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Tom Riddle was nine when it happened. He knew he'd been special before, able to control the elements to scare the other children into respect for him, but since the fire, that was all gone. The fire had been of his own creation, but the dry wooden floors of the orphanage were his match. The flames had lapped at everything in their path, eating away at the walls, the furniture, the flesh. Tom was one of the lucky ones, they'd said, escaping without scars, with his life. He didn't feel lucky. He felt… normal. Tom Riddle didn't like that feeling.
-o0o-
He spent his teenage years desperately trying to get back what he'd once had, reading any book he could find in the local libraries on magic. None of them helped. Not even the faintest flicker of anything erupted from his fingertips when he tried. He was laughed at, ridiculed, and withdrew further and further into the murky depths of his own mind.
He didn't try at school. He didn't want to. The lessons bored him anyway. And how could he compete in a world where magic existed? He knew magic existed; he knew it in his very bones. It was a knowledge that taunted him, night and day; he knew he would be great if he could only taste it.
He still remembered the taste. Five years later, he remembered the delicious burn in his chest, the smile on his face, the fear in the eyes of that boy he'd made bend under his control. That very boy that kicked him in the stomach at lunchtime, school bully extraordinaire these days; he had the control now.
Tom Riddle felt like he had nothing.
-o0o-
The paper shopping bag dug into his wrist, leaving welts in his skin as his hand slowly turned red. Tom fumbled for the key to his terraced house. It had been a council house a few decades ago, before it fell into a state of such disrepair the council had sold it on the cheap.
Letting himself into the two-up, two-down, he shoved the things on his counter backwards into the ever-growing pile and placed the bag down, taking out a tin of beans. Swatting a fly away, Tom picked up a pan and grimaced at the mould inside before heading over to his sink, stepping over a bag of rubbish on his way. He'd tried, at least, he thought with a sigh. He knew he'd allowed this to happen; he'd become so absorbed in his own misery he'd forgotten to care.
He washed the pan quickly, emptying the tin's contents into it before placing it on the stove and beginning his search for a bowl and spoon. He would have liked them with toast, but he hadn't been able to afford any bread.
He had to eat quickly tonight, he knew. He was being paid tonight, which meant he could pay his bills, buy himself some cider and maybe an ounce of tobacco tomorrow. Tomorrow, things would be better.
There weren't many men in his line of work, he knew that, but his kind were seen as a novelty amongst the depraved and nefarious parties of the ruling class. They paid well, that much was known, but most avoided them like they had the plague.
Tom's dreams worshipped them. He dreamt of a world where he was amongst them, no - he dreamt of a world where he was above them, sat at the centre of the high table, watching the amusements with an air of sick authority, making men like he was now bend to his will. Something told him that was the life he had been meant for.
He dressed for the ball, knowing what would greet him. Painted ladies, dwarves and circus freaks would be his companions for the night. Oh, but he could dream.
-o0o-
"And now, for the ecdysiast! A special treat for the ladies amongst us!" the Master of Ceremonies announced, and Tom knew this was his time. "He calls himself the Dark Lord Voldemort, and he's here just for us tonight!"
He climbed up on the stage, going through the motions of his routine, the mischievous smirk never leaving his features. When he was left stood in just his undergarments, to the laughter and cheers of his adoring crowd, he held a hand out, patiently. They knew what he wanted, and as the deluge of banknotes tumbled onto the stage, Tom resisted the urge to laugh. They never learn. Such a pity, he thought as he took a bow. Before standing, he dropped his undergarments with the last of his dignity, baring all to his enraptured audience.
Yes, Tom mused. Life would have been easier with magic.