Gifts
The week went by too quickly in Tom’s opinion.
Maybe it was because he’d finally found someone like him, maybe it was because he’d discovered that he rather enjoyed playing rugby, but he was somewhat sad to watch the guests leave.
Tom stood in front of his father and said goodbye to the other children while the fathers exchanged parting words. Some of the boys seemed in more of a hurry to get out of his presence than others, and Tom tried his best not to smirk when they did.
The last family to leave was the Grangers.
Hermione bounded down the stairs and landed right in front of Tom. She smiled at him with those big front teeth of hers and Tom returned the grin, sticking his hand out for a shake. Her fingers wrapped around his hand as she accepted the proffered hand, giving it a firm shake.
“See you around, Tom,” she said. “Perhaps you can come visit us sometime.”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea!” Mr. Granger exclaimed. “Hermione is an only child too; her mother and I often think she needs more playmates.”
“We’ll see, William,” Tom Sr. stated as he shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
“Bye, Hermione,” Tom echoed as the Grangers made their way out of the house. Once the door was closed, he launched himself into the sitting room and stuck his face right against the window, watching as they drove out of sight. She didn’t look back, he noted, and that made Tom frown slightly.
“Get your hands off the window, boy,” Thomas grunted as he hit Tom over the head with a rolled newspaper. “They cleaned those this morning.”
Tom bit back a sigh and plopped back down on the sofa. The boredom set in rather quickly once everyone had left. So Tom did what he always did when he was able to be alone: he read. Without saying another word, he got up and went to the library, browsing the shelves until a rather heavy volume caught his eye. It was wedged tightly into the shelves, and Tom nearly fell backward trying to wedge it out, but when he did, his eyes gleamed at the title.
“David Copperfield by Charles Dickens,” Tom read aloud to himself. He’d heard Hermione talk about Dickens with his grandmother, and she’d admitted he was her favorite author. “Alright, Mr. Dickens. Let’s find out why Hermione loves you so.”
Book in hand, Tom climbed into one of the study’s overstuffed leather chairs and turned to the first page.
By the time he was called for dinner, Tom was around a hundred pages into the novel and, for the life of him, he could not understand why Hermione loved Charles Dickens so. In Tom’s opinion, he was wordy and long-winded, not to mention sentimental. Still, he had the book tucked under his arm when he entered the dining room.
“No reading at the dinner table,” Thomas chided.
“Fine,” Tom got up from his seat. “I’ll be taking my supper in the study.”
“No you will not,” his grandfather slammed his fist down on the table. Mary jumped slightly and Tom Sr. set down his silverware to look at his father. “We took you in, knowing what you are, so you will be a part of this family.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed. With a loud crack, Thomas’ glass shattered in his hand.
In the commotion that followed, Tom dashed out of the room and sprinted up the stairs. He ran because he knew it was better to try and hide, to wait out the punishment instead of lining up like an idiot to take it. His father followed him, his longer strides making it easy for him to catch up to Tom, who was flying around corners to barricade himself in his room.
“Tom,” Tom Sr. sighed as he knocked on his door. “Open the door.”
“No,” Tom huffed. Tom Sr. reached for the doorknob and found it was burning hot to the touch. He decided to take another route.
“Fine then, have it your way,” he hummed. “Though I was going to give you a present.”
Tom Sr. heard the shuffle of feet on the other side, and the door opened just a crack. Tom peeked out at him, brows raised incredulously.
“But I just hurt grandfather,” he pointed out.
“You did, but I think this gift might help you work on controlling your temper,” Tom Sr. explained as he entered Tom’s bedroom.
Tom sat on his bed and watched as his father fished a small package from his back pocket. It was wrapped in plain paper and had no markings on it. He accepted the small gift and tore the paper from it, only to frown slightly.
“It’s a diary, or a journal, if you prefer,” Tom Sr. explained. “I imagine you get lonely and need a place to put down your thoughts, so... there you have it. I was going to wait until you started school, but I figured there was no harm in giving it to you a little early.”
As his father prattled on, Tom turned the plain black book over to see that it was embossed; ‘T.M. Riddle’ shone in gold letters, and Tom ran his hand over them curiously.
“Thank you, father, for the wonderful gift,” he said finally, his tone even and eerie.
Tom Sr. nodded and excused himself while Tom ran to his desk to sit down and write.
1 August, 1937
I feel rather ridiculous addressing something that will only ever be read by me, so I won’t do it here.
I don’t belong here. With the Riddles, that is. I know they’re my family, and anything is better than Wool’s, but still. If I belonged anywhere, it would be with my newest... acquaintance, Hermione. She’s the only one who understands what it’s like to be special. To be different.
She says her mother and father are okay with what she is. I wonder what that feels like.
At some point, I plan on asking father about mother. I think I’ve heard whispers about her, but no one has ever told me anything about her directly. I think she did something to father; something not good. Maybe that’s why father expects me to learn to control my talents. Is it possible she hurt him in some way?
Either way, I’m going to ask him about her one day, even if it takes a while to work up the courage. I deserve an answer; she was my mother, after all.
It will be interesting to see if grandfather is well or if he becomes more cruel after what I did to his glass. He’s been the most difficult out of anyone since I’ve arrived, and I have a strange feeling he does not like me very much. Or at the very least, he’s wary of me. If he’s wary of me, I won’t mind; better to be feared and left alone than coddled and smothered to no end. How Hermione manages having two doting parents is beyond me; perhaps I’ll write to her and ask.
She’d asked me to write to her, before she left. And I suppose that is what I’ll do.
- Tom