For Musesfool's Psalmfic challenge.

O my God, make them like a wheel; as stubble before the wind.
As the fire burneth a wood, and as the flame setteth the mountains on fire;
So persecute them with thy tempest, and make them afraid with they storm.
Fill their faces with shame; that they may seek thy name, O Lord.
Let them be confounded and trouble for ever; yea, let them be put to shame and perish:
That men may know that thou, whose name alone is JHVH, are the most high over all the earth.
     Psalm 83

He is a quiet boy.

He likes to play in the garden, but is meticulous about it, as few boys his age can be, because he doesn't want to get in trouble for being dirty. They always think he is, no matter how hard he scrubs his hands and face; behind his ears. He likes the garden anyway, because the house is stiflingly neat, and it worries at him.

He is a child of dust and whispers and metamorphic kisses.

They know it, too, and hate him for it, and so do all the other boys and girls, the ones with parents who love them and fine clothes and toys at Christmas, and even the ones like him, because they aren't, quite.

They band against him, the ones his age and the big boys and girls and even St. John James, who's only five. They circle him on the playground, where there's only cold stone to catch him, and call him names and taunt him (Tommy Riddle has no dad, because his mum was very bad, and when she saw what she had done, she died and left him all alone), but the garden is his. The flowers and the dirt and bugs and snakes are his domain, and he players there as much as he can, when he wins playtime from the matrons, and someday he'll go do the garden forever and they'll be sorry. Someday they won't call him Baby Bastard or Runty Riddle or even Tommy.

Someday they won't call him anything.

Someday he'll slip into the garden and it will be a whole different world, and this one will fall away, with its chores and matrons and bullies and pointinglaughingdancing kids and he will do great, terrible things and show them all.

Sister Mary Lazarus beats him because "the snake is evil, and tempts man into breaking with the Lord," and someday from his garden he'll come, with his snakes who like him, and make her sorry for his back and his empty stomach and having to mop the floor.

He'll take the water bucket and hurl it, and huge torrents of water will come rushing out and sweep the house away. He'll take his slate and snap it in half, and his chalk will fly at Mr. Haver and write lines all over him, and it won't even be chalk at all, it will be blood and Mr. Haver will be red all over, covered in "I will be respectful of my betters" in bright, bright blood.

Someday they'll come to him on hands and knees and beg for his favor and oh, won't he laugh? He'll point his finger, and people will scream, or bow, or kiss him, and he'll be loved by everyone, and all the mothers and fathers in the entire world will want him for their son and he won't need any of them, not one, just his snakes and his garden, and they won't dare to ask for more, lest he come to them at night and say their names and watch them die.

He is a quiet boy, but he has dreams, and someday he'll make them come true.

And everyone will know.