Tom rubbed groggily at his eyes, shifting in bed. It was the crack of dawn, the sun barely peeking over the smog-filled horizon of London.

He was already awake, may as well get ready for the day.

Tom was taller than some of his fellow six year olds, but a lot of the other children pick on him for no reason. He grimaced, nose scrunching in distaste. It was a Tuesday, which meant classes, and that also meant someone would try to steal his homework. Again.

Tom washed his face and got his bag ready - none of his notebooks and pencils were missing, thankfully.

Nothing happened much for the rest of Tom's day, he could have easily finished first grade if Dennis stopped stealing his papers, but Tom was skin and bones despite the height. He couldn't really fight back.

Tom was pleasantly surprised when classes finished and none of the other children tried to play any tricks on him or steal his possessions. However, the peace had him raising his guard up. Dennis never left him alone.

That didn't stop Tom from going to the back and sitting beneath the enormous oak. The leaves swayed gently in the breeze, and a deep sense of nostalgia engulfed Tom.

Right on cue, the older and stockier boy comes running towards Tom with a smug grin.

"Hey Riddle! You writin' on your diary again, you little poofer?" Dennis towered over Tom. At eight, he was just repeating whatever the old drunkard across the street screamed at any passersby. "Give it here."

"Leave me alone," the smaller boy scowled, curling into himself to hide the leather bound diary.

"Or what?" Dennis didn't bother waiting for an answer. He snatched the diary from Tom's hands. The younger boy shouted in surprise, shooting up in an attempt to get it back.

Dennis laughed obnoxiously, holding the notebook beyond Tom's reach. He tried jumping up to reach for it, but Dennis just easily maneuvered himself out of the way.

"Give it back!" Tom gritted his teeth, now standing still and holding his ground. Dennis snorted and began to flip through the pages.

"Hey, why do you have weird squiggles? Pretending you know how to read, huh, Riddle? Not so smart now, are you?"

In another world, this was Tom Riddle's first brush with magic. Dennis Bishop would have been knocked on his feet by an invisible force, the diary flying back to its owner's hands. Tom would have then thought himself different, but easily superior from all the other children in Wool's.

In this world, Tom Riddle's world narrows down to understanding that a sharp jab at Dennis Bishop's navel will knock him off his feet. Tom could follow up by swiping a foot beneath Dennis's legs will knock him on his rear, and Tom could finish it in a great number of ways. The boy did not question his sudden knowledge then, too focused on getting his possession back.

Tom did just that, movements a little too slow for his comfort, but something he knew - with certainty - that training could easily amend. Tom's thoughts raced a thousand miles a minute, training exercises and regimens organizing itself neatly within his headspace, almost clinical with efficiency. A distant thought worried about sustenance and growth, early childhood development and muscle atrophy. Another countered that despite the limited resource for food, it was a good way to learn how to subsist for less.

Dennis Bishop can only stare at Tom in shock, the assault lasted for a few seconds. It looked like the breath was knocked right off the older boy's chest.

Tom blinked. His diary lied on the grass, and his fists hurt from where he punched Dennis in the abdomen. It was quick and efficient, Dennis Bishop did not see the punch coming.

The surprise seemed to wear off, and Dennis's face turned into a worrying shade of red. Before he could stand up, Tom quickly stomped on the bigger boy's abdomen. Dennis cried out in pain, and Tom took that as his chance to grab his diary and then run off. He didn't bother looking back to see if the other boy managed to catch his breath and follow, and Tom wasn't interested enough to know.

Seemingly by muscle memory, Tom gracefully dodged the orphanage staff and other children on his way to his room. He easily weaved in and out of people like he did it for a living, the feel of cool winds rushing against his face.

He could hear Dennis loud stomping trying to close the distance, but a spike of adrenaline had Tom moving faster - legs carrying him until he reached his room on the second floor.

Dennis was too far away to catch Tom, and the smaller boy already slammed and locked the door when Dennis finally managed to catch up.

Tom panted, heart beating wild and fast, he could hardly believe that he managed to punch Dennis Bishop hard enough to leave him breathless. The bigger boy slammed his fists on the door, screaming for Tom to come out and have another go. The smaller boy scowled, but otherwise kept quiet.

It was a rush;the punching, the running, Dennis' shocked face. It was… wonderful.

The banging on the door stopped, and that's when Tom was finally able to sigh in relief.

He plopped down on the floor, fingers digging into his diary.

Swallowing, Tom opened the smudged pages, leafing through his passages.

By all rights, he shouldn't know what any of these symbols meant, but it felt like he had known them all his life.

His eyes then landed on an entry of a dream he had a few days ago, the distant touch of a need to improve - to do better - lingered with Tom ever since then.

He closed his eyes, flashes of leaves moving in the wind and cheerful brown eyes fluttering in his mind's eye. Tom could feel the edges of a memory of a nams trying to rise across a thick fog of ice. He could feel it there, but it somehow remained beyond his reach.

Scowling, he stood up and then headed for the ratty vanity that had a basin of water for washing up. He scrubbed his face clean, soap nearly getting into his eyes, but managed to rinse it off just in time. Tom dried his face off with a clean rag, patting himself gently with it.

When Tom finished and then opened his eyes, his eyes widened in shock.

A pair of red eyes stared back, burning bright. Then everything turned clear.

'My name was Uchiha Madara.'