For Reputation's Sake
Like many things in his life, the path leading to the large mansion was neat and tidy. He had missed organization—missed it without really knowing he had missed it. Any weeds between the stones had been pulled, any cracks paved over. Of course, such a tidy path led to a large, domineering house that was just as orderly.
All of the windows were closed and the curtains pulled. In fact, not one speck of light could be seen emanating from the house, and most would consider that no one was home. Of course, Tom Riddle Jr. knew better.
He had grown up in this house, and he knew all the rules and regulations. He was well aware that his mother liked to go through a routine, and his father didn't care much as long as he was well taken care of and satisfied. Tom's heart clenched as he thought of his parents—he'd missed them, as much as he didn't want to admit it. They were cold, and never exactly showed him affection… But they were still his parents, and they'd protected him, tried to protect him, from the evils of the world.
Shuddering in the cold air, Tom clenched his hand tightly around his suitcase and began to make his way toward the door. He was nervous, and not quite sure he'd be allowed back in the house. He'd betrayed his family in one of the worst ways imaginable, and he didn't even really know why. She—no, whatever it was that had bewitched him wasn't a she—it had reeled him in, and he'd left everything behind.
He schooled his expression to one of neutrality and knocked hesitantly; twice the first time, then he waited for about five seconds and knocked another three times. His mother had always done so; perhaps he could subconsciously put her in a good move before he even entered.
Of course, as he'd expected, the maid opened the door. Her mouth fell open right away, shock marring her features. Tom felt a flicker of annoyance—he simply wanted to see his parents, she didn't have to make a fuss out of it, despite the fact that he hadn't visited his parents since leaving. It wasn't any of her business.
Goddamn it; he needed to see his mum and dad, not her, buffoon that she clearly was. They would know what to do. They'd know how to fix what he'd done. They had to. Of course, this maid was just standing there, taking her sweet time in blinking away stupidity.
"I need to speak with my parents," he finally prompted, layering his irritation on thickly. She jerked, seemingly surprised to hear his voice, and then nodded quickly, opening the door widely and gesturing him inside the house.
"Of course, of course! Mr. and Mrs. Riddle are just, um, they're in the back. Let me get—" she began hurriedly, shutting the door firmly and nervously tripping toward the back of the house.
"Just my mother, for now, please," he cut in smoothly, once again in control of his emotions. The maid—he'd have to learn her name again—nodded once again and scurried off to retrieve the lady of the house. Tom only had to wait for half a minute before she was back, white-faced and trembling. He couldn't help but smirk… His mother had always been quite stern with the help.
"She'll see you in the dining room, Mr. Riddle," the maid murmured, her chin tucked into her chest demurely. He nodded and glided past her, patting his head to double-check for loose hairs and folding his hands neatly in front of him. Of course, the dining room was empty when he entered. His mother always liked to make a grand entrance, dramatic as she was.
"Tom. So happy you granted us with a visit," she said stiffly, causing Tom to startle. He hadn't heard her approaching, but sure enough—there was his mother. Her graying hair was curled to perfection, of course, and her lip was curled distastefully. He'd seen that look directed at many before, but never at him. A fleeting sense of shame caused Tom to bow his head.
Still, he couldn't help but feel completely relieved to face her. Despite her presence, she'd always tried to save him. Usually from his father's wrath, but she'd protested like a roaring tiger when he'd announced his plans to marry Merope…
As he was reminded of his mistake, Tom licked his dry, cracked lips and met her eyes again, trying not to let too much desperation leak into his voice. It would be quite unbecoming, after all—one of the many, many things that had been drilled into him during his childhood. "Mother," he started, "Mother, I've left her… it. I don't know… what happened. Everything is distorted," he began, mumbling faster and faster until he was sure his mother could barely understand what he was saying. It didn't help that even he couldn't quite wrap himself around what happened.
His mother's expression had changed quite severely since he'd started talking. She quickly paced up to him, about to put her arms around his shoulders, when she thought better of it. Instead, she dropped one arm and used the other to smooth down her skirt, squinting at him worriedly. "Tom, what are you talking about? What's that monster done?"
"I've left her, mother. I don't know how, but I snapped out of whatever spell she put on me. I swear," he pleaded, needing her to understand, "she was evil. A witch of some sort… She used a curse. She even admitted to it. If I had been in my right mind, I would never have left."
His limbs were shaking so hard he nearly dropped the suitcase he was clutching. It had all of the things he owned in it, though, so he managed to keep a grip on it. His mother was clearly confused, her brow arched dubiously. Still, she seemed to gather strength from his garbled reply, and quickly directed him to a nearby chair.
"Thomas, stop babbling and explain to me what you're getting on about. Did you really leave her? Tell me you're being honest," she said, a hint of earnestness leaking into her words. She didn't want to seem eager to have her boy back, but if this was all true, if she was really some evil woman who practiced witchcraft… Her chest seemed lighter at just the idea. She'd tried to rationalize her boy's actions for many months now, but she'd never image something like this. Before her son could elaborate, Mary Riddle began to rant, "Of course you're being honest! I knew that whole family was bad. I said it from the very beginning! You agreed with me all that time, too. Why didn't I see that she must have poisoned you sooner?"
He shook his head tiredly, pushing at his hair—he'd let it grow in the past few months, just because she had liked it. Revulsion swept through him; he wanted nothing more in that moment than to cut his hair neatly, just as he'd preferred it before. "She changed… everything about me," he finally muttered, taking comfort from his mother's hand, which was squeezing his shoulder as comfortably as a woman of her upbringing could manage.
"We'll spread the word, son. The whole town… they'll believe us. They'll have to, won't they? No one likes the Gaunt family at any rate, and that would be the only explanation for your behavior. You were quite smitten before she stole you away. And you're a Riddle—nothing but some kind of poison would lead you off the path we've set for you like that," she continued, trying to persuade herself that her son could become an acceptable member of high society again.
Suddenly, as if she just realized her hand was gripping her son as if she never wanted to let go again, Mary swallowed thickly and released him. She straightened her shoulders and brushed off her jacket, backing up slightly to survey her son. He looked completely miserable and scared, which was an emotion she'd have to beat out of him. He couldn't be allowed to show weakness for much longer. She would allow him some time to recuperate, but knew that her husband wouldn't be nearly as forgiving.
"I'll have to get your father," she said at last, brushing her hair back distractedly. Tom glanced at her desperately, hoping silently that he'd take it all as well as she had and discerning, at the same time, that this hope was in vain. She pursed her lips, "No matter what I say, you know he'll have the final word. I think I could manage to convince him that whatever she did to you is fixable, but I'm not sure." She turned to an ornate mirror across the room as Tom remained in the rickety chair, shamefaced and feeling incredibly small.
Mary quickly inspected herself to make sure no big show of emotion had ruined her appearance—she didn't want to disappoint her husband—and then set off to tell him the news. Her heart was beating a thousand miles per hour. She wanted nothing more than to fix her, and her husband's, relationship with their only child. At the same time, they had scrabbled enough to maintain their reputation after he'd left, and she didn't know how she could salvage it now that he was possibly—hopefully—returning to them.
She knocked nervously on the door to his study, praying silently when he stiffly called for her to come in. She shut the door quietly behind her and approached his desk, betraying no emotion as she folded her hands in front of her.
He was quite handsome in the dim lighting. His graying hair wasn't as visible, and the exhausted lines on his face melted away when he had his reading glasses on. She remembered that he'd been sought after by every girl in the village and felt a familiar, oft-felt surge of pride that she'd managed to hold on to him for all these years. "Tom," she began softly, demurely (he liked ladies that knew their place). "Our son is here."
She let that statement hang in the air for a few seconds, and then observed the changes overcome his face. He slipped his glasses off, eyes hardening icily, and stood, barely suppressing rage that caused his body to tremble. Slightly worried, Mary went to comfort him then jerked back into place. He wouldn't appreciate being seen as someone who required help, especially by his wife.
"And what does he want?" Thomas asked sternly. Normally Mary could get his eyes to soften a bit, but not in this situation. Not when their son—the one who had caused such immense embarrassment and shame—turned up on their doorstep.
Mary took a deep, calming breath, sent one more prayer to God, and then murmured, "He's left the Gaunt girl. Apparently she…" Mary paused here, realizing just how silly it sounded now that she was repeating what her son had said. "Apparently she practiced witchcraft, and had enchanted him with some kind of love potion that he's only just broken away from. He's quite shaken up, and begging for us to believe him."
Tom Sr. stared at Mary for a very long time, apparently blankly… but she knew better. She could see the confusion and the murderous rage building behind his eyes. They'd been married for more than twenty years; she knew when her husband was furious. Her heart began to ache just after she recognized the expression, because she wanted him to believe her. She wanted her son back.
She wanted their old life back. She wanted the reputation. Their son was young and beautiful, and he'd enchanted everybody from the day he was born. If Tom believed him, they could explain to everyone what had happened—with, perhaps, a few edits here and there—and maybe she could get that back. She wanted the envious glares and the awe in the townsfolk's eyes when she walked by.
"Always knew that family was a bunch of devil-worshipping freaks," Tom Sr. finally spat, his fists bunching up by his sides. Mary immediately felt better; she even had to stop a small smile from forming. "Why didn't you think of it sooner, then? No wonder our boy ran away! She poisoned—!" he cut himself off then, pressing a still-trembling hand to his chest. Taking a few ragged breaths, he straightened and then stomped past Mary to the hall.
She jumped to follow him, having immense trouble keeping up with his enormous strides. She could hear him muttering to himself all the way down the hall, and twisted her hands nervously. She hoped the two men wouldn't blow once put together again… They normally agreed on most things, but that was before this whole mess—before, well, everything.
When she reached the dining hall, she realized she hadn't missed much at all. Father and son were staring at each other like it had been years instead of a few months (long as those months had been), not quite sure what to do or say. Their expressions were unreadable, and Mary felt a rare bout of compassion. "We'll fix this," she suddenly proclaimed, stepping forward so she was in both their lines of view. They snapped out of their reveries to observe her.
She kept her chin high as she approached her son, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. She knew her husband wouldn't approve, but she dared to smile at him encouragingly. Stepping back, she watched as he slowly approached his father.
Tom Riddle Jr. had been through hell over the past year. He'd been put under the influence of some kind of spell, and forced to marry and even bed some ugly, desperate witch who was doomed for hell. He would have a lot of making up to do—with the town, with his family.
Most importantly, though, he would have to make up with his father. He knew that would be the hardest part. As convinced as he'd been before that the Gaunt family was evil, he still couldn't forget that his son had abandoned them, and neither expected him to do so.
But, as his father slowly made his way toward his son, Tom Jr. felt hope niggling in the back of his mind. The Riddles weren't loving; no, they were quite vain, and filled with incredible self-worth. They had too much on the line to ignore each other—there was still Merope, who could show up again and ruin their lives just as easily and with as little care as she had the first time.
And, of course, it would be a lot of work to convince people of their story without looking crazy. They wouldn't just go shouting about the incident; they'd have to start slow, and build up to why Tom came back to his senses over time.
And as Tom Riddle Sr. approached his son, a small smirk lifted his lip slightly. Tom felt himself smirking back, because that was all he needed to be welcomed back into his home. It would take him a while to get settled in, but everything had been sorted. He was back, and Merope was gone forever. Tom had explained away everything…
Well, almost everything. But then again, he thought with a shiver, some things just shouldn't be known.
The fact that he'd gotten the witch pregnant was one of those things—his parents didn't have to know.
And they never would.
Disclaimer: I do not own and never will own Harry Potter.
Written for the FanFiction School of Imagination and Creativity, Herbology Assessment 1.
My prompts were: Hazel = Dumbledore era, Aloe Vera = genre: hurt/comfort, and Thyme = overall theme: mending a broken relationship (with a lover, friend or family member).