. Heavy, mucky, revolting.
Abraxas turned his back on Tom, and he lifted his arm to his nose and sniffed. If he shut his eyes, he could smell it, too.
So, he escaped to the nearest toilet and scrubbed his hands raw, stinging in the hot water. Not good enough. He must remove every bit of Muggle dirt sticking to his skin. More soap. More water. His arms. His face. He rubbed the back of his neck and behind his ears for what felt like hours in a desperate attempt to remove whatever Muggles smelled like. Whatever he smelled like.
Once the shock ran out, he found himself standing in front of the sink, his eyes wide and glassy in the mirror, stinging from the soap, his wet hair sticking to his forehead, his sleeves and the collar of his shirt soaked and his skin red and itchy. Dry.
He felt ashamed of himself, standing there, weak, and trembling.
"I'm not a Mudblood," he whispered to his reflection. He must look like his father, Mrs. Cole had said. Yes, his father, his wizard father. Had his father looked like him, too, at twelve years old? Had he stood in front of this very sink, staring at his reflection and dressed in the same school uniform?
Tom found some small comfort in this. He splashed some cold water on his face to make it look less blotchy, dried his sleeves, and left the bathroom. His meeting with Dumbledore was in ten minutes.
"Come in, Tom," said Dumbledore, pleasantly, as usual. "You are early today."
"Yes," said Tom, as he sat down in his usual chair. "Sir."
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on Tom's face, and he squirmed, wishing that he'd bothered to learn one of Araminta's dozens of cosmetic spells.
"Is something wrong, Tom?"
He tugged his sleeves down, tucking his fingers over the ends to keep them secure. He shivered.
I was feeling sorry for myself in the loo.
"No, Professor. Nothing's wrong," he said, trying to keep his voice light.
"Nothing?" pressed Dumbledore. Tom supposed the effect would have been better had his face not looked so blotchy. He hoped Dumbledore didn't think that he had been crying.
"I was feeling sorry for myself," he ground out, hating each word. "In the loo."
Dumbledore smiled, and Tom felt close to vomiting.
"This is progress, Tom," he said, nodding and smiling as if he had scored the goal of the century by pressuring Tom into admitting that. "Excellent. Now, will you tell me why you were feeling sorry for yourself?"
"Where's Fawkes?" he asked, in a last-ditch effort to change the topic.
"Resting," said Dumbledore fondly, gesturing to the small nest sitting atop the desk. "He's just had a Burning Day."
Tom leaned over to see for himself. Instead of a swan-sized, regal bird with scarlet-and-gold feathers, there was a tiny, fluffy grey chick peeping softly as the straw smoked and smouldered around it.
Cute and fluffy and stupid, just like Billy's rabbit. Tom bit back the contempt.
"The straw was intended to be fire-proof," said Dumbledore. "But Fawkes has the habit of burning through everything, eventually."
Tom thought that he might have managed to escape further scrutiny.
"Now," said Dumbledore, as smug as the cat who got the cream. "Let us return to our discussion, Tom."
He had to actively suppress the groan.
"I was feeling sorry for myself for no reason," he said in a monotone voice.
"Now, Tom," said Dumbledore. "You are a big boy now; you cannot expect me to have to coax the truth out of you."
Tom cupped his hand over his mouth and faked a slight cough to cover the involuntary sneer in response to Dumbledore's condescension. How could he possibly make this sound dignified?
"Malfoy and I argued, sir," said Tom, his already-raw fingers chafing against the rough fabric of his blazer. That was the best that he could manage.
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Shall I have Professor Slughorn talk to him?"
"No!" said Tom, sitting up straight in the chair and glaring at Dumbledore. "I'll handle it!"
The professor's amusement was evident.
"And how do you propose to handle it, Tom?"
The breath caught in Tom's throat. He can't know.
But if punishment was coming, he must face it and hope for mercy. There was no escape now.
"Dunno, sir," he said stonily, swinging his legs and trying to set a straight face, even as his spine began to tingle with cold panic.
"Hmph," said Dumbledore. "I suppose this method consists mostly of the stiff upper lip; while an admirable effort, it does not always yield the most desirable results."
Tom shuddered with relief. His lungs could work again; he sucked in an enormous breath, then bent over, hiccuping and coughing.
"Are you quite all right, Tom?" asked Dumbledore, watching him curiously. "Are you ill?"
Now, he might suspect.
"Maybe, sir," he lied. "I haven't been feeling well today."
(Due to a persistent illness by the name of Abraxas Malfoy).
"Well," said Professor Dumbledore, "it is a Saturday, and besides, I do not think either of us will get much more out of this session. Why don't you go down to your dormitory and rest — and if you do not feel better tomorrow morning, you might have someone take you to Madam Gale."
I'll take myself if it comes to that, Tom thought, but nevertheless, he agreed out loud.
"Thank you, Professor," he said, getting up from his chair and trudging towards the door. Actually, sleep sounded like a fantastic idea; the incident earlier had tired Tom more than he wanted to admit.
He took care on his way down to the dungeons not to run into anyone, crept through the common room, down the stairs, and went quietly into the dormitory.
Tom went straight to his bed, shut the curtains, retrieved the diary from its hiding-place, and pulled the heavy emerald covers up over his head, surrounding himself in comforting, warm darkness. The sky outside the windows in Dumbledore's office had just begun to go dark, but it was impossible to tell the time so far below the school.
Curious if he could manage something that he had seen the older students do, he placed his wand about a foot away from him and whispered: "Lumos."
Instantly, the wand-light flickered to life, and he lay there for a few minutes, revelling in this new ability.
"Nox."
Everything around him was dark and still and quiet. Tom reached for his wand, rolling the smooth wood between his fingers. It was familiar like nothing else was.
"You understand me, don't you?" he whispered. "You won't leave me."
He lay there for what felt like ages, the side of his face pressed against the diary and the wand clutched in his hand.
Suddenly, the door banged open, and Tom jumped. The room filled with loud, overlapping voices; Tom shut his eyes and feigned sleep. But real sleep came on quickly, and before he knew it, the world was fading away.
Tom woke up early the next morning. There was no point in feeling sorry for himself any longer.
Back to work; work would make him feel better. As usual, he sat in the furthest corner of the common room to avoid Abraxas and Yaxley, who were sitting together and glancing over at him while they discussing something with ugly, greedy expressions. It must have been Wool's Orphanage.
For some reason, beginning at about two in the afternoon, people began to leave the common room in droves. Seeing some of the other first-year boys leaving, Tom hurried after them. The crowd of people moved slowly up towards the Great Hall, but the other first-years paid no mind to Tom, laughing and talking amongst themselves.
People slowly began to disperse (the older students first) until only the first-years were left lingering in the hallway.
A familiar, shrill voice rang out. Tom turned towards it, recognized Minerva talking to a shy-looking Hufflepuff girl, and turned back around, scowling.
What now?
Here he was, uselessly lingering in the hallway, while everyone else was gathered into groups of threes and fours. Several ghosts were swooping up-and-down the hallway but keeping mostly to themselves as usual.
A tall, stately lady with waist-length hair and dressed in a long cloak waved at him. Tom waved back; he had seen her reading books in the library sometimes by herself.
Quietly, he drifted over to where the other boys were standing in a tight circle and stood behind Leopold Rosier.
"What's going on?" he whispered. "Where are the professors?"
"Walpurgis Night. Starts in the afternoon, though, because it can get a bit mad after dark," said Rosier. "Surely you've heard of it?"
So the details of Wool's Orphanage hadn't spread all the way through Slytherin House yet. By Monday, they would undoubtedly know.
Tom shrugged. Might as well carry on with the lie while he still could.
"We didn't celebrate a lot of holidays," he said.
"It's the end of winter," said Balthazar Avery portentously. Tom raised an eyebrow. Snow had long melted from the grounds, and the pale green shoots and white blossoms of spring had been poking through the wet, sweet-smelling ground for the past few weeks. So why wait until now?
He knew what May Day was. But this seemed like something different; and absurdly complicated.
"There's going to be a bonfire on the grounds. People bring food as well," added Thaddeus Nott. He rolled his eyes. "Some of the girls think that if they collect the dew tomorrow and wash their faces with it, they'll turn pretty. Not that Walburga would look like anything but a cow even if she drowned herself in the stuff."
Walburga Black, who was not standing too far away, shot Nott a look that could have melted steel.
Tom glanced over at Minerva again, and wondered if special morning dew could do much for bushy eyebrows. Probably not. He remembered that Martha had some tweezers...
"On the bright side," said Mulciber, "if we tell the girls they look pretty, they might let us snog them. Especially if there's a Brocken Spectre, they think that brings good luck." He stood on his tiptoes to see out of the window. "And it's certainly cloudy enough for one."
Tom pulled a face. From what he could tell, that involved some girl sticking her spit-covered tongue in his mouth — and wiggling it around — and touching him.
"Not if it's Walburga, I won't," said Nott, pulling a similar face to Tom.
Icarus Lestrange looked nonplussed. "It's mostly for the girls, anyway. Witches' magic is stronger tonight. Doesn't do anything for us."
"Some of the older boys had better watch out for the love potions," said Avery sensibly. "I wouldn't drink anything tonight."
Mulciber snorted. "You sound like my mum! Who would want to potion you, Althie?"
Tom was intrigued. Why didn't whatever it was about Walpurgis Night work for wizards?
And why did he feel this strange pull, too? This growing excitement?
"It's half-past," said Avery, noticing that people were starting to move towards the stairs. "Let's go; we'll miss them lighting the bonfire."
They started to walk forward, and Tom began to follow them.
"No," said Icarus Lestrange, "you can't come with us, Riddle. So don't even ask."
They turned and began to climb the stairs. Without him. Again.
What do I have to do for just an ounce of respect?
"You realize they don't like you because they think you're common?" asked Minerva as he stared after the other boys. The Hufflepuff girl who she had been speaking to had disappeared.
"What?" snapped Tom. That was not why they didn't like him.
And if he was common, well, that was beside the point.
(All right, maybe it was a bit of the point.)
It wasn't his fault that he wasn't a Hoorah Henry.
Minerva stared at him as if someone had just done a Switching Spell on his brain and a lump of clay.
"You. Sound. Common."
Tom spluttered.
"It's hard to understand someone who speaks like a pleb," she clarified in her usual desire to add insult to injury. "I'm surprised you can even pronounce spells right."
"It's hard to understand you!" he retorted. (She had some nerve talking about his accent when she didn't even speak English.)
"You're putting it on now," said Minerva, sneering. "I've heard you say innit before."
"I do not!" said Tom.
"Go on," said Minerva, egging him on. "Say it properly, then!"
"In-in — isn't it!" he finished triumphantly. "So, there! Said it!"
Minerva and Tom glared at each other for a second.
"I'm going to the library," he announced.
Minerva stuck her nose in the air. "I am, too. I'll see the bonfire later."
"It's big enough for both of us to sit far apart," said Tom.
And it was. So, why did Minerva insist on trailing him to the library and sitting directly opposite him?
"Go away," hissed Tom, narrowing his eyes. "Why can't you sit somewhere else?"
Minerva ignored him and continued flipping through her book.
Tom, for his part, was leafing through an old roster of students that he'd discovered. Starting in the mid-1800s, he'd searched for his father's name. This last group of records spanned the years 1910-1925. He was born in 1926; so, if his father's name wasn't here, he hadn't gone to Hogwarts.
1925.
He trailed a finger down the list of names.
Reid.
Reynolds.
His heart beat with anticipation, stuttering in his ears, so hard that it threatened to burst. Everything around him ceased to exist.
Richards.
Richardson.
Rookwood.
Wait. No. 'Riddle' came before 'Rookwood.'
"This can't be right," he said out loud, his hands trembling. The book slipped out of his grasp to fall upon the table with a heavy thud. "There must be a mistake."
"What?" asked Minerva, snapping him out of his reverie. "What can't be right?"
"This," was all Tom said as he sprinted out of the library, blind and deaf to anything around him.
His eyes were burning; smarting and itching so much that he wanted to tear them out of his head.
Tom was about to cry.
He was not going to cry, and especially not in the middle of the hallway, empty or not. The last time he allowed tears to sting his eyes like this, he was nearly dead.
So, he tilted his head up, screwed up his face, and focused on his anger instead.
Abraxas's voice. Mudblood.
Mudblood scum. That's what you are; you can't deny it anymore.
Tom let out a shriek, flinging his bag down against the floor. The thin, cheap fabric ripped easily, sending all his books tumbling out.
He snatched up one of them — it was a library book — Tom didn't care — and grabbed the first few pages in a quivering fist, crumpling them under his rage. He screamed, ripped them clean from the binding, felt a bit better, and did it again.
Rip, tear, scream. Repeat. Rip, tear, scream. Repeat.
He heard a soft plip, and stopped, surprised that a tear had fallen.
Now, the page was wet. A single droplet of water was spreading, bleeding out across the paper.
The wetness crept under two words: Marvolo Gaunt.
Gaunt. One of the Sacred-Twenty Eight families. Tom had read the Pure-blood Directory cover-to-cover, memorizing each passage and trying each family's name on for size.
The House of Gaunt has fallen hard on their luck in recent times. Once wealthy, powerful and prominent, descended from such illustrious personages as Cadmus Peverell and the great Salazar Slytherin and often gifted with Parseltongue, the famed and feared ability to communicate with serpents, the once-proud Gaunts squandered the family fortunes long before the beginning of this century.
His mother had given birth to him right in Wool's Orphanage (no shoes, not a penny to her name and barely older than myself at the time, just a few dry crusts of bread in her pocket), and died right after naming him. He had been small, or so Martha had told him. Small and silent, and his mother held him for the first and last time as she fevered and bled.
Tom, for his father. Marvolo, for my father.
Tom trembled under the weight of this revelation. The crumpled pages in his hand floated down to the floor, forgotten and unimportant.
"My mother," he whispered, testing this new truth for his own ears. "My witch mother."
In his imagination, she blossomed from a pathetic, weak half-child (Poor girl, must have been a pauper or a lady of the night, said Mrs. Cole) to a proud, beautiful woman, dressed in robes of emerald silk and carrying a wand—
Wand. Tom knew that there were things magic could do that Muggle medicine couldn't. He had seen Madam Gale mend broken bones with a wave of her wand and Slughorn brew potions that could rescue someone who had been fatally poisoned. Whatever it was that killed women in childbirth — bleeding, pain, fear, fever — he knew she could have stopped it. If only she had wanted to.
If she had just bothered to pick up her wand!
But, no — his mother had thrown him away like a piece of rubbish.
His witch mother (no foolish, hapless Muggle, but like him, someone with both life and death at her disposal) had willingly abandoned him, condemning him to his miserable life at Wool's Orphanage on the coldest day of the year.
His father left him. His mother left him. Betrayed him.
The treachery could not have stung more had she slit Tom's throat the minute he had departed from her body.
Tom lifted his head, listening to the sounds of students clattering down the stairs far above him, excited after returning from their celebration and chattering loudly.
For time eternal, there had been the wild, childish fantasy of his father (Tom had a father; his parents were married, after all), the heavy sound of his boots tapping on the cold floor of the orphanage ("I want this one.") scooping Tom up in his arms (they would be strong enough to lift him easily), and carrying him far away from that place.
With every passing year, the hope had been buried deeper and deeper until it was a single thought (My father was a wizard, too! His name is Tom Riddle!) burning like a steady flame until it had been snuffed out. His great father, the great wizard Tom Riddle who had come before him, was nothing but a childish daydream.
He hated him. He hated Tom Riddle for leaving, whether it was by death or abandonment. It didn't matter to Tom. Betrayal was betrayal.
Still barely keeping the tears at bay, Tom clawed at his face (he must look like his father, because his mother was no beauty), trying to tear fragile, treacherous skin from bone.
(If his abandoning, unworthy father left him, why should Tom be mocked with being made in his image?)
Was it his hair, too, that resembled his father's? Tom tugged at it, to no avail.
He contorted his face, the way that Abraxas did when he spoke about Muggles.
"Filthy!" he snarled to the empty hallway. "My filthy Muggle father!"
And my betraying witch mother, he thought.
There was no one coming.
Tom was alone.
Endnotes:
Since Walpurgis Night is an actual holiday, there's an exact date for this chapter: April 29/30, 1939.
How did it take me this long to realise 'Fawkes' is a Guy Fawkes reference? The penny just dropped.
Yes, kid!Riddle does consistently have a Cockney accent that he tries, and often fails to cover up (and kid!Minerva has a Scottish accent).
But because he's the POV character half the time and accents are a pain to write (and read), you'll just have to imagine if you weren't already that quite often he says, for example, innit and doctah and 'oo and iwl and wa'er instead of isn't it and doctor and who and ill and water.
(personally still trying to wrap my head around the fact that kid!Riddle sounds more like Stan Shunpike than any other HP character)
Tom's too busy being vindictive and judgmental of other people to notice his own accent that much, anyway...
Another one of my headcanons (to rationalize the not-crying thing) is that Tom was born a month or so premature, because premature babies often have immature respiratory systems and can't cry properly at birth (and then generally don't cry as much for a while after).
The next odd chapter is going to be a bit of a surprise, so I don't want to ruin it with hints. As always, feel free to shoot me a PM, thank you for reading, and see you next week back in the Golden Trio Era!