Tom Morvolo Riddle seemed a boy, a student like any other. The more sane version of Lord Voldemort, one could say, that is, if the boy ever had been something that could compare to "sane". Was he insane? Perhaps. Unstable? Undoubtedly. In control? Partly.

Imagine, if you will, being a young orphan, who has never known love, affection or been met with direct kindness of any kind.

Being ostracized for being seemingly different to the other children, being called and labeled "strange" or a freak. ("freakishly Tom").

And then, one day, having enough of it all and deciding to become the very thing they thought you to be.

Well, Tom, he didn't have to imagine, nor picture it for he lived (and endured) the reality for eleven, frighteningly long, dull years.

Until one day, a robed man appeared outside the orphanage, later, soon after his arrival being led through the corridors and directly outside Tom's bedroom - or prison cell door.

"I was quite surprised, actually," he heard the distant, yet oddly close words. "In all the years Tom's been here, he's never had a family visitor. Not once."

"Family visitor?" he thought, tapping his long, (unusually long, or so he'd been told), fingers repeatedly against the table.

"there's no way," was an absent-minded thought, at the very back of his mind. Tom had long ago, long since given up hope of ever having happiness, or something different to the bitter indifference and numbness he was forced to feel each morning, and each night until he eventually passed out from exhaustion. Sometimes, though, Tom would be able to avoid the painful boring-ness of sleeping for three, maybe four days. No longer, though, although he had tried (despite his efforts).

When the door was opened and his thoughts had been interrupted, Tom quickly looked over at the door and kept his gaze there. To the inattentive (unattentive), human, unobservant or Muggle eye, he would appear to be wearing a guilty expression.

However, to the trained observer, or naturally observant being (human), he would appear as he actually was; nervous. Nervous because his "freakishly" long scale of hearing ability was often and usually used as another way to humiliate him or make him feel lesser; a freak.

He knew, you see, that they wanted him "looked at", a few incidents with a bunny and the odd.. Accident and suddenly, you're the "freakshow". Among the many names and 'nicknames', if they could even be called that as nicknames were usually primarily given in fondness and good spirit, "freakshow" and "Riddle the bunny slayer" or "spawn of Lucifer", seemed to be their favourites.

"Good afternoon, Tom," the man said kindly, with the slightest hint of hesitation or trepidation.

"You're the doctor, aren't you?" was the first question Tom wanted to ask, before he remembered the "family visitor" monologue he had heard from Cole.

"You're not a 'family visitor', are you?" Tom asked, curiously. Curiosity written in everything from his eyes to the way he twisted his fingers. Fidgety, he was, at the best of times, though, he could control it. But even he, sometimes was interested and thus, unable to control his natural human instincts and emotions. Oh how he hated those.

This gave Dumbledore pause, before he smiled a smile that could be described as either "proud" or "impressed".

"No," he said, smiling kindly and gently at the boy, this made Tom uncomfortable and nervous for nobody had ever been so intentionally nice to him and only him without wanting something, such as the other children wanting him to hurt or punish certain orphans. He didn't, though and would never because - well mostly because he didn't think them worthy of his power. Or mind. Or anything, really.

"well, then, who are you?" Tom asked, eventually growing tired of the silence and (the) 'not knowing'.

"My name," he began.
"Is Albus Dumbledore, I am a professor of sorts, posted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy," he concluded, crossing his hands over his lap.

Tom smirked, trying to hold in his laughter.

"I'm sorry, sir, please forgive me, but do you think I'm mad? There's no way I'd believe a tale as far-fetched as the one you have chosen to spin," Tom finished, with a certain amount of spike and spite that a young boy of eleven should not be able to possess.

Albus was slightly taken back for a few moments before he regained his composure and said, after taking a well deserved, well-earned deep breath (or breath of deepness).

"You can do things, can't you, Tom? Things the other children can't."

Tom swallowed the saliva that had been building in his mouth for quite some time.

"Yes, I can," Tom stated. Matter-of-factly.

"show me," Tom requested, his mouth and features briefly and vaguely contorting into the animalistic and predatory ones his future self was destined to sport.