Tom Riddle tucked the blanket snugly around his feet and leaned back down, pressing his tired shoulders into the back of his armchair. Beside the middle-aged man a fire cackled in the ornate chimney and a paraffin lamp illuminated a small portion of the room with a warm, garish glow. Swollen July raindrops danced on the windowpane outside, softly, like children's feet. A cold breeze emanated from a crack in the window frame, mixed itself with the cozy fumes of the fire, and cascaded downwards to scout the creaky floorboards for particles of dust. It smelt of cookies, this air, mint cookies and fresh lemonade. It reminded Tom Riddle of his childhood.
A soft click resonated through the house as his mother locked the front door downstairs. The old oaken clock ticked peacefully, its pendulum swinging freely under the dial.
He exhumed a long, senile sigh and put down his book. With a flick of the wrist he switched off the lamp. Soon, Tom Riddle was asleep.
--
"Ah!"
A shrill scream woke him from his slumber. The old man sat up in his armchair and grappled for the lamp. Crack. An untimely motion sent it flying to the floor, and it shattered to pieces. He whimpered and looked around the dark room. The fire in the hearth was dead, only a few embers still glowing darkly among the white ash. The rain, on the other hand, intensified. It beat fiercely against the window; its force seemed enough to shatter the glass like the fall shattered the lamp. The room was glacial and darker than the deepest pit in Hell – there was no moon that night.
Suddenly, footsteps. Quick, nimble footsteps of the devil's children. One moment they were the sound of one pair of legs walking up the stairs, another, a multitude of different pitches and tunes that played on the old house like mallets on a xylophone. Their sound, sound like the rattling of an attacking rattlesnake, made the old man shiver with terror. "Ma?" he called. "Is that you?"
The footsteps stopped, as if the walker had remembered something and wanted to think it over. Tom Riddle suddenly felt how tense his body had become, how rigid his spine was, how his hands trembled and his chest heaved. "Pa? Who is this?" But everything was quiet now. Only a light breeze entered through the door left slightly ajar. The man chuckled nervously, running a hand through his graying hair. Perhaps he imagined it all – and yet it was so real. He threw off the blanket and prepared to lift himself from the chair – better to close the door, just in case.
Bang. The hands of the clock reached midnight and its mechanism shifted into gear. Bang. The pendulum swung harder. Bang. The lamp swiveled round and round its base on the floor. Bang. Tom fell off the bed. Bang. Rain hammered on the frail house. Bang. Thunder rolled, lightning crashed. Bang. The door was blown ajar. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Stop. All was silent.
Tom Riddle picked his creaking body off the floor. His chest heaved and his head turned left-right, left-right, searching for danger. He backed towards the chimney, picked up a sharp-nosed iron poker and pointed it at the looming darkness. His voice shook as his body shook when he cried, "Where are you? Show yourself!"
At first, nothing happened. Then, from a darkness in the middle of the room, a tall cloaked figure emerged. It looked strong and silent, a piece of the darkness that suddenly came alive. Tom Riddle gulped, still pointing his poker, and half-whispered, "Who are you?"
The figure laughed, "Who am I? Do you not recognize me?"
Tom Riddle backed away, but his knees buckled when he hit something hard, and he sunk down into his armchair. "N-n-no…" He stammered. "Are you… God?"
"God?" the figure repeated good-naturedly. "To you I am God."
"W-why are you here?"
The figure edged closer, its movements like running water. "To tell you a story," it replied.
"What story?"
The Shadow – for Tom Riddle had decided to call it the Shadow – glided up to the mantelpiece and picked off a tiny frame standing on the corner of it. It looked at the portrait encased within and then asked, "Who is this?"
Tom Riddle swallowed some saliva to relieve his dry throat and replied, "That was my bride. We were to be married some years ago."
"Indeed? But you did not marry her. You married someone else. What was her name?"
"M-Merope Gaunt."
"Yes. But you were not happy long. After a while, you escaped from her, leaving her alone and with child."
"Yes… But I can explain! I didn't know what I was doing when I married her! It was a – a mad fixation! She charmed me, I don't know how! It was as if by magic!"
"How ironic," the figure chuckled, "that you should mention magic… Well, regardless. Tell me, did you ever think of her and her child? Did you ever think of their well-being? Didn't you feel rotten for leaving a woman in distress? With a child that you fathered and yet, never knew?"
"Yes… No…" Suddenly, the old man turned livid. "Look, I didn't want to think about her! Her and her hellspawn! I was trying to forget!"
"Hmm… Funny how one's past always catches up with oneself…"
Tom Riddle, eyes wide with fear, mustered the courage to look up to the figure's hooded visage. "What do you mean?"
"I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, old man," the figure exclaimed and threw off its cloak. "I am your son!"
The fire suddenly blazed. The old man let out a rasp moan and fell off his chair. "You're the devil!" he cried, pointing. "You're the devil's child!"
Tom jr. chuckled haughtily. "Whimpering old fool. What could she have seen in you?"
A despairing groan escaped the older man's desiccated throat as he tried to back away from his newly found son, pushing himself away with his hands. The son laughed shrilly and walked forward, painstakingly slow. The father recalled the poker and raised it at his child who wrestled it from him and tossed it into the window, shattering it into little pieces.
An icy wind invaded the room and shook the curtains. Gusts of rain struck the floor and water trickled through the floorboards, thick and dark, like blood. A strike of lightning for a brief second illuminated his assailant's face. Tom Riddle stared in disbelief: how the boy looked like him! Those same high cheekbones, that same curling chestnut hair, those eyes… Soulless, inert eyes. They were not pleading, like Merope Gaunt's eyes were when he abandoned her that night. They were not ruthless, like his had been when he left. They were empty voids – seeing, but blind to pain, suffering, love. Inhuman eyes…
Thunder struck.
The son took out a long wooden stick and pointed it at his father. "This won't take long."
"No, no, Tommy," the father pleaded.
"Do not address me in this endearing way!" the young man screeched. "Instead, tell me, have you still the locket that my mother gave to you upon your departure?"
"What locket?"
Something seemed to have caught the son's attention. He walked briskly towards his father and caught him by the neck. His fingers examined the drying skin until they felt a chain's rings pressing into them. Riddle caught the chain and ripped it from his father's neck. "This."
"Take it, take it, dear boy," Tom Riddle laughed. "Take everything you want! Just leave me-"
"Unfortunately, the thing I want most is your life."
Tom Riddle moaned in terror and tried to crawl faster and faster. Riddle jr. stood still and watched, a callous smirk playing on his features. Tom Riddle groaned with tension, his body now shaking in a near-epileptic fit. The raindrops pricked his back and run down in small winding streams to the floor.
Riddle raised his arm to attack. His father's panic, too great to be released, beat feverishly within his body. The rain thudded bluntly. Thunder rolled. A blinding flash – of lightning? Of divine justice?
All was peace.
Tom Marvolo Riddle kneeled and stared into the lifeless face of his father. His skin was graying, his lips parted in surprise and terror. His hair, matted and wet, was plastered to his skull. Raindrops fell and pounded down on his open glassy eyes. "The past," mouthed the son. "The past always catches up with us."
He arose, smiling, and retrieved his cloak. The house was as silent as before, the clock barely reached five minutes to one. The fire in the chimney had blown out and the room now retained its icy atmosphere. Fresh dust settled on the armchair and the discarded blanket. The many shards of broken glass glinted faintly in the weak starlight. The poker was rusting under the rain.
Tom Riddle, now the only Riddle present on this earth, draped his cloak over himself, hid his face under the hood and exited the room, shutting the door behind him noiselessly. The stairs creaked and the lock clicked softly as the front door opened. Then, the Shadow melted into the very darkness that had spat it out.