On December 31, 1926, a boy came into the world screaming. If he had his way, he doesn't think that he ever would have stopped.
His first memories are realizations of worth and self, things that were either beaten into him or are a result of nights spent staring into the dark spaces of Wool's Orphanage.
There were a lot of dark spaces, but as he grew older, Tom stopped staring. Instead, he stepped into them. He utilized them, resting as he attempted to settle the sometimes overwhelming weight on his midsection. There was no rhyme or reason to the sensation, he knew. From the moment his mother abandoned him there, the ache persisted, not quelled by any amount of ginger or tepid soup.
It wasn't until he was old enough to read that he was able to give this pain a name, one that scolded him but he found suited nonetheless.
Loneliness. He wanted to rage at the simple nature of the ailment. How could he, he who wielded the power of a god, be brought to heel by such a thing that hounds every tenant in the desolate building he lived in?
It wasn't until Albus Dumbledore came and told him that he wasn't a god that the world shifted. He began to come to some new realizations.
He may not be a god, but there was no hiding the surprise in Dumbledore's expression when he told him of his willful and quite liberal uses of his gifts. It was uncommon, and of course it was. Tom was special.
Someone special could do great things, given the chance, and Tom knew he would.
That chance also depended on this new world greeting him with more kindness than Dumbledore had, so he opted to fall into a familiar routine.
The matron had instructed them all early on in the art of putting their best foot forward. It was necessary, she would explain, that no one sees the ugly truth of the matter. No one wants a damaged child, and what is an orphan is not broken? Every tenant at Wool's had a front that they would put on, a sort of mask to pull out whenever potential parents came around to survey the children like a butcher picking out the best meat.
It serves him well, though he regrets not having the forethought to use that mask with Dumbledore. The red-headed man could never get past Tom's first impression and would stay with him for years to come.
Headmaster Dippet took an interest in the young orphan boy from the start. Tom was given a stipend along with his scholarship, previous donations pouring in from multiple sources amid the war. His robes were his own, and already he found the thought of donning muggle clothes come summer again as an insult. This is where he belonged, among individuals who looked at him the way Dippet did.
When he sailed toward the castle with the other first years, taking in the beauty of Hogwarts against a dusk sky, he found that this place was rather special too.
When he walked the halls, the paintings moved and the staircases shifted. Tom could feel the magic singing to him, twining around his shoulders like a well-worn cloak, comfort enveloping him as he stared impassively at his fellow students.
Be positive, Tom thinks as a student knocks his shoulder. He smiles genially, accepting the apologies as they spill forth.
Be confident, Tom thinks as he answers another question in class, winning Slytherin more points.
Be attentive, Tom thinks as he painstakingly redoes his tie and straightens his robes.
Be charming, Tom thinks as he speaks calmly, maintaining eye contact as the bumbling third-year attempts to pick his brain.
Be kind, Tom reminds himself as he guides his classmate through the incantation.
No matter how ill-fitting the mask sat, Tom could not deny the benefits any more than he could resist reaping them.
As he sat, surrounded by his Knights and fellow Slytherins, Tom kept his chin tilted just so. Most of his angles were satisfactory, but he found that he looked his most imposing with his chin tilted down. There was no need to jut out his chin proudly like Malfoy or Avery.
Tom Riddle was going to do great things, and everyone in Slytherin House knew it.
And yet, the ache persisted.
And so all his life, Tom Riddle has been in pain. It wasn't until November 1st, 1942 that he staggers, the sensation wretched from his bones as he stares into emerald eyes.
There you are. He thinks. I was looking everywhere for you.