Harry Riddle - Love is a different time

Came to stay

July 31st, 1933

Mrs Cole huffed as she locked his door. Tom Riddle was punished in his room without dinner, again. And it was all Billy and his crew's fault!

On the outside, he was calm, collected, perfectly docile and obedient as Mrs Cole ordered him to 'march up' to his room the instant one of the children had accused him of some "evil-doing". Alone, in his room, he all but jumped on his well-made bed, the metal rings creaking under his weight, pounding the pillows with pent up fury, the feeling of being wronged, being outed, being unable to escape- all wrapped up in his little fist as he kept pounding mercilessly into the harden cloth and feathers. His hands almost feel the hard metal frame below. He didn't care, he'd steal another unbattered pillow later.

Tired, he huffed, keeping his fist closed, staring at the door of his locked room, bending his knees to sit on his bed.

Tom Riddle was seven years old for seven months now. There were three things he firmly knew.

Firstly, he hated Wool's Orphanage, the old black and murky building he grew up in all his life. The matrons were strict and yelled at him daily. It didn't matter if he was tardy or early, clean or with a smidge of dirt on his sleeve, he'd get an ear boxing or a spanking just by looking into their angry eyes. The worst he got was a hard pinch on the thighs by Mrs Cole, Head Matron, for 'lying' when he had insisted he told her the truth. He spent his mornings doing chores, being forced into uncomfortable clothes that were too cold for winter and too grey and thin to be proper for summer. The food was below human decency, scraps from leftover food rations such as tin cans, peaches and mouldy bread were a norm. The food was basically next to being wasted and the rare occasion of treats were used to manipulate the children to do more chores, which Tom hated more. Hated with a passion, the dark tile walls, the five stories of stairs that took forever to clean and his very hard bed. He hated the dull classes, with the same paper and pencil drills and the voices of the tutors, shrill and high, not allowing them to question or ask. "You're a dumb boy for asking Tom. ", "What a silly question, boy. " " Of course there are no such things as talking animals! ".

Because they were all wrong, he was brilliant, but they were too afraid to see it.

And the Sunday masses he was forced to recite and sing to. He didn't believe in God, how could he? God hated him and had let his mother die and leave him in this black hell hole. He sang anyway.

Loathing it, hating it. With every fibre of his being.

Secondly, he knew that he was odd. Different. He loved it. Loved being different from the dreary people in the Orphanage. Loved it so much that it made his eyebrows knot and his hands curl in frustration because he was special and no one could see it, appreciate it. He knew this because on more than one occasion Tom had successfully moved items with his mind, making them float. The other thing he found out he could do was that he understood animals a bit differently... especially snakes. He understood them completely, he felt he could even control them. Mrs Cole had caught him doing what she calls 'disturbing things" and would punish him severely for it, but it didn't deter him. Because knowing he was different was enough of a relief, to know he didn't share any similarities with the draggity of the Orphanage. Mrs Cole had sometimes muttered that his mother was a circus worker and Tom had wondered if that was why he was different. If all circus people were special and different. Maybe he was a circus boy, and he didn't feel ashamed at all by the idea. He was different from the people at Wool's orphanage and that was what was important.

Third and last, Tom knew he was always going to be alone. None of the children wanted to play with him. He wasn't interesting enough and his 'speciality' only made him more separated from the rest. He was fine with it. Well, sometimes he cried, but only because it was too dark and the loud sounds were making him jump. Sometimes he did feel a bit cold and wanted something warm to hold him, maybe something other than a smack or spit on his face? Maybe he didn't really like it when Billy and his group would push him away from playing their stupid games.