The Untold Life of Tom Riddle

The Orphanage

(A.N. again we own none of the characters)

Dec 31st, 1935

The hail rained down ruthlessly, pelting the streets and any who happened to have the misfortune of being out tonight. The streetlights cast an eerie glow along the cobblestones, as shadows twisted and danced in the alleyways. The wind howled, banging the window, demanding to be let inside. I watched as the mice in the corner shivered and scuttled back into their holes under the loose floorboards below my bed. Gingerly, I rose, shivering in my thin clothes. Oh, what I wouldn't give to have a nice warm cloak to call my own. Especially on a night such as this. I sat down on my bed, carefully avoiding the rouge spring on the left side as the springs squeaked in protest at the sudden weight. Every night was the same. I was sent to bed promptly at eight o'clock. I was to bathe, clean my teeth, and be tucked away in the attic by quarter past eight. If I failed to do so, I would go without a single meal the following day. Nothing unusual really, but tonight was different. Tonight marked the 7th anniversary of my birth. For some reason, births were supposed to be celebrated, treasured. I'd watched for years as other children would receive presents, and have parties on the anniversaries of their births. But I'd never once celebrated mine. I'd never seen it as something to be celebrated either.

Every year decreased my chances of leaving this awful place. Every year decreased my chances of escaping the cold and lonely nights, the awful drafts, the cold showers and food so vile I was surprised I'd even managed to survive this long. Every year, I'd watched as the other children were slowly adopted into loving families. But not me. Never me.

"Oh, the Riddle boy?" Mrs Cole, the woman running the orphanage would say whenever people inquired about me as her eyes darted about in fear, "he's an odd one. Keeps to himself, he does."

I'd learned from a young age that I made people nervous. Could never quite figure out why, but even some adults couldn't meet my gaze without flinching. I'd never thought of myself as odd. All the other children stayed away from me, as if fearing my very presence. "He's so pale," they'd whisper when they thought I wasn't listening, "and he never speaks to anyone."

I looked down at my hands, watching the muscles bunch and contract as I flexed my fingers. They really did look pale against the bed sheets.

In all my years here, I'd never had a single friend. Everyone hated me, and the other children often blamed things on me. I used to protest and try to explain why things weren't my fault, that they just seemed to happen while I was around, but no one ever believed me. After all the excess beatings I was dealt for "lying" I'd learned quickly to keep quiet and accept my unfortunate fate.

The other children used to laugh at me for having no friends and because of my pale skin, but not any more, I could make them hurt if I wanted to, I could make things happen, like billy's rabbit, he should never of called me names, its his fault, and Amy and Dennis they shouldn't of stolen my book, they deserved what happened in the cave.

The wind howled again, redirecting my thoughts to the storm outside. And the cold. I huddled under the bed sheets, shivering from the cold draft slinking in through the broken glass of the small window. I heard the mice scuttling under the floorboards again, no doubt snuggling together to keep warm against the cold. I wish I had someone to keep me warm as they did. Sighing, I leaned over to blow out the single candle that dimly lit the draughty attic that was my prison.

Happy Birthday to me.