I'm Sick of All My Judges Not Letting Me Shine

"Little Hangleton?"

"Yes, Malfoy." Annoyance filled my voice, "Do you know where it is?"

"I believe it's north of London, Sir."

I sighed angrily, "Everything is north of London." Why do I even bother talking to these complete idiots? The only thing that redeems them is their pure blood, their clean blood. The blood that half of them don't deserve. Most of these boys are fools, easily manipulated fools. They're often too scared to just do what I tell them to do; I often have to reassure them that their fathers will sort things out if anything goes awry. But things never go awry with me, I know what I'm doing; they deserve to be punished if they're caught. I've shown and told them how to pull many things off, let them be punished if they can't pull simple things off.

Abraxas watched as I sat down on the foot of my bed, "You don't need to know where a place is to apparate to it, sir. As long as it exists, you can apparate there."

"I know that." I snapped, "You think I'm a fool, Malfoy? You think I don't know things as simple as that?"

"Of course not, my Lord!" He threw his hands up defensively, "I was just trying to reassure you—"

I shot up from my seat on my bed, "I don't need your reassurance, Malfoy." I ran my hands through my hair in an attempt to calm myself down, "Take my trunk onto the train, I will not be boarding it today."

He watched as I pocketed my wand and headed towards the door, "Where will you be going?"

"Take a wild guess." I wrapped my hot right hand around the cold doorknob and looked over my left shoulder at Abraxas, "I don't have to explain myself to you." I slammed the door open and slammed it shut behind me. I slipped my hands into the pockets of my robes to keep from punching first and second years in the throat. I doubt I'd keep my hands in my pockets if Slytherin House had muggle borns around; clearly only my ancestor had sense in this place. Learning is a clean thing, it's something that is pure, filth shouldn't stain the halls of learning. Filth stepping where great wizards have stepped! Filth touching the things that great wizards have touched! Filth flowing from room to room; filth flowing from class to class. Filth staining my veins; filth flowing through my arteries.

Everyone near me stared; their eyes poked at my body, their thoughts boiled my blood. How could such filth be allowed to be in Hogwarts? How could such filth be allowed to live at all! Born from a muggle family! That's not real magic! Nothing like real magic! Lies flow through their veins, magic flows through us real wizards. I have the blood of one of the most powerful, most intelligent wizards of all time, and a filthy muggle had the nerve to stain it. To try to ruin my blood, my being! He thinks he's better than me? He thinks he's better than my mother?

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I stared at the door of Riddle Manor for a long time before I knocked. What was I even going to say to these cretins? I didn't think about it on the walk to Hogsmeade or the walk up the hill to the manor. What would they have to say to me?

The large door slowly squeaked open. A short, old, and rather plump woman opened the door. Her dark hair was streaked with strands of white, and her face put her near sixty years old. "Tom? How did you get out here so fast?"

I turned my head to the left and flared my nostrils, "May I come in?"

"Of course…." She looked at me with curious eyes, "You're not my Tommy."

I did my best to keep my rage off of my face, "I'm his Tommy."

Confusion slid onto her face, but she let me into the manor anyway. The foyer was poorly lit, but the corridor had many lamps, lightening it just below blinding. Paintings lined the wall, and the middle of the hallway had a red carpet, leading to every door and other staircase. Their filthy muggle decorations were everywhere, mocking the plain walls, boasting to the poor. I touched a green curtain that was hung in front of a window near the door she was opening. It was smooth, cool, and made of silk; I'll have to burn it on my way out.

She slowly opened the door and popped her head in, "Thomas, my love."

The voice of an old man, a man around her age, answered, "Yes, Mary?"

"We have a visitor."

"Who is it?"

"I…" She looked at me before popping her head back into the room, "I'm not sure."

The old man snapped at her, "Why'd you let him in, then?"

Serves her right. Who is this woman? My grandmother? Not very grand of her to let her son forget me! "Because he looks like Tom. Where is Tom, anyway?"

The voice of a younger man, but still older than me, came from the same room, "In here, mother."

"May we come in, Thomas?"

I guess I'm not the only one they don't want; the older man replied with bitterness, "If you must."

The old woman waved me over while opening the door to the room where the voices came from. I followed her into the room; it was surprisingly dark. There was enough light to see, but the room wasn't like the rest of the manor. It didn't have a lot of decorations, and it only had three, maybe four lamps. The silk curtains in the room were blue, the walls were papered with a blue Victorian pattern, and the furniture was black. An older, slightly balding man was smoking from a brown pipe and seated in a large, comfortable looking, armchair. A younger version of the man was seated on a small sofa, staring out the window and down the hill. He probably saw me walking up, he could have easily seen me coming, and yet he ignored me. Again.

The old man looked at his wife, "What is it, Mary?"

She looked at me and stepped to the side, "This is our guest."

The older man looked at me lazily, at first, but his eyes slowly widened. The younger man ignored me completely. "Who are you?"

I bit the inside of my bottom lip until I tasted blood, "My name is Tom Riddle, sir, Tom Marvolo Riddle."

The younger man's head almost snapped off his neck when he turned it to look at me. His eyes were wide, his jaw tensed, and then he glared at me. He looked me up and down, all three of them did. The room was completely silent before the woman sighed, "He looks just like you, Tom. Perhaps he is—"

"Nonsense!" The younger man snapped and looked out the window again, "I don't have a child."

My heart almost exploded with rage. I am his carbon copy! I am the spitting image of this man! How dare he act as if I don't exist! As if I don't matter! I'm in the same room as him; I came to see him! Who is he to treat me like this? Who is this filthy, disgusting muggle to treat me, me, as if I'm nothing. I am the top of my class! I am the best at every subject! I am going to be Head Boy! I am the heir of Slytherin himself!

I angrily ran my tongue against my lips before hissing out, "You didn't deserve her."

He sighed, but didn't look at me, "Quite the opposite."

"What?" I gripped my wand in my pocket.

He nonchalantly turned his head towards me, "She was the tramps daughter. An ugly one at that—"

I no longer had any patience, or any desire to muster up more. I drew my wand out of my right robe pocket, pointed it at the window he was staring out of and made the shards of glass come flying into the room. The glass cut up the material of the sofa, but none actually hit him. "SHE WAS THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN! A PURE BLOOD! SHE –"

He sprung up, all three of them stared at my wand, "What are you ranting about?"

I stomped over to him and poked my wand into his throat before growling, "You are a filthy, good for nothing, muggle."

He opened his mouth.

I blasted him into the wall behind him. "Look at me."

He groaned.

"Look. At. Me."

He rolled his head towards me.

"I look just like you." I sneered, "And yet you deny having me?" I couldn't control my urge to crucio him, so I didn't try. It brought me great pleasure to watch him wither around pathetically. To roll around in the soft carpet, to thrash against the boards that make this floor; he begged me to stop as I laughed at him, begged me to have mercy.

I took the curse off, grinded my teeth, and then growled, "You dare…you dare ask me for mercy?"

He grabbed at his chest and panted.

"YOU DARE ASK FOR MERCY?" I screamed and crucioed him again, "YOU, WHO LEFT ME TO ROT! YOU, WHO LEFT ME TO DIE! YOU, WHO LET MY MOTHER DIE! YOU ARE ASKING FOR MERCY? WHERE WAS YOURS? WHY DO YOU DESERVE ANY NOW?"

The plump woman cried out and begged me to stop hurting her "Tommy." I took the curse off of him and slowly turned. I turned my head to the left and tilted it towards the floor. "This your mother, Tommy?"

"I am his mother!" She shrieked through a cry.

A cold, devious smirk twitched the corners of my lips before I whispered, "Did you know of me? Of my existence?"

She gulped, "Yes."

My jaw muscles flexed on and off for several seconds, "And you left me for dead?"

"I thought your mother—"

"CRUCIO!" She dropped to the floor and withered and twitched like her pathetic son. I watched her cry and scream in pain, not that this is pain. She lived a comfortable life, a happy life. A life where she had a family, a life where she was free to make choices, choices that have consequences. Choices that will bring her just punishment. I drew in a deep breath and took the curse off her; something moved in the corner of my left eye. I raised my wand at the door and locked it, "Going somewhere, Granddad?"

He put all his focus into opening the door, but the knob wouldn't budge. "Who are you?" He shouted, "What are you?"

I looked at him with hate, "Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am your grandson. I am one of two living decedents of Salazar Slytherin, one of the greatest, one of the best, one of the most powerful wizards of all time. Not that you'd know that," I spat, "you filthy muggle."

"What do you want? Money? Do you want—"

"CRUCIO!" He withered like the other two. He screamed like them, too, but he didn't beg. He didn't beg me to stop, he didn't beg me for mercy, he didn't even ask me why. He knew he deserved this, he knew what he should have done sixteen years ago. I made his punishment shorter than the others. He immediately turned his head towards me and panted. I sneered, "I wanted a family." I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and then looked at him. I raised my wand at him for the final time, "Avada Kedavra."

The woman gasped at the green light from my wand, and she squealed with fright when she saw her husband die. I turned back to them just in time to see my father ask, "What did you just do to him?"

"What you hoped happened to me." I sat down on the armchair my grandfather previously occupied. I put an immobilizing charm on my grandmother and crucioed my father on and off for the next hour. I only stopped when he passed out, that's when I took off the charm and crucioed my grandmother. She cried, twitched, withered, and puked right before I took the curse off of her. My eyes flickered back and forth from her to him. The rancid smell of her vomit stirred my father into consciousness.

"What have you done, mother?"

"Now, now," I lifted and relaxed my brows once as I looked at him, "that's no way to address your mother." I flicked my wand at him and watched with pure delight as he was flung against the wall in front of him. "Not that I would know." I cackled and put him under the curse for another moment; the woman was too exhausted to cry, much less say anything. "You killed my mother, you know."

"She ruined my life!" He barked, "My dear Cecilia left me because of that tramp!"

I shot up, "You take that back!" I screamed and stomped my right foot, "My mother was nothing, nothing close to a tramp!"

He stayed silent.

I screamed and levitated him. I bounced him against the floor and the ceiling, and then dropped him. I dropped him; I dropped him like he dropped me. I asked through clenched teeth, "You like killing mothers, Tommy?"

He ignored me and did his best to regain his breath. No one ignores me. No one.

I looked at the horror-struck old woman and then I looked back at him. "Imperio." His body immediately became tense, his face bared no expression, and his eyes were dull and empty. He slowly rose from the floor, turned ninety degrees, and marched over to the horrified old woman. I proceeded to make him strangle her; I took the curse off just before she died, but he was still dazed and empty, so his body carried out the last few seconds. He stared down at his now lifeless mother and then backed away. He stared at me with wide, confused eyes. I smirked, "You could have saved her."

"No! You! You—!"

"You did it. You kept strangling her. You could have stopped, you could have saved her."

He screamed with distress and bewilderment. "How could you?"

I threw my head back and cackled, "How could you?"

He wagged his right index finger at me, "You—"

"Are you going to scold me, father?" I laughed and looked at him with a genuine smirk, "Going to step up now, daddy?"

He was silent for a very long time. "Was she like this, too?"

"A witch?"

"Evil."

I laughed and pressed my right hand over my heart, "Evil?"

He just stared at me.

A voice that I never used before bitterly replied, "She was a witch. She was a powerful witch, and yet a filthy muggle, you, brought out weakness in her."

He slid his hands into the front pockets of his slacks as a wave of odd realization washed over him: he is going to die very, very soon. He quietly laughed, "You're filth, not me."

I screamed and stomped over to him. I dug the tip of my wand into through the material of his shirt and into the flesh above his heart. "You're filth! YOU ARE!"

A peculiar mix of amusement and fear contorted his face into a smile.

"YOUR BLOOD STAINS MY VEINS! AND FOR WHAT? FOR WHAT?" My spit flew onto his face, but he didn't flinch. He stood there and stared into my eyes. His eyes were my eyes, his hair was my hair, his face was my face. He has stained more than my veins, "Avada Kedavra." His body became rigid and the life in his eyes instantly faded, but his smile was stuck on his face.

I stared down at his body for a very long time before unlocking the door and walking on him as I walked to the door. I set all the curtains ablaze with a single raise of my wand; I physically tore the paintings down from their disgusting muggle walls, and I broke their decorative vases with my bare hands. I stormed out of the manor and slammed the door behind me. I stared at a somewhat small, near by tree and walked straight to it. I pocketed my wand in my robe and tore off random pieces of bark until I had a sufficiently long piece in my hands. I slashed at the skin on my arms and watched as droplets of filth soiled the cold earth beneath me, but the magic in my body healed my wounds too fast for the dirt in my body could be with other muggle dirt. I slashed at my face, his face, too, but my injuries healed and faded just as fast as I made them.

I shrieked and flung the bark out of my right hand. I made my hands into fists and punched at the flimsy tree until a bird nest dropped out of it. I swatted away two small, blue birds and stomped on their eggs. I drug my feet against the dirt and grass to get the mess off of the bottom of my shoes. With a shaky hand, I took my wand out of my pocket and killed the two birds, the parent birds. I ran my hands through my hair to relax my body and steady my breath; I set the tree ablaze, walked away from it, and walked off the Riddle property.

He called me filth. He called me filth. He! Me! Filth! Me! That disgusting, idiotic, ridiculous muggle called me, Lord Voldemort, filth. A muggle insulted one of the greatest remaining wizard bloodlines. A muggle called my mother filth. She was weak, but she was not filth.

I'll show them what real filth is. Oh I'll show them, and I will rid the world of it. I'll rid the world of it even if I have to do it one by one, even if I have to do it all myself. I. Will.