Tom

I know what you see. 
Sanctimonious old serpent who 
does as he pleases without remorse. 
I am not an idiot but I will not lie, 
I see no wrong doing in 
harming those who remind me remarkably 
of my father. 
 
My father was wealthy man, a muggle. 
Many looked up to him, including my mother. 
She couldn’t leave him be, slipped him a poison of sorts, 
made him believe she was the only one, her smile shining like quartz. 
Foolish woman, choosing him over sense. 
Little did young Merope know the price to pay would be immense. 
 
They got married, of all things, 
and Riddle Sr. did not know 
that he was nothing but her winnings, a mere prize draw. 
Now, naive as Merope was, she was not dim-witted. 
She knew she couldn’t keep this up, so 
stopped feeding him the bottled emotionless feeling 
and, lo and behold, off he went, couldn’t care less. 
 
He was confused, distraught, of course. 
But what kind of man abandons a woman bearing his child? 
He left me. Alone. 
My mother died soon after. She couldn’t afford the price of life. 
Disowned. Discarded. Orphan. Half-blood boiling at the thought 
of being unwanted, 
unimportant.