A/N. For this story assume that the first horcrux Riddle tried to make was with the Gaunt ring.

It didn't work. All those plans, all that work for nothing.

You planned for years. It hadn't taken very long you very to track down you father, the man who you hate above all else (even Dumbledore), the man who had abandoned you and your mother, the man whose actions lead you to spend years in that orphanage.

Years in hell.

You had planned you father's death for years, but even so, in the back of your mind you hoped he would have some explanation, some reason for abandoning you. You don't like to admit it but he may have had some reason for abandoning you mother (you researched her too and you sincerely doubt your father fell in love with her of his own free will), you might had even been able to forgive him for that, but the one thing you could never forgive him for was abandoning you.

Back in the orphanage you had always dreamed that one day your father would come to take you home, and as the years past and nothing happened you resented him more and more. Still, as you approached Riddle Manor, there was still a small piece of you that wanted to be accepted (loved), that hoped that you father just maybe had a decent explanation.

He didn't.

They (your father and grandparents) had looked at you like you were nothing, like you were less than dirt to them. You would never be a member of their family they told you, you was nothing more than a child of a devil.

That was far too similar to what you had always been told in the orphanage.

And it was something you could never forgive.

You had intended to use you father to create your first Horcrux and the part where the problems started. It didn't work. All that planning and it didn't work.

You collapse to the ground laughing hysterically. You had never once believed you could fail. You eyes catch site of the ring on your hand and you through it away, visions of you uncles face floating through you mind.

You had visited Morphin just half an hour before, easily convincing him to take the blame for the murders you intended to commit.

You had visited Morphin just half an hour before and you are absolutely disgusted to what the descendants of Slytherin have become.

You mothers side of the family is magical and lives in filth, believing them selves to be better than everyone else. You fathers side of the family is (was) not magical and lives (lived) in riches, blieveing themselves to be better than everyone else. You laugh harder at the realization; despite all the differences in everything that really matters they are exactly the same.

Everthing had seemed so clear in the morning. You would take your first steps to become the immortal Lord Voldemort.

You would destroy the muggles for you never forgot (or forgave) how they treated you in that would destroy the mudbloods, as most of the muggleborn went into non-Slytherin houses and spend the last six years tomenting you. And you would use the pure-bloods to achieve all this (you would never forget how they treated you before you discovered your relation to Slytherin and you get a twisted feeling of amusement when they bow to you- a halfblood).

You would have set everyone you hated against each other and watched the world erupt in flames. You would make all those who hurt you (and never tried to save you) pay.

And that's the problem. You killed your father and you grandparents but it was personal. They abandoned you and you hated them and that's why you killed them. Not murder for the sake of murder, but death fuelled by the tiniest bit of righteous fury, just enough to through off the ritual.

To make it fail.

You could try again, but you fathers cold eyes and Morphins insane laugher echo's in your mind, and you realize with an icy certainty that you don't want to become your family.

It's to late for you really, you're so filled with anger and rage that that you can never quite get over, and you hate this world to much not to start a fight, but perhaps you can change your goals a little. Maybe you will fight for people who are told they will never be good enough, people who are pushed to the side, people who nobody bothers to try and save. People like you.

Maybe you can try to ensure that there will never be another Tom Riddle.

As you turn to leave you catch site of your fathers dead eyes, cold even in death and you shiver.

You don't want to be Voldemort anymore.