Your bare feet hit the floor of the orphanage tiles as you climbed out of bed and made your way downstairs. It was late, you knew, but you could hear whispering from downstairs; presumably a few of the children.

You were a caretaker here, always having had wanted a child of your own, but being unable to reproduce.

As you reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner, a peculiar sight met your eyes; Tom Riddle, was sat alone on the cold ground, tracing runes in the dust of the floor.