Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: ...I have no excuses for not writing. It's hard to get back into ittttttttt. I decided to try Voldy's perspective today.

The class was supposed to be reading.

"The rain fell. It fell hard. The clouds were dark. It was gloomy."

"The chicken gobbled. It walked across the street to get to the other side."

"Her name is Mary Sue. She was always a good girl."

"The cat was black. It jumped up and meowed."

Each little kid was to hold a book open on the table. Fingers were supposed to follow the rows of words while little mouths jumbled all the words together. The colorful art was there to jump out at them, from the not–so-gloomy rain to the surprisingly active black cat.

Books were meant to be read. And children were meant to enjoy them… right?

Wrong.

Mr. Riddle was ready to pull his hair out. Oh wait; they children already did that for him (revealing a scaly, prickly scalp that caused one of the brats to throw up). He was frantic and crazed, his bald head whipping this way and that while the little freaks ran around.

The man shook his head, cursing softly at Dumbledore's absence ('Stupid hand amputation. He could make it for a while with a blackened hand.') and shot a glare at one of the smaller children, Longbottom, his name was. The tiny child whimpered and stopped in his tracks, dropping his book on the floor.

The other, however, kept running, each with as many books as their grubby ager hands could hold. The sound of the tearing of paper filled the room, accompanied by the joyful shrieks of toddlers. Pages upon pages of paper fell to the floor. Some kids were sitting in a corner crying about paper cuts. Others were coloring on the walls. Others were just standing there screaming.

It was all giving Mr Riddle a headache. He was beginning to wonder if his plan for world domination as worth it… It was, he decided as he, himself, let out an earsplitting scream.

The children flinched, looking around warily. The books were dropped. The crayons were dropped. The crying... intensified.

Draco Malfoy, the brattiest of them all, led the children in an overwhelming cry of epic proportions. The room rattled with the noise as Mr Riddle's eyes flew open. The man snarled in anger and walked over to the brat, his flowy polka-dotted apron swishing ineffectively with him.

He got onto one knee, eye level with the Malfoy brat. The children kept screaming, but Draco stopped and looked Mr Riddle in the eye, his chin up and his arms crossed over his chest (Just like how he practiced in the mirror)

"Shut up."

"You shut up," Malfoy replied coolly. A scandalous gasp ran through the classroom at the name calling toward the teacher but Riddle ignored them.

His hand gripped Malfoy's shirt, pulling the boy forward in a rough jerk. The boy lost his balance and his cool, flinching at his touch. "Your little Dumbles isn't here right now. I'm in charge. You and your little attitude won't stop me."

From behind Malfoy, the Potter kid stepped up, linking his arm with the other boy. "We can together." Malfoy shot the boy a smile and he hooked his other arm with Weasely, who came up next to him. The cries slowly stopped and each child stood forward, a giant mass of link arms and giggly grins.

Mr Riddle glared down at them all. "You've been after me before. I know it. But I'm ready to fight back. Be ready."

"It's on," Malfoy replied.

Before Mr Riddle could smack him, the bell rang and a horde of overprotective rich parents swarmed into the classroom to pick up their children. As Malfoy walked away, his hand wrapped around his mother's, he shot a wicked little look back at Mr Riddle.

It's on. It'd been on. But these minor skirmishes were turning ugly fast. He sighed and untied the polka dotted apron, tossing it onto the floor next to the scattered pages on the floor.

A/N: I'm gonna try to begin posting something once a week. It's been a while and I miss writing. And I missed all my readers!

Review please.

XOXO

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