Chapter Text
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There once was a bear that smelt of niceties and comforts
New and fresh from the maker's hold
It was gifted to a boy of only five winters
It was hugged and kept close all moments
but it never grew old
For the boy so loved the bear
He spoke of everything he felt
Of fears
Of dreams
That chase his childhood
To the bear that spoke
But never bled
For the bear is still a bear
And never a human
Though it seemed like one
To the boy who sought love
One day a group of jealous children
And Mrs. Cole, the hateful woman
Point fingers and shout evil at the little boy's lovely bear
It had done nothing wrong, only kept the boy happy
But it was treated with scorn for a criminal
And burned with little care
The boy cried and cried
But his tears
Are seen by blind men
And his sobs
Heard by deaf women
He felt like he was of only five winters again
And it was from then on that the boy lived no more
As loneliness and melancholy crippled his joy
The joy that was found with his bear
The bear called Harry
The bear who gave him life
The bear who was now dead.
The tyrant dies and his rule is over, the martyr dies and his rule begins.
— Soren Kierkegaard
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Tom had pushed the memories of his dear bear to the protected fortress of his mind, and he had steeled his heart. Wool's Orphanage had always been grey to him, bar Harry to warm and light up his childhood, but after the traumatizing experience of losing a friend—his only friend—in the hands of cruel intentions, it had become a prison. A prison that was always set to make his life more miserable.
It was then that he started to hurt other people. His too-young mind had reasoned, 'When they had hurt me, when they had taken Harryaway from me, what is stopping me from hurting them, too?' And it is with a detached sort of vindication that he hung Billy Stubbs' rabbit up the rafters, he let Mr. Cole be tripped by nothing at the top of the stairs, calmly watching as the man had stumbled and fallen, fallen, fallen, until he was no more. It is with this that he sweetly informed Mrs. Cole of her dead husband, a terrible glee wiggling in his chest as the head matron's eyes grew impossibly wide and fearful, and who said it was Tom's fault that the woman found herself difficulty in breathing, when he had done nothing but stand there as the matron clawed at her throat? His invisible power, though, released the woman's neck, and as relief filled her eyes Tom grew infinitely gleeful, because as he reminds her of the corpse just outside her office at the foot of the stairs, she grows pale and promptly faints. Tom hums and walks away to his room, holing up there with a book in his hand.
Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop followed him to the cave of their own accord. It wasn't Tom's fault that they couldn't protect themselves as well as Tom could command his power to hurl stones at them. It wasn't Tom's fault that they insisted on bullying him before when he has done nothing wrong to them. It was entirely his fault, however, that they tripped and nearly cracked their skulls on the rocks of the beach the cave was located at. Pity that their chaperone matrons were near to save the children in time.
Tom, for all his child-like, innocent blinks of azurites for eyes, and beautiful curls of dark, bistre hair, grew apart from humanity, and from its merciless clutches. He was a child who was born into darkness. A boy who grew up in darkness, until his bear came to hug him and accompany him and guide him to the light, but Harry, beloved Harry, was filched from his life as easy as taking candy from a babe (but he was such a weakling before, to have not protected the only thing precious to him, was he not?).
He embraced darkness as if it was his only haven, his single protection, his lone weapon, and his sole companion. But wasn't it?
It was, and Tom plans to keep it that way. He was hurt once, but he wouldn't be hurt again. He'd make sure of it.
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Tom Marvolo Riddle grew into his power, and had amassed a following of respectful, admiring, and fearful students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He was the best of the best, and all the professors fall into the trap of his eloquent beauty and exceptional intelligence, but for one.
Albus Dumbledore had been suspicious of Tom for as long as the sixteen-year-old can remember, but the old man has no proof to attest to his suspicions. It was always Dumbledore against Tom, and never Tom against Dumbledore. The Slytherin Heir knew never to taunt the auburn-haired man, for while Tom was witty and cunning, Dumbledore was wiser still, with age and experience. Tom was arrogant, but he was no fool. He has knowledge and power to acquire yet, before he can confidently challenge the man into play.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was not a man to "mess with", as the muggle saying goes. His numerous awards and titles are not for nothing, and there is grudging acceptance to be swallowed in Tom's part. It was always with bitterness that he acknowledged the man's power. Tom knew, however, that nearer comes the day that he can defeat the man and become Britain's most powerful. Dumbledore was too free-loving, too light-oriented to accomplish something only brutality and viciousness could, and Tom would prove himself to be the better man one day.
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The diary had been made with ease, if one were to forget the incident with the half-giant, and Tom looks with tired, but proud eyes at his first creation. His death was farther and his visions, closer.
He was only sixteen. The murder was easy, and it was thrilling.
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The hat calls out, "SLYTHERIN!" and Tom's heart—and he was reminded that he has a heart, a heart that—beats rapidly, his slender hands clench into white fists, and his eyes widen infinitesimally, before they shut briefly and he inhales deeply, silently.
When he opens them again, azurite meets emerald, and Tom feels.
ᵜ ℰnd of ℘rologue ᵜ