This is a rough draft for a 'villain rewrite story', for my Creative Writing Course
Keep in mind it is only draft one :')
~~~
"TOM! Get your sorry little rear over here, NOW!"

Oh no. She'd found out about my handiwork, no doubt... Warily, I step from behind the doorframe, trying to pull off my most innocent smile. "What is it, mother?"

She was certainly no prize. No wonder father left her! Her unkempt hair and cracked teeth weren't exactly pretty, and her personality was ugly to match. Her face contorts with fury, and she continues raging— "I just received a letter from the headmaster of Hogwarts himself! You know what he said about your ratty self?"

Her tone implies something not so great. "Ah... I received excellent scores in my classes?" I force a hopeful tone, feeling no emotions rise to her bait.

"He claims that you're harassing students! You've sent poor Emma to the hospital wing, for Merlin's sake!" Mother takes a hearty swig of her whiskey, then without warning slaps me— hard. I fall to the ground, angrily wondering if this would turn into yet another beating. Looking down at me with suddenly tearful eyes, she sniffs. "Oh Tom... Why couldn't you just be a normal little boy?" Then, with a teetering crash, she lands hard besides on the wooden floor. I check her pulse quickly, and it appears she's just drunkenly passed out. Tossing a blanket over her limp form, I gently push a pillow under her head before heading to my room. Life with mother could be trying sometimes, but I sure do my best...

At least she hadn't had time to rough me up even more before she crashed. Curled up on my bed, I look out the bleary window. It was a cold and grey day, perfect to match my thoughts. True, this weather could be expected around Christmas, but I prefer to think the universe was trying to match me. It makes me feel... Cooler. More appreciated.
Why couldn't you just be a normal little boy...
The thought swirls like poison in my brain. I was already aware of how abnormal I was. The blood pounds in my ears, heartbeat racing. Flashbacks to the offices, the doctors, the psychiatrists suddenly burst out like explosions of depressing life events. In all my years on this accursed planet, I could never feel. The voices of the 'health officials' chip away at me.
"A true psychopath."

"He should be locked up ma'am, before he hurts someone."

"I am so sorry, your son is destined for ruin..."
Golly, maybe I would learn to feel if people in my school house (Slytherin, the best, of course) treated me like a real boy! But no, because of my half-blood status, I am less. A second-class citizen, only higher than the few mudbloods in our group. No matter where I turned, I have always been treated less. Nearly last in partner groups, never given help with homework, ditched in the dorm, everything one could imagine and more. I've never had a chance to be more than an empty black void trapped in a fleshy prison! One day I'll die, amounting to nothing. Nothing at all because of those who never believed I was worth loving.

Even my own mother, pah... Angrily, I get off my bed and sit at my desk. I feel like something's snapped deep inside, a taut wire stretched just a little too far. Staring at the wand of yew upon my desk, sparks shoot from the tip as though responding to my disproportionate rage. I am fed up with living like this, with a drunk mother who hates me. Fed up with all the sneers at school. Fed up with just... Everything.

And it was time to finally do what I should've done ages ago.

I start scribbling on sheets of parchment, inky blots covering the page quickly. My quill swiftly runs across it, and it feels like hours that I'm there thinking. Forging my new name from my plain, disgusting, current identity. And then I hit it—
Voldemort. Lord Voldemort.

Lovely. It sounded fear-inducing, and I vow one day that it'll be such. Those pathetic fools at school would bow to me, they all would! But I had to get out of this house, no way would I be able to hatch my plans with my nosy drunk of a mother...  It'd probably serve me better if I were sent to a muggle foster home; they would know nothing. Yes, my mother would be the first to fall in my soon-to-be-glorious-name. Digging in the drawer of my nightstand, I find my rusty old pocket knife— a parting gift from my muggle father, supposedly. I feel even colder inside, as though ice were freezing me inside out. With a sense of purpose and vision filling my head, I then hear my mother call me from downstairs. I realize hours have passed.

"Tom, love, are you alright? Please come down!" Her voice is full of worry, but she still sounds groggy. Perfect.

Cradling the blade in hand, I smile cruelly as I head for the door. "Coming, mother."