Tom Riddle sits, as he always does, alone at the end of the wooden breakfast table, his beady eyes darting about the room. The other boys pay little attention to the child, instead huddling amongst themselves, their porridge dripping from their spoons as noise fills the air. I can't help but take pity on him. His sickly frame make for an easy target of boyish taunting, something the other children take full advantage of at any given opportunity. I don't intervene too much, it'll do the boy some good to have to defend himself. Besides, should I be overly protective of him, it would only fuel his beatings. 

"I 'eard 'is mum killed herself. Couldn't stomach tha though' of raising a kid like tha'." One child whispers loud enough for all to hear. 

Tom folds in on himself, burying his head into his breakfast. He's quick, but not quick enough. I notice the tears forming in his eyes, and know the other children have too. They snicker and point, young Edward - the self proposed leader of the group - pulling his spoon, loaded with porridge back behind his shoulder. A streak of murky grey flies through the air, landing on Tom's matted brunette hair. Still he says nothing, simply lifts his own spoon to his mouth and continues to eat without raising his eyes. Only his shoulders, bobbing up and down, give any indication of his feelings. 

Not able to stand the torture they inflict on Tom any further, I quietly walk around the table until I'm stood over Edward. His head buckles forward as my palm connects, the contact stinging my flesh. The blonde haired boy stares at me, hand on the back of his head, eyes brimming with tears. He opens and closes his mouth, fixing it in a sharp line. The children know better than to argue with me, know that to do so would mean no dinner for a week. You have to kick them about a bit to get their obedience after all. It never did me any harm as a boy.

"That's quite enough of that. Finish your breakfast in silence or it's into the cellar for you boy. That goes for the lot of you, shut your mouths and eat!" 

The chattering ceases instantly, the tapping of spoons onto bowls the only sound in the room besides my footsteps. Tom risks a glance my way, his eyes brimmed red. I nod once, clasp my hands behind my back and return to my food, now cold and congealed. Great. I lift my own spoon, the porridge stuck in one lump, and nibble half-heartedly. Thank the Lord that lunch is to be better. 

With the end of breakfast, it's time for the boys to begin their chores, after all, this isn't an inn. They've got to earn their keep. The sicklier of the boys begin the more feminine jobs, washing clothes and bedding, sweeping and cleaning the dishes. While the sturdier and older boys collect firewood and clear the garden of debris. The harsh winter air will do them well. 

While they work tirelessly until lunch, I busy myself in the study, making sure accounts are in order and all the matrons who work for me are doing as they should. They have it lucky at my orphanage, others in London expect the matrons to do the chores I dish out to the boys. All they need to do for me is prepare our meals and give a firm hand when needed. Though oftentimes a mere brandishing of their canes and a harsh word has the boys hopping tails to do as demanded.     

From my study, I have a clear view of the dining hall where Tom and two other young lads clear the table and scrub the floors. For what feels like the millionth time, I'm amazed at the sheer difference in size between Tom and boys his own age. The two with him are significantly younger than his eleven years, yet tower above him. Where he struggles to carry his bucket of water with two hands, they carry theirs in one with such ease. It's no wonder he's the brunt of such torment. He really is an easy target. 

My head lowers for but a moment to look at the paper in front of me before a loud crash and yell rips my soul from my chest. I guess what's happened without needing to look up. Tom has had yet another accident. 

"For Christ's sake Tom, wha'd ya do tha' for?" A speckled faced boy shouts, stepping over a large puddle of water. 

Tom mumbles, flinching as the boys foot pulls backwards before landing on Tom's side. I can almost hear the air ripping from his lungs as he clutches his ribs, laying sideways on the floor. Both of the boys working with Tom take turns to kick and stamp on the smaller child, spitting in his face before forcing the bucket over his head. I let them continue just enough to teach Tom a lesson before intervening.

"That's quite enough boys! Harry, do not blaspheme again or I'll cut your tongue out. Back to work, the three of you."

Harry nods, grabbing his own bucket before he and William, the other young lad, scurry to the far end of the hall. Tom shifts awkwardly, his arms unsteady as he tries to right himself. Lord give me strength. His hands buckle beneath him, blood mixing with water. I rub my temples, drop my quill and push my chair out from beneath the desk, the screech making Tom jump and desperately try to stand. 

He's too slow. I grab his shirt in my fist, lifting him off the ground entirely as though he were little more than a flea. His lower lip quivers, hands raised to protect his head. He looks so much like his mother, an unattractive thing with the same dark brown and lifeless eyes. Her name had stuck with me almost as much as her appearance, such an abnormal name. Merope. I was surprised upon finding it out, that she had wanted such an average name for her offspring. 

"Get out of my sight before I cane you boy," I throw him backwards onto the floor. He yelps, rights himself as quick as he can and limps out of the room. I turn to the snickers at the end of the hall. "Right back to work before I cane you too!"