#Mrs. Cole and Tom Riddle

[blackbird0blog]

Raging Alcoholic Mrs. Cole raises Tom Riddle

Mrs. Cole likes Tom Riddle. He's the only kid in the orphanage that hates children just as much as she does.

A great read starring Mrs. Cole and Tom Riddle. The best Mrs. Cole in fan fiction - I laughed so much at the ending!!

Preview:

Another thing that Mrs. Cole hates more than crying children is animals. Rabbits are ugly and weird creatures that have no place near an orphanage.

Billy Stubbs’ mother, that Soho resident who’s given up her child out of perfectly reasonable reasons that are harshly judged by society because of her sex, has given her son a bunny to pet and take care of. Mrs. Cole would rather the woman have given him money. Doesn’t she understand how expensive these children are? The priorities of some people!

Tom Riddle isn’t allowed anywhere near the bunny and he looks very angry to be singled out. As if the boy will hurt the damned thing. He’s outgrown hurting animals and has his eyes set on people. Can a snake eat a rabbit? Though, that would be a waste of perfectly cookable meat. Mrs. Cole’s got a plan in store for Stubbs. That boy is beginning to undermine her authority and she refuses to have that.

Very briefly, Mrs. Cole looks at Tom, and then glances to the rabbit. He glances over to the rabbit himself and a thoughtful expression crosses over his face.

If Tom Riddle gets Stubbs knocked down a few pegs finally, she’s going to owe the boy and do so willingly.

xxx

Mrs. Cole thinks that hanging the rabbit off of the rafters is just a tad too much, but she won’t complain about the boy’s effective methods.

Billy is absolutely traumatized. Good. He falls in line finally.

Mrs. Cole waits for Tom to come to her for a favour. He doesn’t. Even better.

‘’Mrs. Cole, what are we having for lunch tomorrow?’’

‘’Rabbit stew.’’

Billy Stubbs’ lip trembles. Tom Riddle is back on the top of the hierarchy. It’s about damn time.

[wookiecookiesfactory]

More merope & mrs.cole and baby tommy 🍼😈

Cole: Long hair is so old fashioned! Short its whats in

Merope: I am cold

Tommy: mmmh hair

[capriddle]

For me Voldemort never believed in the power of love because the people who should have loved him the most (namely his parents) abandoned him or didn't want him. The substitute parent figures he had did the same and I'm obviously talking about Mrs. Cole and in some ways also Dumbledore. We know from the conversation between Tom and Dumbledore that Tom was sure they wanted him to see a doctor and he even talks about a mental hospital, so he certainly didn't feel appreciated and welcomed by the one who was supposed to be his substitute mother. Dumbledore can be considered a substitute father figure because he was the first person of a new beginning for Tom, the watershed between the old life and the new one, and he practically didn't give him an opportunity to prove himself. In short, he was rejected even by his stepparents.

[overlord-of-fantasy]

Don't worry little Tom, you will soon find a snake

Tom: I wish I could control wasps and bees to sting my enemies. Mrs. Cole: You’re too young to have enemies. Tom: You don’t even know.

[iamnmbr3]

-- Dumbledore & Mrs. Cole talking about Tom Riddle

“Can I be mean for a second” I would not care if you killed the bitch in front of me. Now what’s bothering you queen

[wisteria-lodge]

What do you think about the series treatment towards Muggles?

Most of the muggkes we hear of, are nasty towards wizards who did nothing to them.

Most of the wizards, even the ones who are supposed to be accepting, Seem to treat them as foolish at best or animals at worst.

Even Hermione, began drifting further away from her parents as time passes.

Honestly, I think it's a structural problem that one of the villain's main talking points is that muggles are stupid, lesser, and kind of suck... and then all the muggles we meet are stupid, lesser, and kind of suck.

Like the Dursleys suck. Dudley's friends suck. Tobias Snape is abusive. Mrs. Cole is an alcoholic. The Muggle Prime Minister is a foolish, comic character. (So are Mr. and Mrs. Mason, in like, the one scene they appear.) Tom Riddle Senior is apparently a snooty airhead. The citizens of Little Hangleton are both stupid and mean... probably the most sympathetic muggle character in the whole series is Frank Bryce - who is also crotchety, bad tempered, and (to he honest)... boring.

Once we hit the Fantastic Beast films, we get abusive villain Mary Lou Barebone, some ineffective senators... and Jacob Kowalski. The only muggle character treated unambiguously positively. And I'm not sure I can even give JKR 100% of the credit for him, since I think it's pretty likely he's a recycled Dr. Who companion... and he also gets a wand in the third movie. I would bet money that if the series had continued, he would have been revealed to be some kind of magical something.

What's crazy to me is this is a very fixable problem. Just give Hermione's parents first names and slightly more time on the page. Even just giving them a little more of a moment back in Book 2 would have made a difference. Or (this is my favorite) - make Ted Tonks a muggle, not muggle-born. It changes nothing, and boom. Now at least we have A positive muggle character going into Book 7.

You are completely correct that even the pro-muggle wizards like Mr. Weasley have a condescending, paternalistic view of muggles, and Hermione's decision to commit 100% to wizarding world culture is treated as a complete non-issue, a foregone conclusion. And the books are completely fine with all this.

[childotkw]

Everyone knows Tom Riddle is an odd child. Some may even say disturbed. Mrs. Cole warned Albus profoundly of the strange things the boy says and does. She seemed especially scared of the "voice" that young Tom hears. Albus is prepared for a monster, he in not prepared for a little boy to tell him that he's in love with the ghost in his room. He is even less prepared to see that said ghost is an unknown Potter. Well.....this is strange.

Aka Harry goes to the past after being killed in the Battle of Hogwarts, unhappy he's not corporeal anymore, and the muggles can't see him. Also, he's apparently haunting Tom Riddle against his will. Said Tom Riddle is convinced they're soul mates and won't hear anything otherwise.

Ghost!Harry: god I wish I was still corporeal

Young!Tom: I will make you an indestructible body so we can be together properly forever and ever

Ghost!Harry: oh…oh no thank you

But in all seriousness - this is a brilliant idea! You could twist it in a MOD way - that Harry might be the master of death but that only applies to his soul being everlasting. His body is still mortal and could be destroyed. In a way, it even mirrors what happened to Voldemort, turning into a wraith, only Harry remains sane and whole.

He’s yeeted back in time and, just out of curiosity, wanders by Wool’s Orphanage one day. No one can see him - he’s tried - and his ability to interact with the corporeal world is…spotty at best.

But then little Tom Riddle sees him, and Harry. Well. Harry is desperate to just talk to someone by this point. It’s been weeks, months, since he’s had a conversation and he can feel himself slipping into something else the longer he goes without human contact.

If Tom Riddle is his only link to humanity (the fucking irony chokes him sometimes), then so be it.

He sticks to the kid, trying to act as a kind of conscience. Trying to impart some good qualities, some restraint, to the future Dark Lord.

His efforts are - well, they’re not not working, so that’s got to count for something?

On Tom’s part, his obsession with keeping his ‘imaginary friend’ with him forever grows steadily by the day.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

why is it considered canon that tom is from the east end? It’s hardly the only working class neighbourhood in london and unless I’m mistaken the one piece of textual evidence we have for where he grew up is the diary, which was procured in lambeth. Given that londoners pretty much don’t cross the river going south unless they live there, doesn’t it make more sense for him to be from vauxhall or bermondsey or elephant and castle? (I might just be biased by the idea of bb tom riddle running around doing odd jobs for alice diamond and her gangster friends lol)

I think it's mostly due to East End being more notorious and known globally. At least that would be my guess on why that's the assumption. I actually, too, always assumed Wool's was in the East End, but I wanted to check what we actually know of Wool's location.

Also, as we don't really know how Tom got the diary, he didn't necessarily live in the area the diary came from. So I don't consider it hard evidence either way.

What we do have, is JKR's tendency to write accents and whatever descriptions we are given of Wool's.

Honestly, the orphanage is really odd, since regardless of where in London it was, Tom would not have a room just for himself there, but I digress. What we are told about its location doesn't give us much besides, a little barren, rundown, and looking pretty grim in a bustling street (which fits a lot of places in London, so, unhelpful).

So, we'll look at Tom's accent in his first meeting with Dumbledore:

“You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course — well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!”

(HBP) - That's the passage with the most "accent" I could find from him.

This suggests a working class accent to me (not a Brit myself, so I'm working off internet research here). Both for the slang used and the general informality of it, and the words used, but I didn't find something that would really suggest the accent is Cockney specifically (like dropping 'H's or the use of "ain't" or certain vowel shifts).

(Cockney accent is the one historically associated with the East End)

I looked at Mrs. Cole's dialogue as well (to cover my bases), as it's pretty similar to Tom's and they should be from the same area, and while it's definitely working class, I couldn't find strong indicators of Cockney either:

“I remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his papa,’ and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty — and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father — yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We wondered whether she came from a circus — and she said the boy’s surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word. “Well, we named him just as she’d said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he’s been here ever since.”

(HBP)

And there is a character that JKR wrote very obviously with a Cockney accent, and that's Stan Shunpike:

“ ’Choo lookin’ at?” said Stan. [...] “Woss that on your ’ead?” said Stan abruptly. [...] “Yep,” said Stan proudly, “anywhere you like, long’s it’s on land. Can’t do nuffink underwater. ’Ere,” [...] “you did flag us down, dincha? Stuck out your wand ’and, dincha?”

(PoA)

The above experts have basically all the markers of a cockney accent. Shifting vowels, 'H's go missing, words like "'choo" and "dincha", replacing "th" with "ff", etc.

But he doesn't always speak this casually and he does speak more formally when giving Harry the initial introduction to the Knight Bus:

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve —”

(PoA)

So, it's possible Tom and Mrs. Cole are from the East End, but JKR didn't write them with clear Cockney accents like she wrote Stan. I mean, Mrs. Cole got quite drunk in her conversation with Dumbledore, if she had a Cockney accent I would have expected to see letters dropped and vowels shifted like in Stan's first dialogue expert.

So, yeah, Tom grew up in a working class area, but his accent doesn't seem to be Cockney, so you can place Wool's in various areas in London and it's up to your headcanon/iteraputation. Lambeth is actually a very possible location based on the accent and description of Wool's, but there are other possible locations, so, yeah.

[iamnmbr3]

It's actually kinda wild how Dumbledore, despite knowing firsthand from what happened to his sister, the potential harm that can come to magical children exposed to muggles who don't understand them, completely dismisses Tom almost immediately, doesn't really show any concern for his wellbeing, shows no alarm over the implications of Riddle's immediate assumption that he is going to be forcibly taken off to an asylum, and doesn't bother to investigate his treatment at the orphanage beyond taking Mrs. Cole's word for everything. (Not to mention the situation he left Harry in.)

[emblematicae]

VALEDICTORIAN, EGO TE PROVOCO: PART ONE, DUO

Tom Marvolo Riddle x Female Reader

Content Warnings: 1940’s Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, predominantly written in the third-person limited perspective of Tom Riddle, intentional minimal use of Reader’s perspective, canon-divergence, canon-typical violence; possessive, obsessive, and emotionally manipulative behavior, emotional abuse, first-degree murder, voluntary manslaughter, abuse of power and authority, complicity, coercion, petty thievery, reoccurring themes of death and acceptance, childhood friends, unhealthy relationship dynamics, one-sided rivalry, jealousy, limerence, chronic illness, hallucinations, ghosts, mental instability, morally grey reader, Tom Riddle is his own warning.

CONTENTS PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER

For the first time in the history of ever, Tom forcibly removes himself from the sanctuary that is his secluded room to head downstairs and join you in the quaint, tiny dinette for afternoon tea. At this hour, you typically busy yourself with hosting afternoon tea for the enjoyment of the other children. To acquaint them with the mock experience that imitated a daily event for many households in London, hopefully, one they would have the luxury of sharing with their future families. It was nowhere near as ritzy as the standard low tea was, lacking the fastidiously prepared pastries and a wide array of finger sandwiches, but you made do with what you had. Not that Tom was keeping tabs, there was hardly any entertainment around the orphanage as is, and he only knew just enough to avoid spending time around all the other children—and, to stay out of your way.

He quietly made his way down the staircase, stopping momentarily when he got a cursory look into Mrs. Cole’s office. Expectedly, she was inside, lousily writing away with pen and paper while her other hand was used to prop her head up. The housemother must have subconsciously felt the scrutinizing stare with natural intuition as she looked up, but only with her eyes. She’d be disappointed, or perhaps more accurately she was surprised to be met with the same empty view. True observers do not get caught in the act, and Tom was one of them. He’d only wanted to ensure she would be occupied for the following hours to come, and it was made clear she had dedicated her precious time to what appeared to be menial paperwork that wasn’t worth sticking around for and inquiring about.

Tom found it a taxing endeavor to catch you, neither of your schedules aligned in the slightest. Being orphaned did not mean being entirely exempt from education. Tom, along with the other permanent residents—and those older than five—were enrolled in primary school not far from the facility. By strict definition, you were as well, though you never attended in person and private tutors are what satisfied the requirements for classroom lectures. Despite your absence on the school grounds, you seemed to be getting on just fine seeing how Amy would always politely plead with you to help her with her mathematics homework afterschool, and how Dennis would constantly need you to re-explain for the nth time proper grammar until it finally clicked.

Tom could have easily aided them in your stead, he was more than capable because contrary to popular belief (if only due to his public image within the orphanage) Tom was as brilliant as you disingenuously claimed him to be out in the courtyard. He was simply overshadowed by you, much to his chagrin. To his credit, you are older, if only by a year, and you have the advantageous gift of time—in which you spend it all presumably studying. But if Tom were to guess, truthfully, he believed any advanced academic knowledge you possessed was thanks to whatever life you lived before coming to the orphanage. It would also remain a mystery what exactly such a life entailed seeing as you refused to disclose anything to anyone.

If he were lucky enough, Tom would win the dormant war today, but even he found that quite the tall order. He’d rather not acknowledge the inane conundrum if he could help it, such speculation would insinuate loss, and Tom does not lose. Furthermore, he was one for dramatics, to put it in plain English—and his soon-to-be prized war trophy: the diary. As per his personal preparation for any and all outcomes, he lowered his expectations, and not because he believed himself to be lacking the ability to interrogate, nor persuade with assistance or not from his ability in unraveling minds. Tom would be relying on an entirely inconsistent variable, that being you, though he has exhausted all other options and has been left with no choice. It is mildly concerning how erratic his already turbulent emotions have become, no, in reality, it is quite. Though Tom would prefer not to dwell on the matter to any degree. Sentiments do not suit him, and for the seldom few he retained to be flaring so capriciously at the mere prospect of your being was… unpleasant. It posed your existence as a threat, the concept of you even being a threat in the first place was insulting to him for your brittleness alone made you inferior. And yet his mind plays tricks on him, Tom deceives himself because of you and the unknown that willingly wields itself in your favor, and that just won’t do.

How inconvenient, that is what he makes of it.

Tom quietly made his way to the first floor, seamlessly passing through the foyer without drawing the attention of the other orphans who occupied the area, and he was led right to the opening where the dinette was. He caught a glimpse of you making arrangements inside, accompanied by two children whom he hadn’t the slightest in regards to their names. Before announcing his presence he decided to idle about by the doorless entrance, but unlike his typical demeanor of loitering to intimidate, it was out of genuine curiosity if anything. Forever yearning for knowledge, Tom Riddle was. It was tiresome to observe from afar, you were not as simple as you feigned to be, so naturally gathering any information on or from you could not be accomplished through behavioral stalking (unlike the rest of the orphans who Tom had no issues with observing and understanding from a mere glance). He’d like to think he was the only one who could see through your shoddy ploy, though your charisma reigned supreme and actually authentic, it appeared everyone around was none the wiser to the other traits you enjoyed hiding from them. And as Tom grew disinterested seeing you converse with the two children at your side, restless feet urging him inside, he made an abrupt halt after witnessing an unexpected scene unfold before him.

You’d maneuvered around the long table, now pristine and ready for set-up with the assistance of your clumsy helpers who still cast their dirty washcloths to the side, and moved all the way to the back wall. You stood in front of a wooden cabinet, parallel to the entryway despite being the furthest from it, and gradually pulled the glass doors wide open. You were cautious to not fling them in such a way that would surely hit the two younger children latched onto you, Tom found it a pity but unsurprising. The precious items inside the encased cabinet consisted of various porcelain and glassware, holding about four shelves worth of humble goods, most of which you could not entirely reach. For the fleeting moment you were not indulging them, the children quickly turned to arguing amongst themselves (likely over who would be in charge of what), which eventually turned into them pushing one another aside as they eagerly waited for you to face them. You’d ignored them up until this point, focused on elevating yourself onto the tips of your toes and maintaining a balance as you blindly reached around in the cupboard before getting your hands on whatever it was you had been looking for. Tom could tell as much when he watched you straighten your posture and become practically engulfed by the open cabinet.

“Name! Can I be the one to help you set up the table?”

“No way! You did that last time, it should be my turn!”

With terribly shaking arms, you carefully managed to retrieve a silver serving tray from the shelf about a head above yours, its contents certainly a tea set of some kind. But before you could give your full attention to the incessant orphans, let alone turn around, one of them recklessly grabbed you at your elbow to stop the other child from getting at it first. Tom heard you let out an audible gasp even from where he was. He watched with great anticipation upon seeing your shoulders rise up to your neck, with an unusual fraughtness in your movements as one of the saucers and cups had slipped from the platter with your now lopsided hold on it. It was your left hand that was tasked with stabilizing the tray, and you were somehow capable of steadying it despite how obviously it pained you to do so. Your wrist twisted in a strained manner that must have been particularly awful for you, though it’d bring immense amounts of discomfort to any regular, healthy child as well. With your back turned to the rest of the room, save for the cabinet, Tom was unable to see your face. Perhaps cruelly, he hoped the fine ceramics would come crashing to the floor and make a horrid clamor as they did so, he wanted to see you make a mistake and lose your composure.

The kids had been too distracted with one another to notice the descending dishware, they likely hadn’t even known it was falling to begin with. Unexpectedly, Tom saw you forcefully place your free hand atop one of the children’s heads, gently shoving them backward before the cup and saucer could collide with their crown. But it hadn’t seemed like enough, the porcelain still swiftly made the distance despite your valiant efforts. The reaction of the child whose head you were holding was delayed, but it was clear how much they trusted you as they did not bother to even question your odd behavior, or rather, they had not retaliated by fighting your grip. Instead, they were obedient and allowed you to do so and their only form of protest was calling out your name again. Only you had this effect on people, even if Tom’s opinion was imminently biased given his notoriety with the other orphans. He was not jealous, or so he’d like to believe. And let the object of his envy not be confused with the close bonds you were able to have with the others that he was simply helpless to even create, but rather how they listened without you having to lift so much as a finger. Tom was not fond of having to reinforce himself to the insolent brats around him, it was tedious, it was untimely, and frankly, an all-around hindrance as he saw it. But of course, only you could get this lucky.

And when Tom expected the scream of two pretty, porcelain dishes, a bruise or possibly even a split head of one of Wool’s Orphanage’s residents, and an unpredictable response from you that would only be revealed in due time; nothing came. It did not happen because the cup and saucer disappeared. His eyes frantically darted around the room, desperately searching for the two pieces but nothing was out of place. Tom’s face contorted into a scowl of sorts, his nose scrunched up and his lips pulled into a taut frown, it was clear how displeased he was. And he subconsciously accepted this was your doing, accrediting you without there being any inherent evidence at the scene without even a second thought, which only proved to bother him more. He preoccupied his thoughts with the present to distract from the terror that was his own mind.

“Be careful now,” you warned quietly, in a breathy manner as if to express your subdued exasperation. “It would be a tragedy if any of the teacups had fallen.”

“Yes, sorry!”

You smoothed the hair atop the child’s head, and due to the lack of support in holding the tray, your wrist began to tremble—which did not go unnoticed by Tom. Methodically, you slowly withdrew your arm and pulled your other hand back to grab the platter’s handle, letting enough time pass to not seem suspicious. If you had panicked, then the other orphans would have certainly followed suit, and it would do no good for anyone. But you took deliberate and measured steps to conceal any disturbance at all, Tom believed this was something you were unsettlingly skilled at. You turned around, and he finally got a good look at your face. Tom studied you with care, even with the frame of the wall partially obstructing his view, he was watching with such determination that it had done nothing to hinder him. He was sorely disappointed to see that familiar smile, not a crease to your forehead or flick of sweat to be spotted. If he were to nitpick, it only seemed that you were growing tired of holding the tray—which was mitigated with ease as you had immediately passed it down to the table once you turned around.

The children dispersed, one on either side of you, impatiently awaiting further instructions from you while you took out saucers with cups atop them, one for each of them. Before you handed them out, you spoke to them with a rather serious expression, and while they nodded at what you were saying, Tom doubted they digested any of it because they continued fidgeting around, taking every strength they had to hold back from reaching out and outright grabbing the dishware. One of them did but you jerked back, holding the porcelain just out of reach, only lowering them again when you forced them to repeat what you said. As they set up the table, frequently returning to you so you could hand them another saucer and cup, you laid out the empty cream pitcher and sugar bowl. The table was set up within a matter of minutes, eventually running out of cups to give them, and the only item that remained on the tray was the teapot.

“You two did a good job, thank you,” you said, reaching for the tray.

“Uhm, what’s next?” the child to your right looked up to you. Before you could say, the other one, who was focused on the table, interjected, “There’s one missing.”

They pointed at the head of the table, where there was indeed no saucer or cup to be seen. To be certain, they recounted with their index finger and affirmed their suspicion since there were supposed to be six, but only five were present.

“Where is it?”

“Right here.”

Tom got déjà vu from seeing you whip back around to face the cabinet, standing on your tippy toes again, and aimlessly reaching to the shelf that was just a bit too tall for you. It did not take you long to find what you had been looking for though, as you swiveled your heel and revealed the last saucer and cup. Tom’s eye twitched.

You took the teapot by the handle and left for the kitchenette, telling them to grab one of the other two other pieces and follow. The child who grabbed the sugar bowl did as told, but the other one—who had mentioned the missing cup—grabbed the pitcher and stayed. By now, Tom had already begun to step inside and hadn’t expected the child to dawdle around. He reckoned they must have felt something amiss, even if they couldn’t place a finger on it. He approached the table, and the child finally took notice of him, freezing in place. They made haste to accompany you after he shot them a dirty look, though were clever enough not to make a single peep that would alert his presence.

Tom walked around the edge of the dining table, placing a hand that absentmindedly traced along the wooden surface as he made circling steps. Tom finally stopped when he was in the exact spot you were standing in less than a minute ago. He turned to inspect the cabinet, its doors still open and flattened against the wall. Tom stood only a bit taller on his toes and reached inside on the high shelf, grabbing at nothing. He supposed he wasn’t looking to find anything in particular, but rather, he wanted to see if there was anything at all. He flattened his feet, retracting his hand and rubbing his pointer finger against his thumb upon seeing a thin veil of dust, which he grimaced at. Then, he spun around and zoned in on the teacup and saucer that should have fallen. They sat perfectly and pretty in their respective spot, with no chipping of any kind, and wholly complete. Tom placed a hand on the crest rail of the chair in front of him, moving it aside and leaning over the table. He extended an arm out toward the teacup, his fingers twitching and barely within reach of the handle. Tom knew it was real, that much was conclusive when you had set it down and it did not shatter, but he wanted to be sure of something—

You came back, the teapot in your hand that was surely filled with hot water and loose tea leaves, although there was no telling with how it looked from the outside. You paused for a brief second at the open entrance of the kitchenette before continuing your venture back into the dinette. It was clear you had been surpised to see Tom hovering around by the table, within a convenient window of time when you had left no less. So were the two children, at least the one he didn’t glare at. Tom lazily stood up, withdrawing his arms to the sides of his body as his eyes followed you around the room.

“Good afternoon, Tom. Have you come for tea?” You’re quite fond of saying his name, unfortunately, it doesn’t have the desired effect on him as it has on the other children.

“I think I have.”

You moved behind the chair at the head of the table, where he had just been leaning toward, instructing the children to set down the pitcher and bowl. You chose to hold onto the teapot. Tom locked eyes with you, and even as you turned your head to the side, your eyes lingered on his figure before you looked away from him. This newfound predicament caused the two kids to become reluctant to do or say anything because of the newfound unwelcome presence. They were also apprehensive about sharing your time with the troubled orphan who they had come to know as tyrant Tom, and they glanced back and forth between you and him—as if pleading for you to make some type of excuse as to why he could not be allowed to attend afternoon tea, to tell him off, to do something.

Instead, you grinned. “Why don’t the both of you head into the lounge? I’ll call for you when the tea is done steeping.”

They were satisfied with your delegation, compliantly abiding by your request as they trailed out of the dinette one after the other. You watched them, head tilted in the direction of the entryway until they were not only out of sight but their footsteps could no longer be heard even far down the hall. It was only you and him in the room now.

“Do you like Earl Grey, by chance?” you asked, lips now pressed into a thin line as you set the teapot down.

Tom pulled out the chair in front of him and sat down, still somewhat facing you. “Yes,” he said, completely deadpan.

“That’s a relief.” The smile came back.

You backed away from the head of the table, moving along the elongated table side, standing in front of Tom only a few paces away. And for a while, Tom did not speak, and neither did you. From where he sat he continued to stare at you, Tom liked to do that. He watched as you pulled your arms back and folded them up behind you as you always did when you were relaxed. The pose appears to be universally interpreted as one of formality and professionalism, even authority, but to Tom, it always made you look like you were hiding something. Perhaps that is why you do it in the first place, the shoe certainly fits, he thought. Tom’s gaze finds its way back to your face, and the mischievous gleam in your eyes would have made him spiral into his thoughts if he hadn’t already been consumed by them. Tom wasn’t thinking of anything, and yet at the same time he was, but only about the teacup and saucer—or so he had convinced himself.

You’d done it right in front of those two children, you couldn’t have been any closer or obvious, but neither of them ever noticed. And Tom wonders to himself, how could he have never noticed? It was not a mere one-off as he first suspected, Tom considered you conniving and sneaky for having hidden your abilities from prying eyes, and most of all, he saw it as cowardice. After the revelation with the dishware, Tom dismisses his incorrect hypothesis as a rare occurrence of negligence on his part, but deep down, he knew that was not the correct answer. The truth was clear, he had thought nothing special of you, or anyone else for that matter, there was little purpose in giving any attention of any kind to anyone that was so simple—not only simple, but happy to be it because those were the type who weren’t even worth mentioning. But you are worth every second glance he gives you, every double-take he dares to look, you proved to him you were. Your display involving the diary, whether intended to be done with self-fulfilling pride to make a show of your superior talent or true generosity in which you wanted to relay your knowledge with him, Tom was finally beginning to see it was the more altruistic of the two. Regardless of your intentions, it served as an invitation, one you didn’t seem to fully grasp the sheer weight of until now.

“Tom,” you called out to him, to which he blinked owlishly in response. “You aren’t as sly as you clearly think you are.”

“You think I only do things when no one is looking, but you’re mistaken.” You’re still smiling, but the slow drawl of your voice is flat in tone, apathetic.

“And what do I care?” he sneered, though Tom was not being mean, at least not this time. Not in the same mean way he treated the other children. “But you do.”

You cocked your head to the side and leaned forward, as if to get eye-level with him from where you were standing from across the table, almost mockingly, condescending him as a parent would a child. “You care because I know more than you—because I can do more than you.”

It sure did strike a nerve, but the crimes of your words were worse than just simply angering him, they happened to be the truth as well. Tom had not made time out of his day (which would have been much better off spent on his schoolwork and studies in the little library) to come to pay a visit to this terribly claustrophobic room where he had planned to put aside his dignity and solicit your help. But Tom was prepared to settle things if need be, and he would do it in the only way he knew how; he’d hurt you. The only difference is that Tom would not need any assistance [from his powers], you were known to bruise easily.

The sound of chair legs scraping the floor created a deafening silence over the already soundless room, the rate at which Tom moved was alarming, and before you knew it he was right in front of you. You may have been older than him, but Tom was freakishly tall for his age, and you were plagued with sickness. His movements hadn’t startled you out of your trance, like an effigy you remained still, but you must have felt some way (whatever that may have been) because your soulless-looking eyes that Tom loathed himself for falling victim to were now wide open. As if your beating heart could be seen reflecting in the pupils themselves. He did not run, but perhaps his sharp, steady paces were much worse. Tom closed the gap the moment he figured you were within arms reach, literally, and roughly seized you with his left hand by the collar of your old uniform’s button-up. The unrelenting grip he had on the now popped collar yanked you to the side, but you were quickly readjusted into place when Tom reached for your bicep on the opposite side of your body where he already had a grasp on you, and he committed to breaking your arms away from their hiding place behind your back. Tom heard you wince when he dug his nails into your skin, evidently felt through the cloth of your dress shirt, and he finally laid his eyes upon you. Tom’s leer was only pensive when he looked at your face, as if it were an afterthought. He contemplated if it would be worth it, and every repercussion and ramification, no matter how impactful or insignificant, absorbed him completely. But when you made the quietest of noises, Tom’s focus snapped toward your eyes. And then, he saw something else entirely.

The courtyard and Dennis Bishop. Children in the playroom. A toy train being carelessly tossed. It narrowly missed his head. Swerving in an odd manner, unnatural. Some luck.

Billy Stubbs overcome with panic. The latch won’t unlock. The rabbit stuck in a cage. He runs, crying for Mrs. Cole. But in his absence the barred door moves itself wide open.

Flower seeds and muffled laughter. An empty flower pot. Amy Benson watching over it expectantly. The new dawn, new day. The flower already bloomed from the soil.

Whatever it was that he had seen was nothing he could ever recall. Not from his past, he never experienced those situations, not even in his dreams (or lack thereof). It felt as if he were unwillingly trapped in another body, reliving—or rather, remembering memories that were not his, that did not belong to him. Tom let go of you. In one swift motion, his hands retracted from your figure, fingers still suspended in the place above the areas near your neck and arm. But he didn’t step away, he didn’t move at all. His eyes refused to leave you, he drank in every movement you made. You had certainly been unsettled when he abruptly grabbed you, as any sane person would be. Tom was quite jarring at times. But unlike Tom, you were looking at his hands. When you decided he was not going to do anything with them, you let out a quivering breath, one that sounded like you had been holding it until you became lightheaded. But his attempted assault against you was not what stirred the hopeful glimmer that shone in your eyes when you finally acknowledged him. You also hadn’t planned on divulging such information [as to why] anytime soon, at least nothing of use.

Your only answer: “The tea’s ready.”

Since that day, Tom has been unable to share a single thought with you. But he does not need to, you willingly speak to him about them now. The mental connection is undeniable, it transcends the absolute minimal understanding that humans seem capable of at best, it is more than that; he’d almost call it metaphysical. If you reciprocated he would be able to access that mind of yours, Tom had even offered an equal exchange for his own thoughts, the potential was there but you never did permit it to happen again. What you say to him now isn’t what you are truly thinking, or so he assumes, but he will make do with what he has. The one thing he can be assured of is that you are not lying about your tea preferences.

“Tom, what have you done?” you sigh. It has become a familiar habit to him now. “You’ve let this one seep for far too long,”

“It’s only tea. What does it matter?” Tom replies, rather apparent about the fact his attention is elsewhere.

“Perhaps you'd enjoy a nice, bitter cup to compliment your book then?”

“Maybe I would.”

Disapprovingly, you lightly shake your head at his purposely doltish responses because heaven knows good and well you will only manage to inflict a self-induced headache otherwise. Reaching with dejected hands for the saucer and teacup, you stir the dark liquid with a silver spoon, but it is clear you have no intention of drinking it. The repetitive gesture just barely unhidden by his book captures his attention, and Tom stops reading—not even ending the full sentence he was on—to look at you. He can’t help but stare at you stir in this harmonious clockwise manner, again and again, until you raise an eyebrow at him.

“How come you’ve stopped?” You were referring to him reading. He had been reading to you as well, aloud, not just himself. At least that was before you were temporarily called away by Mrs. Cole, having returned only seconds ago. For what? He hasn’t a clue.

“You’re distracting me.”

That smile of yours strains in this enervated way as you lean your head to the side, warily asking, “Are you tired?”

You set the silverware down on the saucer before tentatively placing them both on the table, stilling all motion. Tom sets the thick novel flat on the wooden surface as well but keeps it open. There isn’t anyone else in the lesser dining room, it’s nearing curfew, and he reckons Mrs. Cole is sure to come in any minute now (though Tom wondered why she hadn’t done so when you were in her office) and usher you two upstairs.

“Are you sure you’re not imposing your feelings upon me?” he easily deflected.

“Quite.”

Truthfully, Tom was a bit tired. He was unsure what had given it away, dark circles did not hang from beneath his eyes, nor was he slumped over in any way that would indicate his exhaustion. You were able to read him so easily, and he did not want to give you the satisfaction of knowing so out of sheer pettiness. But even so, Tom slipped the discarded bookmark atop the open pages of the book before shutting the hardcover. Sliding it off to the side, he propped his elbows up on the table, intertwining his fingers as he looked to you for further amusement. You hadn’t sat down since you went out of the dinette, though you moved your chair aside to do so, and refrained from drinking when your eyes landed on the tea that you deemed unusual in color. He watched, curious like a cat, while you gathered the ceramic tea set, snatching up the empty cup and saucer that was meant for Tom as well. You briefly made eye contact with him before heading into the side room, and from his seat in the dinette, he heard the low ‘clink’ of dishes being placed in the sink. The lightbulb went out and you came back shortly after, wiping the nonexistent dust from your skirt. He got up but didn’t miss the remark about how you would teach him how to brew a proper cup in due time.

“Goodnight, Tom.” You had walked him to room 27.

You also did not leave until he went inside.

“Goodnight.”

If Tom cared more about the chivalrous way of life upheld by the gentry, he would have insisted on walking you and waiting until you went to bed before retiring to his own chambers. But Tom was not a member of the aristocracy and saw life a bit too black and white than that of a normal child. So he shut his door, careful not to close it all the way, and peeked through the sliver of the opening to ensure you had made it your room as well—and without collapsing in the hall along the way. Perhaps one would believe he was exaggerating, but it didn’t feel like it, not to Tom. He takes your condition rather seriously, ever since you two have been chatting more that is.

Tom dressed himself in his nightclothes and went to lay in his bed, but remained upright. His mind was busy, no room to even entertain the thought of rest. You happened to know much more than Tom did, and he was under the impression this only extended to whatever unique talents you happened to share, but as he had more conversations with you over afternoon tea, sometimes even ‘late night’ tea, he began to realize your intelligence covered all fields of interest. And Tom could not tell if he hated or respected you for it, but he was inclined to believe it was the latter. Tom was wise beyond his years even if he preferred to remain under the guise of an innocent child who knew no better at times, when it mattered. But you were smarter, your independent nature (worthy of rivaling his own) established this to be the reality. Such was the reason why all the orphans relied so heavily on your guidance, depending on you for everything, especially in the absence of Mrs. Cole. And perhaps that is why she wordlessly appointed you as the leading girl of the orphanage.

But it was like you had already lived a whole life, you were still quite obviously a child much like himself, but even gifted children cannot compare. Otherwise, he would have caught up to you. Tom could only concur you were this way from what you had experienced prior to coming here, your words ringing in his mind: “For a while now. Before the orphanage.” He’d already thought so, but his new… ‘bond’ with you only affirmed it.

Tom does not know much about you. No one does, not even Mrs. Cole; one evening, Wool’s Orphanage had eleven children fall asleep under its roof, and in the morning, twelve had awoken. You did not know much about his origins in the orphanage either, sometimes it doesn’t seem like you even want to know. If you do, you hide it well. But it’d be for the best if you didn’t.

Tom did not forget about the diary. It took undeniable precedence completely driven by his own self-interest and thirst to know more. But for now, he could handle taking on a different approach to learning, even if that meant it was through you.

𐙚 @himikoquack

© 2025 emblematicae all rights reserved.

[dufferpuffer]

Tom Riddles orphanage is interesting.

1920s/1930s The idea of not putting children to work was quite new. In fact there were still Workhouses until 1948.

Victorian's commonly thought that people were only poor because they are lazy, plus the well-blossoming ideas of eugenics meant poor people were probably just worse genetically. It was 'Christian values' to at least dress and feed poor children, but if you were too supportive of them they would only grow up to continue to be lazy, probably like their stupid poor lazy parents. They will go off and join the workforce at 14, so you shouldn't coddle them too early or else you'll spoil them.

Most orphanages were set up and funded by whichever rich fuck wanted to boast about how many little kids they 'help'. Some really were trying to help - but yknow... eugh. Rich people. Nothing was particularly regulated and abuse against children was accepted and even encouraged.

Plus its fresh after The Great War, poor street kids fending for themselves were hardly rare, infant mortality was high... Lots of kids and not much demand for them. If they could hurry up and grow up to join the workforce... that would be swell.

Experience of the common orphan in a common orphanage: + Crowded eating halls where they usually didn't eat well. + Beds lining the walls, no privacy, everyone in the same room. + No individuality - kids often forgot their own birthdays or names... adults rarely use them, there's too many kids to remember and they keep dying and shit, honestly who cares - if they get adopted maybe they'll be renamed anyway + Education was often light, just the basics + Sometimes they were also put to a little work beyond their own laundry and cleaning etc. + Sundays they get dressed up, cleaned up - to try and get them adopted. Trot them out like little show ponies to try and tempt some rich person. ''They aren't dirty street shits, they're nice and handsome little children who won't embarrass you.'' + In many places child abuse was just... awful. Being made to eat their own vomit, pushed down stairs, locked into rooms and forgotten about, straight up being murdered by their caretakers... if you can imagine it, it probably happened.

...Why do I say all this? Because barely any of that seems to apply to Tom's experience. That doesn't mean his Orphanage was a nice place for him to grow up... but my god, it sounds like a DREAM compared to the norm-!!!

+ Tom Riddle... had his own fucking bedroom. WOAH. + Privacy. Access to books to read. He could READ. + His own WARDROBE, where he could KEEP HIS OWN THINGS. + It's assumed other children could ALSO keep their own things, as he had stolen their stuff - and some even had PETS??? + No real sign that he is put to any grueling work. + He was calm and impolite in his own room - he isn't terrified to talk back to adults. + Though it did anger and scare him, experts were being brought in to try and evaluate his health. + He looked well. Well fed, healthy, clean, normal.

Mrs. Cole the Matron - though she says judgemental things she says and the mention of 'whacking on the nose with a rusty poker' (which I assume is basic physical abuse...?) - seems shockingly involved with the children. She knows their names, their preferences, their backstories... and despite the orphanage being poor, they take the children on a holiday every year. Even Harry thought she seemed alright.

It is BONKERS how nice it is at Wool's Orphanage. That is an intentional writing decision. They author is British, she knows basic recent British history - the 'suffering orphan' is baked into her very bones as a concept.

He COULD have been depicted as: + Just one dirty face in a room of many beds, many children, that Albus had to weave through to take him somewhere private and tell him he was different from them, he was special. + Keep the smaller rooms - but he has to share with five or so other boys... who have all moved their beds as far from his as possible. + He could have only barely even remembered his own name - there's nobody who cares to call him it anyway, so he dislikes it. + A "Yes Sir, Sorry Sir, Of course Sir" little boy - who then breaks out in joy over going to Hogwarts + ...just straight up could have been in a workhouse.

It wouldn't be far-fetched for it to be described like Oliver Twist (set in 1830s, but there was actually higher child mortality in 1930s) Or more of an Annie situation (set 1930s New York - probably better conditions than 1930s England) The Author has never shied away from displaying child suffering before. Just look at Snape and Harry... and even Neville! Yet Tom Riddle very much has an air of being the Top Rooster. + Even the adults don't know what to do with him. + He is rather comfortable as long as doctors aren't being brought in. + He has gone out of his way to MAKE that comfort for himself, through enforcing a harsh pecking order amongst the other kids. + He is, especially for the time, a bit of a brat. Talks back, snappy, sneering and scoffing, talks over adults, snatches...

That's not unreasonable of him, by the way. He IS treated unfairly due to his powers, he is a poor orphan in a world with an abundance of poor orphans... and he's just a little boy. Of course he acts out.

But he could have been made more sympathetic - and more believable, honestly - with only a slightly more harrowing depiction of his living situation than simply 'a little shabby - and the over stressed but tries-to-care Matron likes a drop of Gin.' Instead he is living better than most of the lower class.

Which to me can only mean he isn't supposed to come across as too sympathetic. He isn't a suffering orphan, he isn't miserable, he isn't abused (too badly), he isn't lonely, he isn't any of the things Harry was... despite being in a similar situation, at first glance. He is still sympathetic. Harry and Albus both thought so. But the reader isn't supposed to see his childhood as terrible. Just sub-par. We are happy he gets a chance at life at Hogwarts... ...but aren't thinking 'Oh man, of course he murdered people, he has had such a harrowing life' Snapes life was worse. Harry's life was worse. Neither of them kill.

[capriddle]

In my opinion, the proof that Tom wasn't treated so badly in the orphanage is that he doesn't kill Mrs. Cole. We know how vindictive Tom is and we're never told that he killed Mrs. Cole (a murder that would have been important considering the connection with childhood), so for me he didn't kill her. If he didn't kill her, it's because in the end she didn't do anything bad to him, otherwise I'm sure she would have died.

[thatshakespeareanfool]

Why aren't more people talking about Tom Riddle's irrational, phobia kind of fear from death and the cause of it?

Personally I think it's heavily related to his environment growing up in the Great Depression and WWII. The adoption act just passed in the year he was born and it wasn't working effectively for years while the system was overwhelmed with children.

When the Depression hit they lost their foundings, people were often starving and child sicknesses like whooping cough, scarlet fever Tom probably saw children die in his close environment through his childhood. We see that he stole trinkets but it's more likely that they stole food and clothing from each other as well. It's also important to note that Mrs Cole was canonically an alcoholic so it was not a case of an emotional supportive and responsible adult taking care of them.

As Tom leaves for 2nd year Germany starts the WWII, before his 3rd yr he is still London when the first air raid happens, bombs meant for military targets end up in the city centre. Food rationing was normal. He misses the Blitz by being in Hogwarts but most of the city is destroyed with horrible condition when he returns, there are heavy bombings at the end of july. Continuing with v1-v2 bombings. Tom was surely either in an aid shelter or out in the city at one point. It's possible that at that point he was unaffected by the sight of dead people, children lying around daily.

We know that he wanted to stay at Hogwarts for summer but Dippet denied him and I can only hope it was out of ignorance and not purposefully sending him back to a war zone.

All through this he had a trace on his wand due to being underaged. So he could only use his raw magic.

It's no wonder that he decided he never wants death, that if he had survived all of this he deserves to escape death himself. He mutilated his own soul multiple times just to cheat death, that's desperation wrapped in arrogance.

He was a traumatized war orphan with incredible high Intelligence and scarily potent raw magical power, he had zero chance against his hubris.

[tom-riddle-conoisseur]

It was raining heavily when Tom stepped out of the Riddle Manor, leaving three dead bodies in their seats and dinner wear in his wake, their waxen faces apoplectic and open mouthed with terror like characters from a Grand Guignol play

Tom momentarily forgot he had magic as he stood in the downpour, shivering and hugging himself.

That's what being near Muggles do to you, he thought hysterically.

He could feel his eyes burn and head pounding.

He was coming down with something. Didn't Mrs Cole say he had a weak constitution ?

The rain water on his face tasted warm and salty.

[augustuscaesarsalad]

Tom Riddle Jr. didn't like his mother. He thought that his father was a wizard. He talked more about his father, and almost never about his mother.

I don’t quite agree.

Child Tom and adult Voldemort have different opinions on his parents. Child Tom knows what happened to his mother: she died, whereas his father could be out there somewhere and maybe he’s super cool and powerful! Adult Voldemort thinks his mother was abandoned for being magic, and thinks that his father was the lowest scum of the earth and deserved to die.

Mrs. Cole within minutes of meeting Dumbledore says that Merope was “no beauty” and that they thought she might have been from the circus. I imagine these were things that were either told to Tom, or he overheard at some point. So from child Tom’s perspective, his mother is from the circus and also ugly, whereas his father could be literally ANYONE. He can think whatever grand things about his father that he wants, because there’s no way of fact checking it.

After he meets his father and then kills him, things change. Now Tom only speaks about his father with loathing, and also blames literally EVERYTHING on him. In the Goblet of Fire, chapter the Death Eaters, Voldemort says:

“But he abandoned her when she told him what he was… He didn’t like magic, my father…

He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was born, Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage…but I vowed to find him…I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name… Tom Riddle…”

Like half of this is a lie! Merope is the one who named him Tom Riddle, and Tom didn’t have some from-birth revenge plan! There was no vow to find him, he fully thought his father was a wizard for years.

Voldemort pins all of the negatives of his childhood on his father so that he can symbolically break free of them when he kills him. Like how Jesus dies for the sins of humanity, Tom Riddle Sr dies for the tragedy of Voldemort’s childhood, even though it isn’t all his fault. I also think that Voldemort blames his father for everything as a way of excusing the murder. It’s easier for him to deal with if he can blame everything wrong with his life on that guy he killed and therefore not have to have any grief or guilt about it. This blaming also works as a way for Tom to justify his Muggle hating to himself; ‘see my mother was a witch and she was perfect and tragic and died because of my stupid evil Muggle father who hated magic and therefore hated me. So it’s fine I killed him!’

He thinks in extreme black and white, and hatred is much easier for him. I think he talks more about his father because he hates him, which he can express, but he has a harder time talking about his mother because he feels grief, which he doesn’t know how to deal with.

(I also believe that even after learning that Merope was a witch, he still felt abandoned by her. He says “my mother can’t have been magic or else she wouldn’t have died.” But perhaps more interestingly, Harry, who has a mental bond with Voldemort, says “she couldn’t have stayed alive for her son?” I think that Voldemort secretly thinks that. He feels abandoned by her, but doesn’t talk about it because it goes against his wanted world view of ‘muggle father is evil and witch mother is good and could never do anything wrong.’ That feeling can’t fit into his black and white world. I also think that this is why Voldemort has SOOO much disdain for how Lily died to save Harry. Because, why couldn’t Merope? But these feelings are too complex for Voldemort to deal with, so he just doesn’t! He monologues about how he killed his father instead.)

Long story short, Voldemort just talks about his dad more because it’s easier for him to be angry. He doesn’t talk about his mother because what he feels about her is to complex for him to be able to express.

[moontearpensfic]

i think you should share weeb au with us all 🥺

🤣😌💕 Here is a day in the life of weeb Tom. From a co-write with @duplicitywrites and @cindle-writes! Tom grabs a bottle of Ramune and a box of strawberry Pocky from his stash and sets himself up in front of his PC for the late morning.

The first thing he always does is check his stats and his socials. His inbox shows a host of FF.net reviews from his latest chapter of The Isekai Life of a Hogwarts Transfer Student: Dark Lord Version, and his LiveJournal community needs posts approved (or unapproved—Tom has no desire to allow more riffraff to clog the fandom). After he's told a few people off for their terrible opinions—why wake up stupid? Truly?—he logs into Yahoo Groups. Finally, he checks AIM, but no one is online yet.

Tom minimizes windows and clicks to his favorite site, an anime apparel shop. They get new inventory on Tuesdays, and Tom remains actively on the hunt for anything Hari Potta-related. This morning, they have a fluffy, mid-riff jumper with a chibi version of Harry's face across the chest.

"Kawaiiiiii," he coos to his computer screen. "Such a cute little Harry-chan."

Another handful of mouse clicks, and Tom now has a new jumper to add to his collection.

As he's home from his posh boarding school, he has nothing pressing to tend to and so can spend time whiling hours away on the internet and writing fanfic without worry. His father is at work, and Mrs. Cole, the housekeeper, has the day off. There is no one to stop him from doing as he pleases.

His Harry pillow has his own chair beside Tom.

"Harry had almost discovered Riddle's machinations," he mutters to himself as he works on his next chapter. Now that he's off for the holiday, he has loads more time to write. "Little did he know, Riddle had a trap set in place that would Obliviate Harry's memory…"