Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. All characters in this story are in belonging to J. K. Rowling.
Years of searching for answers to the pestering questions of his heritage he'd finally unearthed this disclosure. Now seventeen years of age, Tom had chosen to abandon the orphanage this summer in hopes of confirming his research, and travel to the Gaunt residence, somewhere amidst Little Hangleton. The previous year, he'd learned his mother's maiden name was Gaunt, her father, Marvolo, being the key to it all. After learning of his mothers' weak nature in dying following the birth of her only son, Tom assumed his father held the gift of magic and shunned the possibility that it could have been his mother, for in Tom's mind, a witch wouldn't have allowed herself the misfortune his mother had endured. With the power they held, it suggested, to Tom, that such circumstances could be easily prevented.. that a witch could do anything, even live forever, and most certainly avoid a demise as hers. Years of searching for any hint of his father, yet nothing could be found, then to find that it was his mother who'd passed on the gift of magic after-all...
None of this was satisfactory, to say the least... thus, Tom proceeded down the dirt path to his family's residence. Upon reaching the... house... Tom's pace slowed to a shuffled halt, and his visage took on a pale, slightly sickened expression. What he'd expected of a house was not a house at all. Hardly. A poor excuse for a house – a shack rather. 'Does someone actually live in this?' he thought to himself in disgust. This. This is where he came from. He could only imagine the sort of people that would live in it, but he couldn't let that diverge him from the pressing matter, and he continued towards the house in a much slower pace than before.
Horrifyingly fastened to the door by a rusted nail was a snake. The Slytherin symbol nailed to the door of the Gaunt shack. Tom's brow furrowed at the menacing setting and his chest heaved with a deep breath of irritation. A few knocks on the door, he kept his dark hues, questionably, on the snake's limp, decaying body. After a few brief moments, the heavy footsteps of boots sounded from inside. The door swung open. A tall, grizzly man stood before him, his face rugged and dirty, as was his shredded clothing. "What'you want?" he grumbled.
"If you have a moment to spare, I'd like to speak with you, sir.. about my mother – Merope.." Immediate understanding sunk in. The man turned, leaving Tom alone in the doorway in which he entered, closing the door behind him.
Hardly any furniture accented the interior, the floor layered in scum, dust tainting the few pieces of furniture the man owned. Tom wrinkled his nose at the foul smell lingering about. Then his attention turned to the tall man as his voice broke the silence, "You look mighty like that muggle."
"What muggle?"
"That muggle Merope took up with!" he said loud pointing as if the muggle were standing invisibly in the room. Then the man shared the secrets of Tom's history. The story of his mother and the muggle she loved so dearly. The man's relation to his mother; his uncle. Tom listened intently to every word he spoke to which he'd waited and searched so long for. The muggle.. It was the muggle that landed both Tom and his mother in such a miserable state of existence. Engendered rage birthed by this was not due to love for his mother by any means, but her sickening interest in this man that turned his back on her at his own accord. Not an interest so much as it was an obsession..
After several moments of silence, Tom spoke up softly, "So he left her.."
"It was her own foolishness that got'er into that mess." Morfin Gaunt spat in disgust, "I've got no pity for'er."
Clearly Morfin honed a horrible distaste for Merope by the cruelty in the way he spoke of her. He described her as 'worthless', 'a poor excuse for a witch', and stated that she didn't even use her powers. Tom certainly couldn't disagree with him on that regard, and the ponder over why a witch wouldn't use her powers wasn't given the slightest ounce of attention. It was fully understood that the woman was shamefully weak. Then the room fell silent. Tom's eyes followed the path of Morfin's to find he was peering out the window. Not a thing to see, as far Tom could tell. Whatever had caught his eye, Tom must have missed it. Just as well – Morfin waved it off and returned to his conversation with Tom. He seemed almost as though enjoying the pleasure of company, if only to vent and spit insult after insult about his sister.
Patience growing thin, he found his attention straying from Morfin's continuous battery of his mother, and lingering on the thought of his father's disgraceful actions. With each pulse, his anger amplified into rage, and completely unnoticed, the sound of Morfin's voice became barely audible. With his entire life now fully exposed, the consideration in his mind had now evolved into a promising need. His eyes darkened as he regained focus on Morfin, and his composure stiffened aggressively. Morfin's complaining had grown positively irritating to Tom. The thought of his mother forced to listen to this on a daily basis was exhausting in itself...
With one swift strike, Tom fiercely aimed his wand directly at Morfin, expelling an attack. The spell pounded his chest, knocking him into the wall, and Morfin fell unconsciously to the floor. There he lay silent, giving Tom ample time to integrate his next task.
Dark hues glanced over the the still body at his feet and a sneer tugged at his lips in utter disgust of the filth that be his family. Never had he considered the possibility that he'd derived from something so putrid, yet so valuable in their relation to Salazar Slytherin: one of the four founders of Hogwarts school. Descendants of Salazar Slytherin, reduced to living in a shack, and disgracefully purging those beliefs to which he condoned so passionately. The foundation of those beliefs were now given a greater understanding.