Disclaimer: I own neither this nor that. Translation: It's not mine. I wish it was, but it's not. Property JK Rowling, and Warner Bros. The cover is property of Warner Bros. This one shot specifically uses a lot of dialogue, and it all comes from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Chapter 17: A Sluggish Memory, which, you guessed it, I don't own either.

Transformation

It was a calm day in Little Hangleton. An overcast sky hung overhead, a few rays of sunlight shining through the clouds.

In the middle of a field stood the Riddle House, strong and proud, with a rich, snobbish, family bustling about inside. A family of muggles.

On the outskirts of town stood the House of Gaunt, belonging to an equally snobbish family. A proud wizard, who had claimed to be the descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, and had past a few years ago, and his son.

It was to this house that Tom, Hogwarts' Head Boy come September, was travelling today.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was not pleased. After years of searching for his magical father, scouring the Hogwarts library for records of the surname "Riddle," he had determined that his magical parent was, in fact, his mother. He then searched for the name "Marvolo," and it had brought him to a house on the very outskirts of Little Hangleton: the house of Marvolo Gaunt, descendent of Slytherin himself.

And he wanted the truth.

Holding back his anger, and acquiring his most charming facade, he firmly knocked on the door, next to the snake nailed to it.

There was silence, and Tom had had enough. Holding the lamp out in front of him to shed light, he pushed open the door. It was dark and dirty, he could tell that immediately, and it took him a couple of seconds of moving the lamp around to find any sign of life. Finally, he saw a man in an armchair, with sunken, pale skin and long, scraggly black hair.

And suddenly, the man bolted from the chair, his knife and wand pointed threateningly even in his drunken stupor. "YOU!" he bellowed.

Tom staggered back for a few moments, caught off guard, but then regained his footing and composure, speaking commandingly. "Stop," he said in parseltongue, it was the quickest way to gain the man's trust and restore his sanity.

It worked. The man stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Tom and contemplating his presence. "You speak it?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Yes," Tom confirmed, dying to get on with his business, "I speak it." He stepped farther into the room, shutting the door. He took the man's silence as acceptance, and asked, "Where is Marvolo?"

This was given immediate answer. "Dead," he said, "Died years ago, didn't he?"

Tom frowned at the other man, then, confused and disappointed. "Who are you, then?" he asked, wanting the truth.

"I'm Morfin, ain't I?"

Tom did not hide his look of utter disgust. Why must one question their own name? Tom knew who he was, from his research, but was disgusted his own uncle had no idea. "Marvolo's son?" he asked, just to confirm his suspicions.

"'Course I am, then..." And then he pushed his hair out of his eyes to scrutinize his guest, and Tom saw a glint of black on his finger. He followed it his with eyes, and found it was a black-stoned ring, obviously of high quality and for one of excellent heritage and wealth. But Morfin broke him out of his thoughts. "I thought you was that Muggle," he whispered, "You look mighty like that Muggle," and this caught Tom's attention instantly.

"What Muggle?" he demanded, staring down his uncle.

"That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way," said Morfin, and Tom was alarmed when he hacked and spat near his shoes, then looked back into Tom's eyes. "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it..." Morfin's eyes were glazed over now, and Tom was growing impatient. "He came back, see," his uncle added, and the truth hit Tom like a ton of bricks.

His father hadn't wanted him. His father had abandoned his wife and unborn child and left him all alone.

He had grown up cold, alone, in an orphanage, surrounded by people he did not fit in with, because his father had left him.

But Tom didn't let any of this show on his face, and he had to clarify. He took another step, lessening the gap between them. "Riddle came back?"

Morfin spit at him again. "Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth! Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?"

Tom had no answer to that, but he mentally added it to his list of things he was pissed off about, and needed to find. He wasn't sidetracked too long, but Morfin was swinging the knife haphazardly now, so he took a step back.

"Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit... It's over..."

Oh, no, Tom thought, it was most definitely not over. He would avenge his mother, and his family, and then his father, as if he could even call him that, would be sorry.

A decision made, Tom stunned Morfin. He took his grandfather's last remaining heirloom, placing it on his own finger, and snatched up his uncle's wand before striding out of the house.

Tom found the house in no time at all; it was just over the hill. He cast a disillusionment charm on himself, went around the back of the house, and peeked through the window to make sure no one was in that room. A quick alohomora on the door, and he was inside. Staying silent, he wandered through the rooms until he heard voices.

And there they were. Just sitting there, drinking tea. They were talking and laughing as a family would, without a care. His father wasn't hard to find; he was practically his twin. There was an older man and woman, who could only be his grandparents. The drawing room was proud and elegant; elaborate woodwork, expensive paintings, antique mirrors, and a crystal chandelier.

The irony went through Tom like a knife. His father was laughing with his family as he himself would have, if his father had not been such a coward.

The anger lit a fire beneath him, and he did the unforgivable.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" he bellowed, and all three laid dead on the floor. The guilt was there for a moment, but it left as quickly as it had come. He looked around the room, assessing the damage he knew was nonexistent.

And then Tom caught sight of his reflection.

Who was the man that stared back at him? Tom Riddle, his filthy, muggle father, who laid dead on the floor.

In a burst of rage, Tom pointed his wand at the mirror, firing a dark curse that shattered it into a million pieces. It broke the glass. It broke his reflection. It broke his previous life. It broke any connection he would have to his father into the sharp, jagged points of broken glass that flew from the wall in a satisfying explosion, raining around the destructive scene.

Who was he?

Lord Voldemort raised his wand in triumph.

A/N: Hi! The first in a series of one shots based on word prompts, for xPerfectlyImperfect's Scrabble Challenge. This prompt was jagged. I considered naming each one-shot after the word, but then I realized "jagged" is a sucky name for this. I just thought this was such a great idea, and an awesome writing exercise to help me improve.

I hope you liked it! Please tell me if you did! and maybe check out my other work?

Lara,

EDIT: this is now just a one shot, not a collection. other words are being combined with other challenges.