Chapter 1 - The Boy Who Never Smiled

Written by Nemesis

It was an in-between day. The air was chill, and the numerous clouds looked like lumpy porridge in the ice-grey sky. It should have been snowing, but the humidity was low. Tom could almost taste the dryness when he breathed sharply through his mouth, and it was an unpleasant feeling. He pulled his thin jacket tighter around him, shivering from head to toe. His breath hung mistily before him, mingling with the London fog. It was an hour after school on a Friday, and the orphans were all supposed to play outside to get rid of their excess energy.

Tom gazed at the frolicking children with a mixture of jealousy and loathing. Not one of the rosy, happy faces belonged to anyone who had ever been kind to him. Even the girls, looking so innocuous in their frilly dresses and pigtails, even they were worthy of abhorrence. Every one of them had, at one time or another, taken the time to kick Tom in the shins. The boys, however, made the girls look like baby rabbits. Tom knew they despised him, and he detested them right back.

At a glance, Tom Marvolo Riddle did not seem the kind of person who would provoke generic hatred. He was quite tall and spindly, and he had a rather lost, lonely look about him. He looked like he never got enough to eat, which was true. His orphanage uniform was far too short in the arm and leg, but it was also baggy, and it seemed to hang limply from his shoulders. Tom had jet-black hair that clearly needed a good trim, but it was his eyes that drew the attention. They were bright turquoise, almost unnatural in hue, and when framed by his dark eyelashes, they were no less than striking.

Most oddballs at Tom's orphanage were left to their own devices, but Tom was different from the average outcast. Tom knew that he was different, and though his peers were not quite clear on how special he was, the fact that he was odder than odd was enough to drive them. When they grew bored with football, the children would either verbally insult him or physically attack. It was not all harmless, either. Tom had once broken four bones when a boy named Gregory Hamill had shoved him down the stairs for a thrill.

On this freezing March afternoon, Tom was sitting near the bottom of the steps, shuffling his feet and rubbing his hands together in order to keep warm. He had foolishly left his book inside, so he engaged himself in people-watching. Nearly all the faces made him want to strangle the faces' owners, though they all seemed relatively benign at the moment. Rather curiously, he noticed a new face. It was a girl with long golden hair and a huge blue silk ribbon on top of her head. She was not wearing a uniform, but a long fur cape and a velvet dress. Tom felt a pang of rage. He had always hated people who flaunted their wealth.

The girl was standing near the gate, scanning the multitudes of children. She was suddenly joined by two adults, a man and a woman, both with extremely high-class clothes. The threesome exchanged words, then started toward the orphanage entrance. Tom was suddenly aware that the rich girl was not an orphan, she was here with her family on some sort of business. Any respect he had had for the girl prior to this dissolved at that instant.

As the people reached the steps, Tom noticed that the woman had a large diamond on her finger and his anger heightened. "Pardon me, my lad," the father greeted in a pleasant enough voice, "but would you happen to know where Mr. Carney is?"

Tom knew perfectly well where Mr. Rupert Carney, the orphanage headmaster, was located. He was at the pub, probably on his fifth gin by now. However, Tom knew he would be dead if he told this to the strange family. "He went to town some two hours ago," Tom informed them. If he had known how to make his soft, frank voice at all saccharine, he would have done so. "Is there anything you need?"

"We are here to adopt a Muggle," the girl blurted. Her mother quickly shushed her, but the damage had been done. The parents tried to smooth it over.

"I understand completely," Tom replied. "It shouldn't be too hard for you to find a Muggle here, they're all over the place. In fact, I'm the only child in this orphanage who knows what a Muggle is."

The father did a small double take, staring at Tom's face with a most peculiar expression. "Are you Maria Salamair's son?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes," Tom sighed. For an instant, he looked more lost than ever, but he recovered himself quickly. "My name is Tom Riddle. Who are you?"

The man, bowing slightly, introduced himself. "I am Petricus Chubb. This is my wife, Bertha… my daughter, Lucy."

Tom had slightly warmed to the strangers once he realized they were his kind. "Where are my manners? Would you like to come in? You could have a cup of tea while you wait for Mr. Carney." Tom spat out the word "Carney" as though it was a hideous blasphemy.

"We'd love it," Mrs. Chubb smiled. Tom did not smile back, for he was still rather resentful that the Chubbs were so wealthy. He did, however, lead the Chubb family through the orphanage double doors, down the corridor, and into the sitting room beside Rupert Carney's office.

"Hannah might still be in the kitchen," Tom told the guests. "I'll just go ask her to get some tea going, shall I?" The Chubb family, who were seating themselves, nodded.

Hannah Hiddy, the housekeeper, was the only person at the orphanage, child or adult, who was ever kind to Tom. This was not surprising, for she, like Tom and the Chubbs, knew precisely what a Muggle was. Hannah was a wispy young woman with a very pretty face and a cloud of light brown hair. She had started working at the Whitechapel Home for Orphans when Tom was four, and was like an aunt to him. Since she had learned Tom's secret, she had entertained a soft spot for the boy. Tom found her scouring pots.

"Hannah?" he asked tentatively. "There are some people in the sitting room who would like a cup of tea." Hannah looked up. Her face was unusually flushed, and she looked rather ill.

"Whom?" she inquired. Tom definitely noticed that she was breathless. "I really haven't the time, Tom, because with Muggles I can't use any… shortcuts…"

"They aren't Muggles, Hannah, they're like us," Tom responded impatiently. "Use all the magic you want, and I'll get those pots for you."

Hannah took this offer agreeably enough. She removed a wooden wand from the pocket of her apron and prodded the burner of the stove with it. Instantly, it warmed up. Hannah tapped her wand on the cupboard door, and a kettle whooshed out, landed in the sink, and filled itself before zooming across the room to the stove. Meanwhile, Tom scrubbed the pots and pans in the other basin of the sink, already beginning to regret his deal.

"Thank you ever so much for taking care of those, Tom," Hannah beamed as teabags flew across the room behind her back. "Usually I can handle Muggle cleaning, but lately, I've been feeling too dizzy to do some of it."

"Have you seen a doctor?" Tom asked, concerned.

Hannah waved a hand, dismissing the idea. "It's not that bad. Besides, I'm not going to entrust my health to some Muggle quack who doesn't know a magic wand from a chopstick." Tom, however, was not fooled. He had always been able to tell when people were lying to him, and Hannah was lying her head off. It was that bad, and Tom felt strongly inclined to turn Hannah's wand on her and force her to go and see a doctor. However, he finished the dishes in silence.

With the tea finished and the pots cleaned, Hannah and Tom returned to the sitting room, Hannah carrying the tea tray. Tom noticed rather uneasily that Hannah's breathing was very ragged. Mr. Chubb rose to greet them when they entered the chamber. "Why, is this little Hannah Hiddy?" he grinned. "You were in my House, remember?"

"Ravenclaw," Hannah responded, nodding. "Weren't you already a fifth-year by the time I got into Hogwarts, Petricus?"

"Sixth year, I think," Mr. Chubb replied. "I'm sure you've met Bertha. She was a fourth-year Hufflepuff, remember?"

"Yes." Hannah looked more ill than ever.

"We need to catch up, Hannah, we really do. Why don't you sit and have a cup of tea? You're welcome too, of course," he added to Tom, who had remained silent all this time. Hannah gazed longingly at a nearby armchair, but meekly stated that she had more work to do. However, Mr. Chubb insisted, and Hannah, sighing with relief, collapsed into the chair and poured herself a cup of tea.

As Mr. Chubb engaged Hannah in conversation, Lucy Chubb turned to Tom, who took up very little space indeed in his high-backed armchair. "So," she started, "are you going to Hogwarts?"

"Don't be silly, Lucy dear," Mrs. Chubb chortled good-naturedly. "With a witch like Maria Salamair for a mother, the boy is guaranteed to be a wizard!" Her daughter slumped in her chair sulkily. Mrs. Chubb hijacked the conversation. "Are you here visiting Hannah, Tom?" she asked. Tom slowly shook his head, mouthing inaudibly. "Didn't catch that, sorry."

"I live here," Tom murmured, suddenly blinking rapidly. "Mother died two hours after I was born. She only lived long enough to name me."

Mrs. Chubb looked sympathetic. "Always thought she was too small to have children," she tutted. "What about your father?"

"Oh, that," Tom sneered, his demeanor changing completely. "He isn't in the picture. No, no, they were married," he threw in hastily, seeing the look of shock on the faces of the two Chubb females. "But he abandoned her before I was born because he found out Mother was a witch." Tom's teacup suddenly exploded, and tea splattered all over the room. Tom sat rigid in his chair, his right hand clenched around the armrest, breathing hard. Hannah cleared away the mess with a wave of her wand.

"Calm down, Tom," she commanded sharply. He relaxed his grip on the armrest, but was clearly not calm at all. He slouched in the corner of the chair, fuming. Lucy giggled, but was silenced by one look from Tom's eyes, which briefly seemed brighter than ever. Hannah handed him another teacup with a reprimanding look.

"Sorry," he mumbled after a while, if only to break the silence. "I got a bit carried away. You were saying, Mrs. Chubb?"

"Oh… er… well, my Lucy is starting at Hogwarts this year. She turns eleven in May, so she qualifies," Mrs. Chubb spluttered, clearly still rather shaken. "Are you going in the autumn, Tom?"

"Yes," he answered, "I had my birthday in December." Tom thought rather resentfully of that birthday. His only presents had been a card from his Muggle (non-magic) schoolteacher and a small, leather-bound diary he had bought for himself on Vauxhall Road and in which he had still not written.

"Really?" Lucy put in eagerly, before her mother could stop her. "Which House are you going for?" Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the most prestigious school of magic in the world, was divided into four Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Gryffindors were brave and daring, Hufflepuffs were sweet and pleasant, Ravenclaws were bookish and clever, and Slytherins were shrewd and ambitious.

One of Tom's deeper secrets, something not even Hannah knew about, was that Tom's mother had been a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, one of the four people who founded Hogwarts. The reason this was a secret was that almost every wizard who turned to the Dark Arts had passed through Slytherin house. Slytherins had a terrible reputation. Only the Salamair family, ironically, consisted entirely of good Slytherins. All the other pureblood, all-Slytherin families had churned out one Dark witch or wizard after another.

"I'm not sure," Tom replied slowly. "I don't think that you can try for a House, they just put you in it depending on your character and strengths. What about you, Lucy?"

Lucy blushed furiously. "Probably Gryffindor," she countered. "It sounds like the best of the lot." Tom's hands automatically balled up into fists. "Ravenclaw would be fine, though, and Hufflepuff would be great, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin! I would leave, or make them change it, wouldn't you? I mean, Slytherins are always really evil--"

"LUCY!" Mrs. Chubb pulled her daughter aside and whispered something into her ear. Lucy's eyes widened, and she glanced up at Tom, whose eyes were gleaming again. "I apologize on behalf of my daughter," she told him, "she was not aware of your family history. Your mother was a good woman. I knew her. Never spoke a word against anyone in her life." She glared at Lucy, who went sulky again.

Tom relaxed and looked around him. Mrs. and Lucy Chubb were having an argument. He quickly grew bored, watching them, so he turned to Hannah. However, she was still speaking to Mr. Chubb about their school days, and their talk was heavy with nostalgia. Tom rolled his eyes. He glanced at the window, and nearly choked on his tea. Strolling up the walk was none other than Rupert Carney. Mr. Carney was weaving slightly, and his clothes were wrinkled. Tom panicked and made for the exit.

"What's the matter, Tom?" Hannah started to say, but she heard Mr. Carney enter and her question was answered. "It's too late, Tom, you'll meet him right outside the door. Here--" she got to her feet, wincing, and threw open a closet "--you can hide in this. I'll get him out of here as soon as possible and give you the all clear." Tom stumbled into the closet, treading on several boxes. Mr. Carney paused outside the door, apparently because of the noises he heard.

"Who's in there?" he hollered. Hannah shut the closet door almost all the way, but left it slightly ajar so that Tom could see out of it. The Chubbs were looking completely bewildered.

"Why are you hiding--"

"Sh!" Hannah commanded. Her eyes darted over to the closet. She looked as terrified as Tom felt. Hannah let Mr. Carney in. "Oh, Mr. Carney, you're back! I've just finished giving the Chubb family their tea… they're here to adopt--"

"I'll handle this," Mr. Carney sneered coldly. "Get back to work." Hannah shot Tom a helpless, fleeting look before she headed back to the kitchens. Tom started to wonder how he had come to be in this situation. Mr. Carney spotted Mr. Chubb's regalia and changed his tone to an oily one. Tom noticed distastefully that Mr. Carney had obviously not washed his colorless hair in a week or two; the grease seemed to be dripping off it.

"You must be the Chubb family?" he greeted, his voice easily as slimy as his hair.

"Yes," Mr. Chubb responded eagerly, standing and shaking Mr. Carney's hand. "I am Petricus Chubb, and this is my family: my wife Bertha and my daughter Lucy. We are interested in adopting a child."

"That can be arranged. What age and gender of child are you looking for?" Mr. Carney looked like a sallow, hook-nosed salesman preparing for a large purchase.

"A boy, probably somewhere around six," Mrs. Chubb replied. "We prefer that he is a gifted child who has just learned to read." Tom stifled a snort. He did not think that a child who learned to read at age six was all that gifted.

"I shall assemble all of the six-year-old males for you, and you can decide which you will adopt." He sounded like he was advertising a sale of puppies. Mrs. Chubb shivered suddenly. "Are you cold?" Mr. Carney asked. ("SUCK UP!" Tom coughed softly into his hands.) "Here, there are some sweaters in the closet." Mr. Carney reached for the doorknob. Tom's stomach seemed to turn over.

"I don't need one," Mrs. Chubb insisted firmly, glancing at the half of Tom's face that she could see.

"If you'll give me a few minutes, I'll be back with the children, and you can speak to each of them separately." Tom sighed with relief as Rupert Carney headed for the door, but just then, a terrible thing happened. The box Tom was standing on collapsed from his weight, and Tom toppled out of the closet with a clatter. Several other boxes came out with him, some of which crunched as glass items inside shattered. Doom seemed to hit him in the face, or perhaps it was the hardwood floor.
Someone seized the back of his collar and pulled him up. Tom found himself staring into Mr. Carney's livid face. His breath smelled strongly of gin. "What were you doing in there, boy?" he snarled, resuming his usual cold voice.

Tom thought fast, knowing that it would go over horribly if he told Mr. Carney the truth. "Playing hide-and-seek," he lied silkily. Tom had two talents involving mendacity: detecting it and performing it.

"How long have you been in there?"

"About an hour. I suppose nobody thought to come and look for me inside. Boy, when I get back out there, they are going to be so mad that I fooled them!" Tom forced his voice into a syrupy, childish treble.

"Orphans are not allowed in here," Mr. Carney whispered, so that the Chubbs would not hear. "You know that perfectly well. Go to your dormitory, and I'll deal with you later." Mr. Carney twisted Tom's right wrist sharply as he pretended to help Tom up, then shooed him away.

Tom made off as fast as he could for the dormitory. He knew Mr. Carney too well to think that he had half a chance of getting off. As he strode up the stairs, he could practically feel the belt on his back already. Tom shuddered convulsively, half with apprehension and half with insuppressible rage.

He found Hannah cleaning in his dormitory. She looked terribly pale, with her hair all over her face. She brightened when she saw her friend. "Did the Chubbs manage to get you out?" she asked. Tom threw himself onto his bunk, moaning. He explained what happened, and Hannah blanched to an even paler tone.

"Funny, that," Tom stated grimly. "I've looked that scummy Muggle in the face for eleven damned years. I should be used to having the stuffing lashed out of me by now. Nonetheless, sometimes I just want to…" Tom trailed off, turning to Hannah. "Can I borrow your wand?" he joked. "I want to try out the Cruciatus Curse on Rupert Carney."

Hannah's eyes flashed. "That isn't funny," she snapped, her mild temper flaring up for that rare occasion. "The Cruciatus Curse is one of the Three Unforgivable Curses, performing it just once could land you in Azkaban."

"Anywhere but here, Hannah," Tom sighed absently. "Anywhere but here." He reached up toward the top of his bunk and ran one long finger along the canvas. "Will you sit with me awhile, Hannah, before…?"

"Of course." Hannah set down her feather duster and sat on Tom's bed. "What do you want to talk about?"

Tom sighed heavily, still tracing the pattern on the canvas with his fingers. "Could you tell me about my mother, Hannah?"

Hannah took a deep breath, struggling to remember the older schoolgirl she had known. Maria Salamair took many words to explain. Slowly, she went into the description. Hannah started with appearance, dwelling on how Maria so resembled her son. She had had long blue-black hair in silky ringlets, with the same high cheekbones and almond-shaped, turquoise eyes. "She sang like a bluebird, and her laugh… God, you should have heard her laugh. It was like silver bells were ringing all around you," Hannah murmured, her hand still on Tom's forehead. "And such a character! She was nearly always happy, carefree… the only time she was ever sad was when her father Marvolo died, and it was awful to see. Almost like watching an angel cry."

After half an hour, Hannah was once again lost in memories, and Tom had turned away from Hannah, blinking uncontrollably. Both of them were jerked out of their respective states by a bang upon the door. Tom felt the fight-or-flight reflex kicking in already. Rupert Carney hurled the door open, spotted Tom, and curled his lip with dislike.

"Riddle," he growled, spitting it out in precisely the manner that Tom spoke the word "Carney." "You are holding up Miss Hiddy. Miss Hiddy, for the last time, GET BACK TO WORK!" Hannah resumed her dusting promptly, pretending not to eavesdrop.

"As for you, Riddle," Mr. Carney continued, "you are in very serious trouble."

"For playing hide-and-seek in a closet?" Tom asked, once more forcing his voice to be sugary. "I did not know there was anything wrong with--"

"For entering an area that is off-limits to all orphans, particularly you. For breaking several very expensive Christmas ornaments. For listening in on a classified conversation. For being inside during the recreation time. For these reasons, and for the simple fact that I do not like you, Riddle, you are in trouble."

"I wasn't aware your personal preferences had anything to do with justice," Tom retorted, his voice barely a whisper, all false sweetness forgotten. "My, my, Carney, aren't you getting full of yourself, thinking your opinion means so much? Next minute, you'll be signing a treaty with Adolf Hitler and slaughtering all the turquoise-eyed freaks in Europe."

Mr. Carney purpled. "How dare you--idiot boy--piece of filth!" Mr. Carney seized Tom's arm. "You'll pay for that!"

Hannah gave him a what-did-you-say-that-for kind of look, which was laced with pure pity. Tom did not much mind. He would have been punished anyway, the slur meant only a couple more lashes than he would have had in the first place. Mr. Carney dragged Tom down two flights of stairs into the basement, flung him into a small room, and exited briefly. Tom knew this room well. It was called the Wailing Room by the orphans, and all of them had seen the inside of it at least once in their young lives. Tom had been in the Wailing Room more than any other child, and had every inch of wall memorized. It was a desolate room with bars on the only window. The only furnishing was a ratty old twin bed, and there were numerous, unpleasantly bloody-looking stains on the floor, wall, and even the ceiling. Tom sat down on the bed, staring straight ahead of him.

He heard Mr. Carney re-enter the room and draw the shades, but did not turn to look. He concentrated on a particularly splatty stain, trying not to think of how it got there, just observing its color. "Take off your upper things, you know the drill," Mr. Carney barked. Tom removed his jacket and shirt, still staring at the stain. He shivered; the basement was drafty, and his undershirt was doing very little to keep him warm.

Tom heard Mr. Carney raise the belt, and Tom braced himself, still staring straight ahead. The belt made sudden contact, and Tom bit his lip, his shoulders searing. It was quickly followed by another lash, and another, and another… Tom quickly lost count. He tried to focus all his energy on not crying out, or showing any signs of his agony, for that was what Mr. Carney wanted. Restraint, however, was coming harder with every crack.

"THAT--IS--FOR--THE--EMBARRASSMENT--YOU--CAUSED--ME--IN--FRONT--OF--THE--CHUBBS!" Mr. Carney roared. He finally stopped, panting, and looked around at Tom's face. "No tears?" he cried, sounding quite disappointed. "I'll get you to blubber. You've yet to pay for insulting me, boy!"
The belt impacted again, and Tom let out an involuntary gasp of pain. Not only was Mr. Carney hitting harder than ever, but he was using the end with the buckle. Somehow, Mr. Carney managed to hit exactly the same area every time. After several blows, Tom could not help it. He screamed at the top of his lungs, praying that a neighbor would hear and call the police. Someone at the back of his mind reminded him that Mr. Carney was doing nothing illegal, he was allowed to discipline his charges, but Tom did not care. He shouted as loudly as he could, though this seemed to just encourage Mr. Carney. After what seemed like hours, Mr. Carney relented, and Tom collapsed, whimpering softly into the musty quilt of the old bed.

"Never insult me again," Mr. Carney snarled, rolling up the belt as he rose to leave the Wailing Room. "Never, do you hear me?"

Tom, his face shiny and flushed, glared up at Mr. Carney, a tic going in his right shoulder and his eyes blazing. He hissed something in what was clearly another language, and though Carney did not understand a word of it, he could tell it was an insult. "That's one day you're staying in here, Riddle, and no meals!" he snapped. "Throw in an extra hour for whatever the hell it was you just called me." He stormed out of the room and slammed the door.

Tom heard muffled voices out in the main basement area, accompanied by high-pitched laughter. Three seconds later, Gregory Hamill, Tom's archenemy, poked his head in. "Heard you got the brains knocked out of you, Riddle," he giggled, his attractive face splitting into a wide grin. "A whole day, eh? Don't worry, we're already planning a welcome back party for when you get out of there. Besides, you aren't going to get out of Sunday School, and this week's lesson is going to be fascinating."

"Aren't you supposed to be off drinking the blood of mortals, Hamill?" Tom snapped. Gregory only smirked more widely, and he slammed the door. Once he was sure he was alone, Tom reached up and felt his back. His undershirt seemed damp, and was stuck to his skin. Tom winced at the slight pressure of his fingers, so he quickly drew his hand away. His fingertips were smeared with blood. Tom flinched and buried his face in the pillow.

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