A/N: This is written for a Harry Potter challenge game I am currently playing. My task was to write/re-write a scene from the story from someone else's point of view. Since we never do get a full account of what happened the night Voldemort murdered the Riddles, I thought I'd try to fill in the gaps.
PATRICIDE
The day was pleasant enough – perhaps too pleasant in the way that the sun, unshielded by clouds, hurt his eyes. It was late afternoon and the boy had taken refuge in the shade of a grand oak tree in the centre of the sloping lawns. Though the manor house, in all its false magnificence, loomed in the distance, the boy was uninterested. He had trekked from the madman's hovel all the way to the grounds of this place, but now he had arrived, his thoughts were no longer occupied by the Muggles who inhabited the manor.
He could have very well Apparated to the house, but he had insisted on walking. He had long ago discovered that motivation changed when your body was occupied with actions as mundane as walking. It gave him time to rethink and re-evaluate. If he had learned anything at all growing up in that treacherous orphanage, it was that quick, uncontrolled actions spelled trouble. Though he knew the Muggles would show him no nuisance, you could never be certain of unseen consequences. The more he mulled over his plan, the more his thoughts merged and changed. Slowly, he put aside his aside his original purpose in exchange for something more troubling.
Which was why he was now sitting on the ground with his back to the tree, his boot scuffing at the manicured lawn until the grass tore up, unearthing an ugly brown stain on the too perfect slope. His fingers were fiddling with a thin, greyish slip of wood that had previously been the madman's wand.
His madman uncle.
No… Morfin was no one's uncle and certainly not his. The frail scrap of a man hadn't even known of his existence until today. The boy knew that even if Morfin had known, he very well would not have come and rescued him from the torturous grasp of Muggle filth. Morfin was no better than them, completely unworthy of the noble lineage he carried in his blood – the blood which they shared.
His instincts had itched to dispose of Morfin right there and then, but his uncle was a pure-blooded wizard. Death was for lowlifes – Muggles and their consorts. Morfin deserved another fate, something more befitting of his station. After all, the higher the rank, the longer the fall. The boy was adamant that Morfin was only worthy of a punishment that showed him the same courtesy that had been bestowed upon him.
He stripped Morfin of his identity, taking his wand and the last family heirloom, a ring with the Peverell coat of arms etched into its black stone.
Let him mix with the Muggles now, the boy thought, thumbing the ring on his finger, and see how long he lasts until he's thrown into an asylum, ranting and raving. The bloodthirsty Muggle doctors can have him then.
The boy turned the wand over in his hands. It was the most inelegant piece of wizarding construction he had ever seen – smudged with fingerprints, dented by long years of carelessness, scorched by backfire magic, greyed with age. It carried none of the power and beauty his own wand had. Strange how wands came to resemble their owners. The boy had never thought much about wandlore in the past five years, but his curiosity was piqued. This year he had learned all he could about Slytherin – that occupation could now be set aside. Perhaps now was the time to move to on to the study of more powerful magics, lore that few wizards sought to understand. The boy knew he could succeed. He had the drive to seek it, to know it. Since the revelation that he was a wizard, he had always wanted to know everything the magical had to offer. It was his privilege and his right.
The boy's eyes fell to the sight of his boots, their toes now caked with dirt. Frowning, he pointed Morfin's wand and murmured the spell. Warmth shot down the wand and the dirt vanished. The boy eyed the worthless stick of wood. Perhaps it was a bit more than a twig after all… It merely needed the right user.
The boy pressed his back into the trunk of the tree. It was getting late – the sun was at an inconvenient angle in the sky. When he looked at distant manor house – towards the horizon – it shot stabbing pain into his eyes. He growled and shaded his eyes, squinting at the deceptively magnificent building. It was maybe the grandest Muggle building he had seen, a sturdy affair built long ago. He wondered what its occupants were doing now – doing useless Muggle tasks, boring themselves to death with newspapers and radio stations.
Perhaps they were listening to the war news. The boy did not care about the Muggle war, though he knew Muggle-born and half-blood classmates who were concerned for relatives unable to protect themselves from German attacks by magic. He could remember his summers from a few years ago, when the orphanage's children were continuously forced into their hideout during the night. They called the attacks the Blitz, but he privately thought of it as an extended attempt to rob him of his sleep. He never appreciated being abruptly woken in the dead of night, and he fought to stay where he was. He was an accomplished enough wizard by that point that he had nothing to fear – but of course Mrs Cole never understood that. Eventually, she gave up on him, saying that if he wanted to be blown to cinders, so be it.
She didn't know that German Muggles – persistent as they were – were just as incapable of blowing him up as British ones.
The boy smiled. Muggle wars were useless. Muggles killing Muggles – all the power to them. If they killed each other off, then he wouldn't have to waste precious time obliterating them himself. No, they did not deserve to be obliterated by magic. They were useless, and therefore it was useless to pay much attention to them.
The exception was the Muggle in the manor house. He felt the familiar burning in his stomach as he thought about them. Like Morfin, the Muggle had condemned him to a harsh childhood. And just as he had done with Morfin, the boy would exact his revenge on him. Morfin had given him all the information he needed – the Muggle in the manor was his father, the one who had abandoned him before he was even born. As he was a Muggle, death was the only punishment for such a crime. The Muggle deserved death.
So why was he still sitting here on the manor's grounds, waiting? He could have already gone to the house and killed him. The boy had been filled with the paradox of excited rage when Morfin had revealed where his father was – rage against the man, excitement at the knowledge that punishment was now viable. After dealing with Morfin, the boy had stalked away from the hovel and across the grounds… to come to rest beneath this tree.
Green sparks flared and shot out of Morfin's wand, igniting a few grass leaves. They darkened and curled, crumbling into ash.
He could not storm the manor and kill the Muggle. The Ministry would be on him. He needed a better plan. He could wait. He knew that everything had its proper place and time. He was patient. He had waited sixteen years to come face to face with the man who had doomed him to a forsaken childhood. He could wait a little longer.
The boy looked down at Morfin's wand and flipped it between his fingers. He had stolen his madman uncle's identity. He had been planning on disposing it, but despite its appearance, it still held power, that much was certain. It was simply Morfin who was incapable of using it properly.
An idea sprang to mind. The wand was the key. The boy knew that the Ministry could force wands to reveal the last spell they cast. If he went to the manor house and killed the Muggle using Morfin's wand, wouldn't the Ministry think he had done it? Then Morfin would be sent to Azkaban, which was a much better sentence than any Muggle asylum could offer. It was as good a punishment as the boy could have hoped for.
He smiled and tapped the wand favourably with his free hand. It was a solid plan – as long as he could pull it off. And he knew that he could. Every plan he had ever had had worked. He had never known defeat, so why would it catch him this time?
"Oi, you! Boy!"
The boy looked up. A tall, gruff man was limping angrily towards him. A Muggle. The boy recognized him – he had seen the man wandering around the grounds earlier in the day, wallowing in the dirt. He guessed he was a gardener – nothing troublesome.
He pocketed the wand and stood up. The gardener was coming closer, but he was slowed by his limp. He was yelling accusations and warnings, telling him to get off the grounds or something similarly mundane. The boy shrugged, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes, and stuck his hands in his pockets. His fingers closed around his hidden wands, one in either hand. He briefly wondered if he would be able to cast two separate spells at the same time if he held two wands. The gardener – now practically frothing at the mouth as he spotted the torn up grass by the oak tree – would be a good subject to test it on.
Except it was now getting dark, the sun sinking below the horizon. The boy released his grasp on the wands. Now was not the right time to experiment. Besides, the Muggle was completely uninteresting and not worth his time.
The Muggle in the manor was.
Hands in his pockets, the boy walked off across the grounds, completely ignoring the irate gardener. The Muggle followed him for some time, huffing and puffing and shaking his fists, but he slowly fell behind. The boy ignored him. He had business to attend to.
As the boy drew closer to the manor – the shouts of the gardener fading into silence – the more he began to appreciate it. Certainly such a fine home should be in the hands of wizards. It was old, but – like Hogwarts – its age only increased its magnificence. His upper lip twisted. One day this house would be in the hands of wizards – his hands. It was technically his inheritance. Once he finished the deed here tonight, the house would rightfully be his.
The gardens around the place were extensive and well-kept, even though they were untouched by magic. Perhaps the old Muggle gardener wasn't quite as daft as he thought.
The boy rounded the gardens to the front of the house. The sky was now a deep blue streaked with purple and red, the light fading rapidly. The shadows of the trees stretched far, casting their darkness across the rows of cultivated flowers and bushes. Despite the warm summer breeze, it was appropriately eerie.
The Muggles had a name for it… what was the line again? He had heard it in the orphanage from some of the older children, the ones who went to Muggle school.
'Tis now the very witching time of night.
Yes, that was it. The boy smiled, satisfied. Though he loathed to admit it, sometimes the Muggles of old made a lot of sense.
There were lights on in the house. Though the windows were sprung open, he could not see past the barricade of soft, billowing curtains. The faint sound of tinkling china and the murmur of voices flowed through the nearest set of arched windows. So, the Muggle was eating dinner, and he had guests. No matter – the guests would be witness to the Muggle's atrocities, and then they would also be disposed of. It was their fate for choosing such poor company.
A grand set of double doors stood at the top of three marble steps. The boy walked up them and momentarily admired the workmanship of the doors. Whoever had carved them had been skilled indeed. He would be proud to take ownership of this house tonight.
The boy withdrew his wand and set it against the crack between the double doors. He was about to cast his spell when he thought better of it and put his wand away. No – he would not sneak into the house like some criminal. He was here on official business. He would present himself honourably.
He knocked on the door.
A voice sounded from deep within the house. The boy waited.
Nothing happened.
His lips twitched. Surely Muggles had the manners to answer their doors?
He knocked again.
Footsteps pattered down the hall inside. The doors swung open and a pale-faced girl in black-and-white servants garb – seventeen or eighteen by the looks of her – gazed out at him.
"Yes?" she said. "What do you want?"
"Hello," he said warmly. "I'm an old friend of the family from London, and I was visiting the town. Upon arrival, I heard that Mr Riddle still resided here. I thought it would be unkind of me to be in town without paying a visit to a dear friend, so I –"
"Mr and Mrs Riddle are at dinner," the girl said shortly. "They were not expecting company tonight, and they wish for me to tell you that no company of any sort – old friend or not – is welcome. Especially one dressed so… drably," she added, her eyes narrowing as she looked him up and down. "Good night, sir."
The boy swore under his breath – perhaps a change of clothes would have done him well. His summer clothes – all from the orphanage – did not look impressive enough to gain him entrance in this fashion.
"Wait!" He pressed a hand against the closing door and peered at the girl through the gap. He met her eyes and smiled. "I am really not as poor as my clothing may suggest," he said, raising his other hand and showing her the Peverell ring glinting on his finger. "I would very much appreciate it if I could speak to Mr Riddle. I mean no disrespect. Please, I would be very grateful if you let me in to see them."
The girl blinked. "I'm sorry, sir, I cannot—"
"I would be very grateful."
She blinked again and looked away. She was momentarily speechless. A small, nervous laugh bubbled up inside her throat and she pressed a hand to her mouth. She glanced at him, bit her lower lip and then smiled coyly.
The boy grinned, as if to encourage her.
"Oh, very well," the girl said and drew the door open. "Just don't stay long," she added as he passed through into the hall, "Mr and Mrs Riddle can get quite the temper when they're interrupted."
The boy raised his head and looked around, scanning the hall for anything of importance. "Oh, I won't be long," he said, craning his neck. There was a grand crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, which provided most the light. The floor was some kind of white marble. Portraits hung on the walls, but though the painter showed talent, the subjects stayed firmly in their frames.
The girl closed the doors and gave him a small push in the back. "Go on, then," she said. "The dining room is through the door on your right."
"Thank you," he said.
"My name is Sarah." She grinned and gave a small, wobbling curtsey.
He raised an eyebrow, and decided to play along with her game. He bowed. "Hello, Sarah. My name is Tom."
She looked delighted. "Same as Mr Riddle's son," she said. "I think you'll fit in her splendidly."
Mr Riddle's son? Has the bastard had another child and disposed his sour name on it?
He gave the blushing girl a deep nod in thanks and passed through the door on the right. The dining room beyond was a long, narrow room, furnished politely with no bright colours to be seen. There was another crystal chandelier lighting the room, along with several lamps that looked as though they were decorated with gold filigree. A long, red and gold Persian rug covered most of the floor. A long, carved oak table sat in the centre of the room, taking up most of the space. It groaned under the weight of many silver platters and elegant china dishes. At the end of the room, French doors were thrown open to show the drawing room, which was similarly decorated.
There were three people at the table, swamped by its size. No doubt this dining room had been designed to serve a great many more guests, so it looked a bit odd to see three Muggles spread out as far as possible from each other so as to use up the most amount of space. Two were an elderly couple, with greyed, wispy hair and blotched skin, and the third was a thin, middle-aged man with dark hair and eyes.
The boy's stomach growled unexpectedly. The smell of the food was making him hungry, especially as he realized he had no eaten for half a day.
The three Muggles looked appalled, though whether they were more appalled at his appearance, his growling stomach or his presence here, the boy could not be sure. Even so, it did not matter. Why should he bothered by what Muggles – especially these Muggles – thought of him?
"Sarah!" the old man bellowed, ejecting more sound than the boy would have expected from one his age.
The old woman winced. "Thomas, don't shout, you're hurting my ears."
"Don't patronize me, Mary!"
"What are you doing here?" the younger man snapped, ignoring the elderly couple. "How dare you come into this house and interrupt our dinner! And a filthy wanderer, no less!"
"I beg pardon," the boy said politely. "I am a visitor, and believe me, I am no filthy wanderer, sir. I have come to speak to Mr and Mrs Riddle. Sarah was kind enough to allow me in. I will not take up much of your time."
"I do not recognize you," the younger man said. "Leave immediately! This is not a hostel! You may not come and go as you please."
"I will not leave," the boy said flatly. "I have come to speak to Mr and Mrs Riddle."
"I cannot see why," the woman, Mary, said. "We never have visitors anymore."
"Then let me be your first," the boy said.
The woman smiled. "That's a nice dear," she said.
"Well, I have never seen you in my life!" her son shouted.
"I have half a mind to give that girl a good beating," the old man rumbled. "Letting strangers into our house, I tell you—"
"Oh, father, be quiet," the younger man said. "I do not need another one of your bellowing rants. As for you, young man, get out this instance—"
The boy's fingers tightened around Morfin's wand. Why was he taking this verbal abuse? He could have done it already—"
"—and how dare you drop by unannounced!" the younger man finished, standing up.
His dark eyes flashed and the boy froze. Those eyes – they were his eyes. He should have recognized this man immediately. It was as if he were looking at himself in a mirror that aged his reflection by thirty years. He had found his father at last. He was face to face with the man whose name he shared: Tom Riddle.
The boy straightened and looked his father in the eye. "With all due respect, I have just announced myself," he said coldly.
Riddle strode over to him, as if he was trying to intimidate him with his height. The effect might have worked on a Muggle, but not on the boy – especially when he and Riddle were the same height.
"Who are you, then?" Riddle spat.
The boy did not remove his eyes from his father's face. "Do you not recognize me?"
Riddle stirred. His breathing increased – was he sweating? The boy thought so. Good, he said to himself. He should be frightened of me.
"No," Riddle finally said.
The boy grinned. He knew Riddle was lying. The man might not realize it yet, but he soon would. Their resemblance to one another was too great to ignore.
"Sit down, Tom," Mary snapped. "Enough of this – our uninvited guest is hungry. The least we can do is let him eat and then be rid of him."
"No, mother," Riddle said. "I will not have this scum eating the hard-earned food from our table."
"Then throw him out!" the old man shouted. "I have had enough of this—"
The boy rolled his eyes. Slipping Morfin's wand out of his pocket, he hid it behind his back and pointed it at the old man – his grandfather, he realized. Another man with the worthless name, Tom Riddle.
Silencio!
The spell reverberated in his mind and the old man fell silent mid-speech. He clutched at his throat, his eyes popping.
"Dear? Are you all right?" Mary asked.
Thomas Riddle shook his head violently and reached for his glass of wine, downing the entire contents in one gulp. He set down the glass and opened his mouth, but still no sound came out. An embarrassed look passed across his face and he pressed a hand against his mouth, looking back and forth between his son and wife.
Neither seemed concerned and looked almost grateful for the man's sudden descent into permanent silence.
The boy smiled and kept the wand hidden from view. He sat down at the table across from his father and slid a platter of some kind of salad towards him. Grabbing a white roll, he began to eat. The family observed him, the mother and son stunned into silence that rivalled the muted old man.
"Do excuse me while I eat," the boy said. Under the cover of the table, he pointed the wand at the door and whispered a series of spells in his mind. "I have had a very long day and, as you might have noticed, I am very hungry." He bit into the roll. It was as good as something he might have found at Hogwarts.
Riddle gawped at him. "Mother!" he protested when he finally found his tongue again.
The old woman fanned herself. "Never mind, Tom. We can let it go just this once."
The old man's eyes popped. He waved his hands in the air, but his wife and son ignored him.
"Very well," Riddle said. He folded his hands and stared at the boy. "What business brings one such as you to Little Hangleton?"
"A matter of grave importance," the boy said. He finished the salad and wiped his lips on the nearest available napkin.
"Such as?" Mary asked. "You show up here uninvited, come to our table and eat our food without so much as telling us your name."
"Mrs Riddle," the boy said, "believe me, I will tell you everything in due course."
He flicked Morfin's wand under the table. A glass shattered, sending glass cascading across the table. Wine splattered like blood, staining the white tablecloth red.
Mary shrieked in surprise and clutched at her heart. Riddle's fingers gripped the table. His eyes snapped to the boy, but he merely poured himself a glass of the wine and took a casual drink.
"This is very good," he said.
Riddle's nostrils flared. "So it is," he said. "Now, tell us. Why have you come to visit and so late at night?"
"It is something of a long story," the boy said.
The paintings on the wall rattled. Riddle's fingertips went white.
"Perhaps you could cut it down for us," he growled.
"Oh no, I couldn't, it would make no sense—"
Mary was eyeing the rattling paintings. Immediately, they stopped. "Perhaps we should withdraw to the drawing room," she suggested. "Are you finished with your meal?"
"Not quite," the boy said, helping himself to some Italian dish. "This is quite good, my compliments to your cook."
A shadow passed over the table. The Riddles seemed to settle down, until the old man began gesturing wildly. As the boy continued to eat calmly, the old woman's gaze was drawn to what her husband was pointing at – the fact that there was nothing casting the shadow on the table.
She screamed and leapt up. The shadow vanished.
The boy looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong, dear lady?"
Her wrinkled hand fanned rapidly at her heaving chest. "No, no, I was seeing things." She gingerly sat down.
Except that her chair had vanished.
Mary Riddle tumbled to the floor in a heap of dull pink satin. She grunted as she hit the floor, cushioned only by the Persian rug. Her bones were rattled. Slowly, she stood up again and clutched at the table for support, breathless. Gingerly, she walked to the next oak chair and slowly sat down.
The boy continued to eat.
His father continued to stare at him.
"I suppose you better tell us your story, then, boy," Riddle said grudgingly.
"I suppose I should," the boy agreed. "You see, I am a student at a very grand school up in Scotland."
"What sort of things do they teach at this school?" Riddle interrupted.
"Many things," the boy said. "You wouldn't be interested. I am studying history this summer. I was interested in the local history of some of England's smaller villages, and I chose to come to Little Hangleton to research it's past."
"There's not much to be found here," Riddle said.
"Indeed," Mary said. She was clutching at the front of her gown, her chest still heaving.
The boy twirled a string of pasta on his fork. "What do you think, Mr Riddle?" he asked, turning to the old man.
The old man clutched at his throat and shook his head. Riddle gave his father a look and turned back to the boy.
"My apologies for my father's rudeness," Riddle said uncomfortably. "He sees fit not to speak with you."
"I was going to point out that he isn't a very talkative fellow," the boy said smugly. "Not that it matters. He can still listen." He cleared his plate and took another drink. "On my way into town, I passed by a very interesting – but disgusting place. A hovel, of sorts."
Riddle sat straight up, his eyes flashing again. "You what?"
"I passed by a hovel," the boy said. He swished the wine around in his glass. "I met a very strange man there, someone by the name of Morfin Gaunt, I believe."
Riddle's eyes widened, but he did not speak.
"Morfin had quite a few choice words about you, none of them too pleasant. He is quite the ruffian, wouldn't you agree? In fact, he tried to attack me because he mistook me for you." The boy drained his glass. "Isn't that strange?"
Riddle went white.
Mary screamed. Her screech rang through the dining room, and then she was on her feet, clawing at her pink gown, tearing off her jewellery and throwing them aside. Several big, fat spiders had crawled their way through her clothing, appearing in her bodice. Moving as if she were in a dance, she threw them to the floor and tried to stamp on them. The spiders crawled away, sliding into a crack at the base of a wall.
"Pardon me," she said. "I did not… I mean, I…" She straightened, trying to ignore the deep flush in her cheeks. She walked stately across the room, put a hand on the door handle and pulled.
The door did not open. Mary tried again.
It still did not open.
She turned around and walked back to her seat, double-checking to make sure it was still there before she sat down. "The servants must be playing games again," she muttered. "I have half a mind to sack them all…"
The boy shrugged and poured himself another glass. "Morfin told me some interesting history," he continued. "Some of it confirmed suspicions I'd previously had. But it is thanks to him that I am here tonight, to speak to you, Mr Riddle." He toasted his father and took a sip. "After all, without him I would have never known that this was the place to come to claim my inheritance."
"What inheritance?" Riddle said coldly.
The boy smiled. I know you know now, he thought. You can't hide from me.
He flicked his wand. The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Mary jumped to her feet. "The drawing room!" she said, patting herself all over as if to check for more spiders. She coughed and put her hands behind her back. "Let us… proceed to the drawing room. It can be well lit in there and it is the proper place to entertain guests."
The boy drank the rest of his wine and smacked his lips. "You really do have delicious taste in food," he said, standing up. "Shall I continue this tale in the drawing room?" He took Mary's arm and gently led her through the French doors.
Riddle and his father shuffled after them. The moment the boy stepped into the drawing room, it lit up. Mary did not notice, as she was still flustered with fright. The boy helped her into a large, comfortable chair and then took his own seat.
However, the voiceless old man and his son had noticed. Thomas Riddle was pointing at the lamps on the walls and Riddle was refusing to take a seat. He threw his father ungently into the closest chair and remained standing in the middle of the room.
"What are you talking about when you speak of 'inheritance', boy?" he said.
The boy smiled and put his hands behind his back. He ran his fingers along the stolen wand as he paced around the bright drawing room. "I mean all of this," he said. "This is my house."
Mary hiccupped. "Your house?"
"Yes, madam," the boy said. "My house. Or it will be, after tonight."
"How can that be?" she scoffed. "You are a very nice guest, I suppose, but this is the Riddle House. We are the only Riddles. This inheritance you speak of is nothing—"
"Mother—" Riddle's attempt at stopping her was interrupted.
"—oh, do shut up, Tom, you've had enough to say for one night," Mary said. "I have something to say to this boy—"
"You are the only Riddles?" the boy said. His heart leapt. He hadn't counted on this. Clearly fate was on his side, to present him with the chance to wipe the filthy Riddle line from this earth and erase his sole connection to the Muggle world. After tonight, he would have no more Muggle relatives and he would take his position as a pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin.
"Yes," the woman said proudly. "Me, my husband, my son. We are a very old, very rich family in the area. We own nearly all of Little Hangleton. We are influential and powerful and no tramp like you will inherit our family's fortune."
"I am so sorry," the boy exclaimed, acting as if he hadn't heard Mary's remarks. "I just realized I never told you my name. How rude of me."
"Indeed," Mary said, her hands smoothing down her pink satin gown. "Tell us, boy, what is your name?"
"Mother!" Riddle protested. "No!"
The boy looked at his father; he could not believe the man was still standing. He pointed the wand at him – Riddle shot backwards and landed in a chair so hard all the breath was knocked out of him. The boy walked to the centre of the room and addressed his filthy relatives.
"My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle," he said. "And you—" he turned, locking eyes with a panicked Riddle – "are my father."
Mary gasped and clutched at her heart. "The scandal!" she whispered faintly. "That wench… a son…" She turned to Riddle, her eyes blazing. "You had a child?" she roared. "An illegitimate, bastard child?"
"I didn't know!" Riddle shouted. "I left the bitch! She told me she was pregnant, but she could have lost the baby for all I knew! How should I know she would be able to survive giving birth to this… this… bastard!" He stood up and rounded on the boy.
"ENOUGH!" the boy shouted.
The burning anger had risen. He had had enough of this useless Muggle banter. He had never known anything about his mother until he found the Gaunts, until he found Morfin… he knew his mother had been useless, untalented. She could have saved herself with magic, but she had lost the will to live. Pathetic. She was just as guilty of abandoning him as everyone else involved in the whole rancid matter. Still… hearing his father speak of her like this was unforgivable.
He withdrew Morfin's wand. Riddle screamed as he saw it – he knew what it was, and what it could do in the hands of someone capable. He began to run, but the boy was too quick for him.
"Crucio!"
Riddle collapsed on the floor, writhing and screaming with pain. The boy stood over him, his eyes ablaze with sixteen years worth of anger. Mary shrieked in horror, but the boy threw a Silencing Charm over his shoulder at her, cutting her off mid-scream.
"Help!" Riddle gasped. "Help!"
"No help is coming," the boy said. "I came here tonight intending to exact my revenge, and, by God, I will do it."
"Mercy!" Riddle wheezed. "Mercy, please! Anything, anything, I'll do anything!"
"You're a Muggle," the boy spat. "A worthless Muggle, and a worthless father, who abandoned a son just as you abandoned your wife."
"She – wasn't – my – wife! Argh!"
"She just as well was!" the boy yelled. "She married you!"
Riddle twisted on the floor, his face contorted with pain. "Against my will! She lured me in! She was a witch!"
"And I'm a wizard!" The boy waved the wand and cancelled the spell. Riddle lay panting on the floor, covered in sweat, the remnants of his unbearable pain etched over his face. Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position.
"What… do you want?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming. "We've done nothing to you, we didn't even know you existed until today—"
"And that is exactly where you went wrong," the boy said quietly. His fist was curled around the wand, clamped so tightly his knuckles were turning white. "Yes, my mother was a witch. But you left her. You left her to die. She died after I was born, leaving me orphaned because you never cared about her."
"… she captured me! I married her against my will!"
"A love potion, I take it," the boy said. He walked around the room, feeling the need to move. "Amortentia. You should have been grateful. You were given a chance to walk in the magical world. But no, you abandoned her outright and went running. You left her to die and you condemned me to a miserable childhood in a London orphanage. The things I went through because you did not have the courage to stay with her… you're despicable."
He threw himself down into an elegantly decorated gold-and-white couch. Riddle stayed on the floor, his head bowed. Mary and Thomas were watching in silent horror.
"What are you going to do then, my son?" Riddle said.
"I AM NOT YOUR SON!" the boy shouted.
"Very well," Riddle said. "What are you going to do, Tom?"
"That," the boy snarled, "is not my name. Do not ever call me that, Riddle! I will not have your filthy Muggle name staining the reputation of the Heir of Slytherin!"
Riddle lifted his head and stared at him. A smile was spreading across his face and suddenly he broke out in mad laughter.
The boy's lips pinched together so hard they hurt. "What is so funny?"
"Heir of Slytherin?" Riddle choked back laughter. "You're as mad as your insane uncle! Go back to the hovel, boy, where you belong!"
The boy rose to his feet. "Do not insult the name of Salazar Slytherin in front of me!" he shouted. "Crucio!"
Riddle shrieked and once again writhed on the carpet. This time, the pain was completely merciless. He could not speak at all, only scream.
"You dare to besmirch the name of the greatest wizard who ever lived?" the boy yelled. "You, with your filthy Muggle blood! I am his only surviving heir! His noble blood runs in my veins. I will not stand to hear him insulted!"
Mary, overcoming her shock and fear, suddenly pitched herself forwards, flying at the boy with her long fingernails bared like claws. The boy saw her just in time – he sidestepped her attack and pointed the wand at her.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Green light shot out of the wand and hit Mary Riddle in the chest. She collapsed on the floor, her eyes wide with shock. She was dead.
One Riddle gone.
The old man jumped up and down in his seat, waving his arms in the air, his mouth open in a silent scream. The boy growled with frustration. What was the point of keeping the old man alive, he didn't know… This was getting tiresome. The only person he wanted to speak to now was Riddle, and the old man was proving almost as distracting as his wife.
The boy made up his mind in a split-second. It was time to dispose of Thomas Riddle as well.
Green light blasted once more from the wand and hit the old man mid-jump. He collapsed and rolled from the couch on to the floor, his blank eyes wide and his mouth slack.
Two Riddles gone.
The boy breathed heavily and turned back to his victim on the floor. Riddle lay curled on the floor, recovering from the Cruciatus Curse. He had not found his voice; he had watched the murder of his parents in silence.
"That is the Killing Curse," the boy informed him. "The one unstoppable spell in creation. It leaves no mark."
Riddle growled, trying to push himself up on to his unbalanced feet. "You… cold-blooded son of a—"
"Enough," the boy said. "Imperio!"
His father's weakened form curled into a bow. "My son…"
"Yes, I am your son, filthy Muggle, and you will do as I ask," the boy hissed.
"My lord!" Riddle whispered.
"Good," the boy said. "That is the proper address. Now, I will tell you this. I do not have a lot of time left. I have no desire to stay here until morning, so we shall finish this as quickly as possible."
"… the servants will come," his father bit out, struggling to say words the boy had not requested him to say. The boy was surprised; it turned out his father had a stronger mind than he had expected. Perhaps he was subconsciously trying to fight the hold of the Imperius Curse.
It did not matter – a Muggle was not capable of breaking through the hold of a wizard like him. The boy flicked his wand again and the Muggle's body twisted into an impossible shape.
"The servants will not come," the boy said. "For all the screaming you and your pathetic parents did, they did not hear. I put spells on this place to make them ignore it. Anything can happen here and everyone will merely turn away. It is just you and me now."
"Haven't… you done enough?" Riddle's eyes were closed as he tried to block out the amount of pain the forced contortion of his body was inflicting on him. "Why are you doing this?"
"I am the one asking the questions!" the boy shouted. He blinked and regained control of his anger. "You should be honoured to be worth my time. To be killed by a wizard is one of the greatest deaths possible. Normally I would ignore Muggles – they are nothing more than dirt beneath my boots – but you are a special case. I plan to eradicate you. You are my father, and you are filth. I cannot besmirch my own name with filth."
"—but you're named after me!"
"Because my mother, foolish as she was, loved you," the boy snapped. "She wouldn't have spent all that time trying to get your attention if she hadn't. If only you had realized that, then maybe things would have been different. She gave me your name out of love. I have chosen a new name, one that will strike fear into the hearts of all who hear it. It is a name worthy of a great wizard, unlike yours – Tom Riddle."
Riddle collapsed on the floor, tears leaking from his eyes. "But you aren't just a wizard, boy," he said. "You're a Muggle, too, Tom."
"Do not call me that." The boy's nostrils flared. "Once you are gone, the ties to my Muggle nature will be cut. That is why I must kill you."
"Killing is one thing," Riddle gasped. "Is sadistic torture also part of the game?"
The boy laughed. "Look back at history and see how many purebloods fell to the hands of sadistic Muggles."
"That was centuries ago."
"Some wounds never heal – like the ones you imposed upon me. Now stand."
Riddle slowly got to his feet. "You are exactly like your mother. Always forcing others to give you what you want, against their will. You are no better than her." He spat on the floor. "Come. Kill me if you have to, but I will not go as willingly as you hope."
"You're still under my magic!" the boy shouted. "I could have you kill yourself if I wanted to!" He jabbed his wand in the air. Riddle's hands rose against their will and went around his throat.
Riddle ignored his hands and stared defiantly at his son.
The boy lowered his wand. Riddle's fingers released his throat and fell to his side, but he could not move.
"Why did you abandon her?" the boy asked.
"I hated her for what she did to me. I did not love her."
The boy shook his hair out of his eyes. "Love means nothing. It's a foolish thing to believe in."
"Your mother believed in it, enough to bother to ensnare me by magic."
"You hate magic."
"No man should have that power. Humans are terrible creatures enough as it is."
The boy's fingers clenched around the wand. "This is tedious, Riddle."
"Very well. Will you end it now?"
"Yes."
"Can you kill your own father?"
"I have no father." He raised the wand.
Riddle stood calmly before him, knowing that there was no way he could escape. He seemed to have accepted his death. "Tell me one thing," he said. "What is this name you have chosen for yourself?"
The boy's eyes narrowed. He scowled.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
Dark eyes gleamed green as the light shot forth and hit Riddle in the chest. The man collapsed, crumpling on the soft rug next to the body of his mother. The boy stood still, Morfin's wand now pointing at nothing. The boy stepped towards the dead body of his father and looked down at it. The dark eyes were wide, but unlike his parents, Tom Riddle's face did not bear a look of shock. Rather, it was one of defiance.
The boy sneered. For extra measure, he kicked the body.
"I am Lord Voldemort," he hissed in its ear and then stalked out of the room. He waved his wand once to set everything back as it had been.
There was no one in the house as he left. Sarah was gone – the girl had served her purpose well. No doubt she would come back the next morning and find her masters dead. Maybe she would even take the Muggle blame for the murders.
The boy pushed open the doors and fled away from the manor, running back across the grounds. He slipped Morfin's wand back into his pocket and withdrew his own. There was one thing left for him to do and then he would be away, his long-awaited revenge on his relatives complete.
As he ran, his father's – no, the Muggle's – words rang in his ears. You're a Muggle, too, Tom.
No. No, he was no Muggle. He was the Heir of Slytherin and proud of his heritage. His Muggle side had been erased. It would be forgotten forever, its proof banished from this world. He had murdered them with ease, as he knew he would murder again.
He was no Tom Riddle anymore. That boy was gone.
He was Lord Voldemort, through and through.
fin