for the QLFC S3 Quarter finals round 1
His first mistake is this:
"Mum?" he says.
She whips around so fast he stumbles back a step. She's not not tall, and she's not big, and she's never been overly mean but there's something sharp and desperate in her eyes that shakes him to his core.
"Don't," Mrs. Cole snarls. "Don't call me that. I'm not your mother, and I never will be."
Tom, eight years old and still learning how to shut up, stay still, and observe, simply nods haltingly and escapes back into his room. The other kids rapidly back away from the doorway as he charges right in, looking at him with pitiful eyes.
For a moment, there's nothing but a terrifyingly still silence. They eye him with understanding, of all things, as if they could comprehend what goes through his mind. They don't. Nobody knows. He curses himself for showing even a bit of weakness.
So Tom, angry and embarrassed, brushes past them roughly and escapes into his own bed that's too rough and too hard for his tastes. But it's all he knows, just as all he knows of his mother is Mrs. Cole's lined face, the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, her deep voice.
He's not stupid. He knows better than anyone that she's not his real mum, but he'd thought that maybe— maybe he could have a replacement. It was stupid of him. He wouldn't be making that mistake again.
Tom hears the whispering start up as soon as he pulls the covers up over his head.
...
It comes out of the blue one day, when Mrs. Cole asks him to help clean the attic with her while all the younger children play. He thinks it's awfully unfair, but she gives him a look and he concedes.
"Your mum was just a girl when she came in," Mrs. Cole starts, determinedly looking only at the corner she was dusting. Tom pauses from when he was halfheartedly cleaning a stack of papers and turns to her.
"I remember it, clear as day," she continues, and her voice takes on an almost trance-like quality. It's clear that her mind is far away from the dirty old attic of an equally dirty old orphanage, but her body continues flapping a duster at the spider web sticking to the walls.
"She looked a right mess, all gaunt cheeks and a wild look in her eyes. Probably escaped from the circus if you ask me," she adds as an afterthought.
Her last phrase serves to drive a chill into Tom's entire body. His real mother, from the circus? Tom had spent his whole life resenting the hard bed, the loud children, the old orphanage, because he was meant for something far greater than this.
Mrs. Cole doesn't notice, too caught up in her memories of better days, he's sure.
"She was here for an hour. Gave birth to you right in the lobby of this place, you know? Died straight after, the poor thing, and we were left with a new baby to take care of. Merope Riddle was her name. Or, was it Gaunt? Ah, my memory must be getting worse at this age."
The way she phrases it isn't mean, but Tom can't bear the thought that he's, he's just any other orphan from a poor place. He isn't. He's special.
His mind clears suddenly. Mrs. Cole finally sweeps away that stubborn cobweb and she turns around just in time for Tom to give her a calm smile.
"I understand," he says.
Of course. He just— wasn't the son of Merope Gaunt, a poor circus wretch. They were clearly all mistaken here.
Mrs. Cole looks a little relieved. Emotional talks aren't really her thing.
"Well, that's good then," she says a little brusquely. She claps her hands, the sound loud in the small, cramped space.
"Now that that's done and over with, let's get some real work done."
"Yes Mrs. Cole," he says.
...
He thinks he sees her in his dreams sometimes.
Most of the time it's just as he imagined her as before he talked with Mrs. Cole in the attic. She had his nose, he'd decided when he was younger, and his black hair as well. She would be diminutive but command a fearsome aura and everyone listened to her every word.
Other times, he sees her just as Mrs. Cole describes. He see a woman too thin and littered with bruises. He sees a pregnant woman with long, dark stringy hair and eyes just like his thrashing on the floor of the lobby as she dies and he lives. He sees her dead eyes staring accusingly at him as if asking 'Why are you so ashamed of me?'.
Those dreams are few and far between, but it doesn't stop him from waking up in a jolt, lips pressed together and fists clenched so hard they threaten to tear his old blanket into pieces. It's always on those nights that something weird happens in the morning. All the eggs are suddenly rotten, or a piece of the orphanage has crumbled again.
It's strangely satisfying.
...
It's his second year in Hogwarts when Lucius invites him over to stay for the summer. Tom pretends to think this over, before humming his agreement and accepting the proposition. Lucius is undeniably delighted, and Tom is absolutely sure every one of his lackeys will know about it before the hour is out.
Lucius' house is large and intimidating, and Tom's sure he's never slept in a bed two sizes smaller than his body, or had to drink porridge for two weeks straight. He doesn't say anything like that aloud though, choosing instead to survey everything with a kind of bored expression on his face.
His library is probably the kicker. Lucius gestures grandly to a book on a stand, and explains that it's the most complete roster if all Pureblood families in the Wizarding World.
Tom's hand stills over the pages. As the other boy chatters inanely on, Tom casually flips to the 'R' section and scans the page. It isn't very long, the book, and there's no Riddle.
As an afterthought, he flips forward to the 'G' section, and right there on the page is 'Gaunt'.
Merope Gaunt, Mrs. Cole had said her name was. So it was his father dirtying his blood then, not his mum.
Before his eyes, the image of his mum reconstructs itself. He sees her nose, which looks just like his and her black, long hair. He sees the fierce aura surrounding her and how his dirty father must've tricked her somehow into being his belonging.
Tom falls in love with this illusion of a mother.