CHAPTER I.
HIS CHILDHOOD

THE SCENT OF DAMPNESS was prominent here, it's odour descending on the young bodies that inhabited the dilapidated walls of the orphanage. Many of them, children that is, were often left with fevers ranging from high to low.

It was because of this that a young Tom Riddle found himself bed bound, sweat dripping from his brow, his thin cotton shirt sticking to his bony form and mouth parted to emanate silent groans.

Pain, that is all his mind could register. His body ached, his legs so sore and his neck creasing into such an awkward angle he couldn't, not even for life of him, fathom a way to move it.

An unknown flu had taken control of Wools Orphanage and it didn't seem to be letting up any time soon. Half of the Orphanage's children had fallen victim to it, and the Matron of the hellish establishment was more than over it. In fact, saying she was over it could be deemed an understatement.

"Now Thomas, I understand you're ill but it is no excuse for you to be lazing about!"

The boy in question wanted so badly to wring the horrid woman's neck. That isn't even my name, he bitterly thought to himself.

Mrs Cole the Matron was everything Tom hated. Sweet as could be to the well-behaved children, and vile to the children that displayed anything but normal behaviour. Her hair was grey, much like her personality and she lacked a brain; to Tom, that is.

He felt the cool weight of a hand pressing against his moist forehead, irritation immediately following within him at the touch.

"Definitely a temperature," Mrs Cole muttered. She seemed miffed, but Tom couldn't understand why. What exactly did you she expect? Tom wasn't soaked through his clothes for no reason.

Silly woman.

Tongue darting out of his mouth, Tom wet his lips. "Please, Mrs Cole," his eyebrows quirked into a frown. "I don't feel well."

The Matron stared at him. Her eyes, which normally softened at the other children whenever they were sick, were aloof and unwaveringly cold.

She was nice to the other children, never Tom.

Tom wasn't like the other children.

Mrs Cole retracted her hand away from Tom's forehand, wiping the residue sweat on to her apron before running a critical eye over Tom's sickly form.

"I want you up and well by tomorrow morning. Any later and you'll find yourself with severe consequences. Do I make myself clear, Thomas?" Her tone was biting and Tom swore he felt each word as if there were a punch fo his gut.

He just wanted to rest.

"Yes, Mrs Cole."

"Good." She quickly swept from the room as if she was the Queen herself, shutting his door behind herself and once again, Tom was alone.

He didn't mind being alone, he actually rather liked it. The choice of liking it wasn't something he had been gifted with. While other children wanted, needed even, constant attention and approval, he only needed his own personal brand of encouragement.

No parents, no friends... He had himself.

I am perfectly ok with that, he thought reassuringly to himself.