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Tom Riddle wrapped his arms around himself tightly, trying to overcome the sharp stab of hunger twisting his stomach. He bit the inside of his cheek, allowing the metallic taste of blood to distract himself from the oppressive absence of sustenance.
Wool’s Orphanage had never exactly been overflowing with food, but there had always been enough to get by. For the first time in his memory Tom didn’t know the next time he would get to eat.
A loud rap on the door made Tom jump, and he had just enough time to school his expression when Mrs. Cole barged in.
“Downstairs,” she said shortly. “Now.”
She left without waiting for a response, leaving Tom with this simple yet loaded order.
He glanced out his window to find the sun low in the pink sky, close to night. What could Mrs. Cole possibly want from him now of all times?
Despite himself, Tom couldn’t stop the light, fluttery feeling of hope filling his chest. He knew he should fight this sensation, knew it would only make things worse, but he simply couldn’t help it.
Tom had long since learned that hope only ever ended in disappointment and despair. Gone were his days of staring out the window, hoping for a mother and father to want him. Why should he when they never would? And yet his stupid heart must not have received this message, for it was simply floating with the hope of a warm meal waiting for him downstairs.
On his walk out his bedroom and down his stairs, Tom exhibited a massive amount of control to keep himself from sprinting.
He entered the dining room, where all his fellow orphans were sitting at the table, eyes alight with the same hesitant hope. Tom sank into the only open chair, in between Amy Benson and Billy Stubbs, who both leaned away from him as far as they could.
Ignoring them, Tom flicked his eyes to Mrs. Cole, in search of the food that she must have with her.
Mrs. Cole stood at one end of the table and in front of her, a white sheet covered some sort of box. Tom licked his cracked lips. Certainly, the food must be hiding under there, right?
“Settle down,” Mrs. Cole said, silencing the murmurs from around the room. “I’m sure you’ll all be grateful to hear that I have a great surprise for you all.”
Tom saw Billy cross his fingers, and as much as he despised the boy, he shared in this sentiment.
Without beating around the bush, Mrs. Cole simply pulled the sheet off of the box revealing a brown box with various knobs beneath its small screen; A television.
Tom has only heard of television recently. Andrew Smith, an orphan who had only arrived a month ago, came from a very wealthy background and mentioned that his family had one, and he used to watch it all the time. Before his parents decided to abandon him at Wool’s, that is.
Tom stared at the small box before him, his chest tightening as he came to realize the truth he should’ve already known. Mrs. Cole hadn’t brought them any food.
“Why aren’t you all happy?” Mrs. Cole squinted at the orphans, who were all gaping at her with varying expressions of despair. “Don’t you like it? It’s a television.”
“M-Mrs. Cole,” little Amy Benson piped up shyly. “Haven’t you gotten us anything to eat?”
Mrs. Cole’s lips pursed. “I brought you a television,” she said as if that explained why she refused to feed them. “Do you have any idea how lucky we are to have this? How many families will only ever dream of having one? Why if we hadn’t received that large donation, we never would’ve been able to afford this!”
“Can’t you use the donation money to buy us food?” another orphan asked.
Mrs. Cole scoffed like he was stupid. “I spent all the donation money, boy!”
“You blew all the money on that,” Tom spoke up, sneering. The children around him flinched. “The donations are supposed to go to resources we need, like food-”
“Do you have any idea how expensive this television was?” Mrs. Cole snapped at him.
“Five pounds?” guessed an orphan.
“Ten pounds?” guessed another.
“Fifty?”
“Fifty one,” guessed Tom, pointing a finger at Mrs. Cole.
“You children know nothing of economics!” Mrs. Cole rubbed her temples. “The television was nearly two hundred pounds!”
“Well, I was the closest without going over,” said Tom, but no one was listening to him.
“You’re all ungrateful!” Mrs. Cole said. “You children will watch the television, and you will enjoy it!”
She turned the television on, and the screen came to life, depicting a couple in black and white.
The children, reluctantly, watched the television, but Tom quickly grew bored and instead glared at the table, hunger pangs still attacking him.
Why should he care about a dumb television when he could be eating right now? If only something interesting was playing, then maybe Tom would find the box a fair trade for hunger.
As Tom thought these words, a strange static electricity filled the air. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he knew the other children felt it too by the way they glanced around nervously.
The thing was - Tom had special powers, and he could make things happen by just wanting them.
He focused the static electricity to the box, and instantly the moving picture flickered and changed.
The children and Mrs. Cole gasped as the video shifted. The boring couple had gone and in its place was a brightly lit audience full of a variety of different people, all with name tags on their shirts. Joyous, lively music began to play in the background while a male voice emitted through the room.
“Ben Dover, come on down! You’re the next contestant on The Price is Right!” the voice said, and a man with a mullet grinned stupidly before jumping up and running through the aisle to his podium.
“Hugh Jass, come on down!” A man with a giant nose ran up to stand beside Ben.
“Jenna Tolls, come on down!” A red-headed woman pumped her fist into the air before making her way to the other contestants.
“And finally, Dixie Normus, come on down!” the final player, an elderly woman with a cane, limped up to her podium. “It’s time to play The Price is Right! Now, introducing our host!”
Tom leaned forward intrigued. The camera panned to a well-dressed man on stage holding a microphone. The man looked so perfectly put together, from his tailored suit to his smile to the air of respect around him. He even spoke calmly, as he addressed the contestants.
Tom felt a dull throb in his chest and it had nothing to do with his hunger. He always imagined, at least at a younger age, that his father would look something like that; Wealthy and respectable.
The models showcased the first item, a recliner chair, and each contestant went down the line to place their bids.
Only, Tom never got to hear their guesses, because at that moment Mrs. Cole snapped out of whatever trance she had been in previously, and turned her sharp gaze on Tom.
“What have you done to the television?” she asked. “It was brand new!”
“I made it better,” Tom said, defensive and stiff. He held her glare, refusing to back down, yet painfully aware that this will only end in a punishment for him.
And yet, no punishment came, because at that moment Mrs. Cole broke the stare, sighing.
“I need a drink,” she mumbled, rubbing the bridge of her nose and exiting the room.
Tom blinked, extremely pleased with his good luck, before returning to watch The Price is Right.
***
For the next few weeks, Tom spent every waking minute in front of the television. While before, Tom would stay up in his room for the majority of the time, now it was a rare sight to not see Tom in the dining room. Why, the only time Tom went to his room nowadays, was when Mrs. Cole forced him to go to bed. But even then, Tom only slept a few hours before sneaking back downstairs to watch more of The Price is Right. The other orphans absolutely despised this, mourning for the days when Tom kept to himself.
Obsession was the only word for it. The only thing Tom could think about these days was the game show.
It was a shame, for if Tom hadn’t been so distracted, perhaps he would’ve noticed the orphans plotting beside him.
“Five hundred dollars!” Tom bid right beside the players on the show, in American currency, because for some reason the television only played the American version of The Price is Right.
“Actual retail price…” the Host began, but at that moment Billy Stubbs stood in front of the television, blocking Tom’s view.
Tom scowled. “Get out of the way.”
“I don’t think I will,” Billy said, and Tom glanced around to see more orphans on either side of Billy and the television, all looking at him with the same sneer, like they were all in on a secret Tom didn’t know.
“Get out of the way,” Tom repeated, colder.
Billy’s face twitched slightly, but he still did not move. “NOW!” he yelled, and the surrounding orphans jumped into action.
Tom watched in horror as they began pushing the television towards the edge of the table.
“NO!” Tom yelled, rushing forwards, but Billy stopped him, shoving Tom to the floor, hard.
The room spun as Tom’s head knocked against the floor. He scrambled to get back to his feet, but Billy placed a foot on his chest, pinning him down.
“Get off!” Tom grunted, struggling to regain control.
Billy laughed, scathingly. “We want to watch the television too sometimes, you know. And if we can’t, then you can’t either.”
Tom stilled under Billy’s foot, knowing that fighting was futile when Billy was so much larger than him.
The children pushed the television as if in slow motion, purposefully taunting him as it came closer and closer to falling off the table.
Tom didn’t think. He knew nothing but his heart pounding in his chest with the sole desire to stop them, to save his one source of joy.
The air crackled with a sudden onslaught of electricity, and the children froze, fear present in their eyes.
Tom’s power grew and grew until it reached its peak, and it exploded.
The force of the explosion blasted Billy backwards against the wall, along with the other children closest to the television. The onlooking orphans that were lucky enough to escape the brunt of the blast turned and fled the room at once.
“Monster!” Billy spat, his nose bleeding.
Tom got to his feet, and gave Billy a terrifying glare. The air sparked once more, threateningly.
Eyes widening and lips trembling, Billy and the rest of the children scampered away before Tom could do any more damage.
Tom felt his shoulders sag in relief, glad to be alone with his television once more.
The television sat where the children left it, on the very edge of the table, and yet unharmed, still playing The Price is Right.
Tom approached it, feet moving as if by their own accord until he stood directly in front of the box. He reached a hand out, pressing his palm against the warmth of the screen. Suddenly, he was overcome with a very odd yet very appealing idea. He wanted to…to…
Face heating slightly, he retracted his hand. He glanced around the room to make sure no one was around to see him while he dealt with this odd mood.
Then, hesitantly, he brought his arms around the television and hugged it tightly.
It was warm, just as warm as he hoped it would be. Tom sighed deeply, closing his eyes and basking in this wonderful feeling.
“Play for a chance to win a brand new car!” the Host said against Tom’s chest.
In this position, Tom could almost pretend that that deep voice was his father. His heart burned with want.
Tom wanted a lot of things in life; Family, Power, Food - but never before had he wanted something so fiercely than he wanted this.
Snuggled up closely to the television, Tom made a promise to himself.
One day, he would go on The Price is Right.
And he would win it all.
***
A strange man dressed in purple robes entered Tom’s room, but he didn’t pay him much attention, because he was in the middle of an episode of The Price is Right.
After the incident in the dining room a few years ago, Tom had taken the television up to his room so no one could bother him anymore.
"Hello, Tom," the man said, but Tom ignored him in favor of the television. "My name is Professor Dumbledore."
Dumbledore stepped in front of the television to force Tom's attention on him. Tom scowled and leaned to try and see around him.
"I'm a teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
That made Tom pause and really look at Dumbledore for the first time.
"Magic?" he wondered. "It's magic what I can do?"
"What is it that you can do?"
"All sorts!" Tom breathed, gleefully. He gestured towards the television. "I can turn up the volume without touching the knobs. I can guess the actual retail price before it's revealed. I can make bad things happen to people who try to turn off the television. I can make them hurt…if I want."
Dumbledore’s easy smile had disappeared from his face, staring at Tom with a sense of seriousness.
"I knew I was special," Tom said looking down at his fingers. Then he straightened, looking right at the Host. "Just like him."
Dumbledore nodded politely, but he looked confused. "I take it you're accepting your place-"
"Of course I am," Tom said, but after a moment he frowned. "Will I be able to bring the television?"
"No, electronics do not work well alongside magic," Dumbledore said, holding out Tom's school supply list for him to grab.
Tom looked from the list to the television, caught in an impossible choice.
Magic…or The Price is Right.
He didn't want to leave his favorite show behind, not when it had been such a father figure to him these past few years.
But wasn't magic what made The Price is Right come to him in the first place?
He had to attend school. He wouldn't really be leaving The Price is Right behind. It would be waiting for him every summer.
Tom took the letter.
***
Many years later, Lord Voldemort stood in the graveyard of his father, examining his newly constructed body.
A sense of glee which he hadn't felt in over thirteen years seized his heart. Not only for his resurrection and capture of Harry Potter, but for the fact that tonight was the night all his dreams would come true.
"Untie him, Wormtail," Voldemort hissed, and his servant hurried to untie Harry Potter from his father's grave. "We have a trip to make. Hold on to me."
Wormtail pulled Harry along in what must be a bruising grip, as the boy struggled to flee. Voldemort grasped Wormtail's forearm in his hand.
He glared directly at Harry Potter. "Do not fight boy...unless you want to be splinched."
With that, they spun around into the darkness, their feet hitting the ground just a second later inside of a crowded, brightly lit room.
His Death Eaters had already assembled, filling the audience and cheering loudly once Voldemort appeared.
"Lucius Malfoy, come on down!" the disembodied voice said, and Malfoy stood and strode over to the podium.
"Peter Pettigrew, come on down!" Wormtail staggered after Lucius.
"Harry Potter, come on down!"
Harry's eyes widened at being addressed, clearly terrified and confused at where he was and what's going on.
Clearly, the boy had never watched The Price is Right. Voldemort smirked to himself, pleased to have such easy competition.
He gave the boy a shove, causing him to stumble forward towards the podium, all while clutching his scar.
"Lord Voldemort, come on down! You are the first four contestants on The Price is Right!"
The Death Eaters screamed with cheers. Voldemort took his time walking to the podium, relishing in this moment which he has dreamed of since childhood.
He took his spot, holding his head high as he focused his attention, not on wide-eyed Harry Potter beside him, but on the curtain on stage.
“And now,” said the voice. “Here’s your host!”
The Death Eaters behind him were still making noise, but Voldemort paid them no mind.
He only had eyes for one man, and that was the Host, who just appeared from behind the curtains.
If the Host felt confused or concerned at all the people dressed in masks and cloaks filling the room, he didn't show it, still appearing the perfect picture of put-togetherness and classy charm.
Voldemort felt a throb of longing in his chest, the same one he had felt since his childhood.
Maybe it was his imagination, but Voldemort could’ve sworn he saw the Host look right at him, a small smile ghosting his face, before he spoke into the microphone.
“Let’s see the first item up for bids on The Price is Right!”
Voldemort’s eyes shifted to the item being showcased, a television.
How fitting was that? Voldemort nearly smiled, for he could still vividly remember the pricing of his old television, back at the orphanage.
"Uh," said Lucius Malfoy, unsure when it was time to bid. "Three hundred galleons?"
The Host blinked, confused.
"I mean pounds!" Lucius hurried to correct his mistake.
The Host still looked rather confused, raising an eyebrow at Lucius.
"American dollars Lucius!" Voldemort snarled, upset Lucius was making a fool of him in front of the Host.
Lucius’s mouth dropped into an ‘O’ shape. “Three hundred dollars?” he said finally, and the screen on his podium lit up with the guess.
“Three hundred and one dollars?” Wormtail bid, causing Lucius to glare at him fiercely.
Harry Potter chewed on his lips nervously. “Three hundred and two dollars?” he asked, clearly just copying Wormtail and Lucius.
No matter, Voldemort knew he would win. He took a second of pause, listening to the crowd of Death Eaters behind him, screaming their answers.
Voldemort hummed softly. After years of watching The Price is Right ritualistically, he knew without a doubt that his three competitors severely overpriced the television. And everyone knows, it’s the closest without going over who wins.
Confidently, Voldemort said, “One dollar.”
The Host smiled. “Actual retail price…six hundred and thirty seven dollars!”
Harry Potter’s screen lit up, and he glanced around unsure of what to do.
Voldemort, however, had never been less interested in Harry Potter. His heart beat loudly in his ears, so much so that he couldn’t even hear the music that surely blared through the room.
His vision darkened around the edges, so he could see nothing but the Host on stage, who smiled and congratulated Harry Potter.
How had it gone so wrong? He had never messed up a bid this badly before. From the time he turned nine, all his bids had been perfectly spot on.
Suddenly, something snapped inside of him. His mind felt sharper as the truth fell into place.
Inflation.
That was it.
Surely that was the true monster at work here. Prices in the nineteen thirties varied greatly with the prices now!
He cursed himself. How could he not have thought to account for inflation? What a fool he was, embarrassing himself in front of the only man to have ever cared for him.
Even if the man never knew it.
Rage burning Voldemort’s core, he focused his attention back to the stage where Harry Potter was four digits into guessing the price of a brand new car.
Why was a car even a prize this early on in the game?
“Okay, Harry,” the Host said seriously. “Just one more number and the car will be yours. What do you think the last digit is?”
“Er,” Harry Potter said, scratching the back of his neck. “Six?”
Something dinged, and the lights began flashing again.
Voldemort’s jaw dropped. Harry Potter did it. He won.
The Death Eater crowd gasped and murmured. Voldemort could only watch in horror as Harry Potter walked over to the nice, red car awaiting for him.
The boy-who-lived opened the door, sat in the driver’s seat and slammed on the pedal. With a screech and a crash, he drove straight through the building wall, speeding away for his life while ignoring the Host’s panicked shouts. No doubt, Harry Potter was heading back to Hogwarts.
Voldemort knew logically that his chance to win was not over yet. But after seeing Harry Potter escape his clutches moments after achieving everything Voldemort ever dreamed of, he couldn’t help but feel defeated.
Drawing his wand, a deep, animalistic rage spreading to the tips of his fingers, Voldemort did what he did best.
“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted at random, uncaring as the Death Eaters screamed and scurried away as fast as he could. Several Death Eaters went down, but Voldemort didn’t even know which ones, so lost in his fury.
When he finally came back to reality, as everyone in the room had either ran or died, Voldemort put his wand away. The anger had left him, leaving him with only a dull emptiness.
He looked around at the corpses littering the place he idolized so much as a child. Again, the question weighed on his mind. How could it have gone so wrong?
He turned his view to the stage and startled to see the Host still alive, staring at him. He hadn’t even noticed him.
A certain sadness shone in the Host’s eyes, one that Voldemort had never seen before.
“You know, kid,” the Host began, and instantly Voldemort felt like the child he had once been. “I was hoping for you to win.”
His words stung. Voldemort couldn't help but flinch. “You must hate me,” he said, bitter.
“I don’t hate you,” the Host said softly. “But I am disappointed whenever a contestant commits murder.”
Voldemort felt the urge to explain himself, to make the Host think highly of him again. “Every since I was a boy, winning on your show has been my biggest ambition. And now that I’ve ruined it, I… I don’t know what I want anymore.”
The Host nodded, wisely, before setting his microphone down and walking towards Voldemort. The Host set a hand on his shoulder, and Voldemort tensed before relaxing beneath the man’s touch.
He was warm. Even warmer than the television had been, all those years ago. Voldemort suddenly burned with the strongest desire to lean closer into the Host's arms, but he resisted.
He already disappointed the Host once today. He couldn't risk doing it again.
“You’re too smart a guy to only have only one ambition,” the Host said with a wink. “Certainly, there’s something else you can work towards?”
Voldemort hesitated, searching for something. Sure, there was always world domination, but somehow he didn't think that was an answer the Host would appreciate very much.
The Host gave him no time to respond, ending the conversation with a pat on the back. “Listen, I’m going to have to call the police now, so why don’t you run out of here before they come?”
Voldemort nodded, mind racing, as he walked towards the gaping hole in the wall that Harry Potter had made with the car.
“And, one last thing, Lord Voldemort,” the Host said, and Voldemort paused, glancing back at his idol for the very last time. “Good luck, with whatever it is you plan to do next.”
The Host flashed him a smile, blinding white, and Voldemort couldn’t help but return it, his mouth quirking upward quite against his will.
Somewhere deep down, a little boy called Tom Riddle filled with glee at finally getting approval from his father figure.
***
Voldemort thought a lot about the Host's words.
Just a week after the incident, he finally found his new ambition.
Lord Voldemort would go on The Family Feud…
…and win it all.