Rapture

By TanninTele


Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.


Little Hangleton, England

Spring 1925

A young woman by the name of Merope Gaunt sat on her haunches behind a tall bramble bush. Her lank brown hair was swept over one skeletal shoulder and tied with a tattered blue ribbon. Her frock was a similar color, her corset laced with green twine - the colors of the noble family.

Since last spring, Merope had been a handmaiden to the Riddle family in Hangleton. Lady Riddle had taken pity on the poor peasant girl when Merope's mother died.

The Gaunts had never been well-liked members of Little Hangleton.

Marvolo Gaunt was a vulgar, incorrigible old man and his bastard of a son was as ugly as he was mean. Merope, too, wasn't attractive in the least. She had bulbous, murky brown eyes that seemed permanently fixated on her dirt-smudged nose. Her skin was pale, often discolored with finger-shaped bruises that spanned up her narrow arms like shackles. There was a rip in her sleeve from a stray thorn, drawing a thin trail of blood.

Merope practically trembled with anticipation, her long neck craning to peer over the brambles. Her eyes darted to the horizon.

With the clamber of horseshoes, a beautiful black mare came trotting out of the forest, it's reins held by an even more beautiful man. His strong legs straddled the mare's torso.

Lord Thomas Riddle was young, with aristocratic features and wavy black hair, currently kept back in a leather riding helmet. He had a chiseled jaw and a small smattering of a beard that gave him a roguish appearance. Dark eyes glinted blue in the sunlight as Thomas rode through the yard. He inspected Riddle Manor with a prideful expression, focusing on the glimmering fountains and intricately cropped hedges. His green overcoat matched the lush grounds, accentuated by the pale yellow tunic and shorts. The uniform shaped his arms and hugged his tapered waist in a way that made Merope's stomach flutter.

"Thomas!" came an irritated call. "Be patient with me. This animal is impossible to control!"

Merope tightened her fists as Lady Cecilia, on her grey-spotted horse, emerged from the tree line. She looked distinctly uncomfortable on the large creature, delicate hands clenching his mane fearfully. Her legs were swung over to one side, a violet riding skirt draped over knee-length heeled boots.

As the horses sidled up beside each other, Tom carefully led them to the stables.

"Lord Thomas!" came a booming sound, causing Merope to flinch. A large stablehand met Thomas at the wooden door, pulling it open for the horse to trot through once its rider had descended. Cecilia wrinkled her nose at the stable-hand.

"You need help off tha' horse, milady?" he asked politely.

"Not from you."

Cecilia waited for Thomas to help her down. He grasped her by the waist and lingered a bit too long, causing Merope to unwittingly snap the branch she'd been holding.

Cecilia, Merope spat internally, was everything she was not. Where the Lady was curvaceous and blonde, Merope was long, lank and dark-haired. Cecilia probably hadn't worked a day of her life, while Merope was doomed to a life of servitude.

If not for the mistakes of her ancestors, Merope might've been the one riding with dear Thomas, sipping exotic teas on the finest dishware and donned in the smoothest silks.

Her eyes slipped shut, desperation nearly making her sob.

She would marry Thomas Riddle, whatever the cost.

After all, she had nothing else to lose.


In the cellar of the Gaunt Shack was a makeshift potions lab where, with a thump and a billow of dust, Merope dragged out a large recipe book. The paper was worn and yellowing.

Merope's books were her greatest possessions. They were filled with hundreds of pages of potions; antidotes, poisons, draughts, brews, elixirs - Merope made additions to the books, too, spells and ingredients that made the process smoother. Although her handwriting was shaky and her spelling poor, Merope's notes were invaluable.

Merope dropped in the last of the sliced vanilla beans. She scraped the pulp into the cauldron with precise care before disposing of the skin. Scratching her nose at the sudden waft of cloyingly sweet steam, Merope covered the cauldron and let it brew at the lowest flame.

"Merope!" came a sharp tenor from above. "Getch yer scrawny arse up here!"

Gathering the recipe book and slipping it beneath her skirt, Merope locked the cellar door behind her. Green-stained hands smoothed out her hair, which had begun to gather grease and oil from the fumes. The lingering scent of vanilla made her smile wistfully as she glided across damp grass and cobblestone to the back entrance.

Her father, Marvolo, was leaning heavily against the doorframe of his bedroom, coughing into his sleeve. Blood dribbled from his lips. This was all too commonplace.

"Father," Merope sighed, in the language of snakes. "You're supposed to be resting." The girl prepared a glass of tap water and placed it into his hands. She helped raise the rim to his lips and stepped back as he gagged, hacking violently. "I wish we could take you to the hospital."

"Not the Muggle one!"

"Of course not," she soothed. Internally, she thought any hospital was better than this. "But . . . Saint Mungo's is expensive."

"Don't them Riddles pay you a damn thing?"

"A pauper's pittance," she admitted.

"The blasphemy!"

"Yeah, but pauper ain't wrong," Morfin interrupted as he entered the kitchen.

His long hair was disheveled and his boots caked with dirt from digging graves. He collapsed heavily onto a chair, slipping naturally into Parseltongue. "I'm diggin' holes for the bodies of soldiers and Merope is nothin' but a handmaiden, simperin' and sweepin' after her beau. That's what we've lowered ourselves to, licking the boots of Muggles for a few damn coins."

Their father snarled. From inside his shirt, he tore out a silver locket, it's chain swinging in a hypnotic fashion. The coiled serpent carved into the heirloom's face glinted in the candlelight, a lavish adornment to his rather dreary disposition. His hands were trembling.

"We're descended from Salazar Slytherin, the fore-founder of Hogwarts!" he hissed out. "We ought'a be living like kings! You should be sleeping in silk bedsheets and adorned with gems, not scrubbing the dirt from Riddle's floors and cleaning the dust from their relics . . . whoring yourself to those filthy Muggles!"

Wracked with a sudden coughing fit, his legs let out beneath him.

Merope flew forward to catch her father from collapsing. The man fought her off, heavy hands swinging. Merope deftly unlatched the locket from his neck. "Let me take that before you work yourself into a tizzy. Its enchantments are no good for your health."

The older man slumped against her, murmuring nonsensically. "It's all I've got left, Merope," he said morosely. "My wand don't work no more, yeh know. It's the only proof we have that Gaunts were once great."

"I know, papa," she pulled him towards his bedroom. "Come, let's lie you down."

The dark and musty room was decorated with a bed, a small desk and a bookshelf filled with leather-bound tomes. Daylight streamed through a yellowing windowpane, the view distorted by grime. Marvolo let out a whooping cough as Merope dragged over a chair and pulled the curtains closed, picking up dust.

As Marvolo laid back onto the tiled sheets, Merope gave him a light kiss on the forehead. "I'll wake you for dinner," she said softly and exited the room, his wheezing breaths muffled by the closed door.

Eyeing Morfin, who'd gained a rather fiendish expression, Merope went to check on the skillet, which she'd left simmering in order to work on the potion. She prodded at the limp noodles and the chunks of deer meat, curling a lip.

If Merope lived at Riddle Manor, she wouldn't need to do all the cooking and cleaning. Pa and Morfin were right, this is servant work, she thought.

Morfin came up behind her. "I know what yer thinkin' about." He leaned against the counter, pinching her side. "That Riddle boy doesn't give you a second glance, does he?" Morfin grinned cruelly. "There ain't no way he's gonna fuck your ugly mug, not with that blonde tramp following him around."

Laughing, the wizard ducked as Merope spun around, kitchen knife slicing through the air and slamming into the wall above his head.

The shack's foundation rattled, dust falling from the roof slates. Morfin gave a low whistle. "Damn, your aim's gettin' better. Almost hit me that time."

"Almost," Merope said through clenched teeth, stalking over to yank the knife from the wall. "Is not nearly close enough." She pointed the knife at him, snarling. "You'll see. He'll marry me in a year's time, I swear it!"

Morfin snorted. "The day that pompous little snit marries you, I'll bed a Muggle. Neither one is bound to happen anytime soon."

It was in less than a year that Merope and Tom were married.

Armed with Amortentia, Merope had met Tom on one of his rides, offering the man a ladle of refreshing water. He commented that the water smelt odd, like roses, but drank the entire dose. Merope caught him as he fell from his horse, the man's eyes glazed and his lips parting with a soft moan.

They eloped out of town, Merope donned in pure, beautiful white, her husband staring at her, starry-eyed. It was a fairytale come true.

Until Merope ran out of Amortentia.

(. . . Morfin kept his promise.)


Smith Residence

Summer 1949

25 Years Later

With shaking, gnarled fingers, Hokey the house-elf fumbled with the laces of her mistress' satin slippers. The leg fat jiggled obscenely, bubbling over and between the silk ties.

Powder drifted through the air as she applied pink rouge to her cheeks. She hid pockmarks and wrinkles and age spots under layers and layers of make-up, her eyelashes fake and fluttering coyly. She smiled winningly into a jewel-encrusted hand mirror, mouthing to herself, "Oh, Tom."

With a smack of her lips, she glanced down at Hokey. "Hurry up," she said imperiously. "He said he'd come at four, it's only a couple of minutes to and he's never been late yet!"

Setting aside the mirror, she used both hands to adjust her perfectly curled ginger wig. It clashed awfully with her voluptuous pink robes. The hem was lined with faux fur, as well as the neckline and cuffs of her sleeves.

"How do I look?" Hepzibah asked.

"Lovely, madam."

The doorbell rang with a resonant, tinkling chime.

Hepzibah erupted into flurried panic and the elf scurried out to fetch their guest. Hepzibah took several calming breathes, smoothing out her curls and checking her reflection one last time before tucking the mirror behind a pillow.

She lounged on an equally atrocious loveseat, the velvet cushion causing her fur hem to stand on end with static. She didn't notice.

"Tom!" she exclaimed, joyful, as the man was escorted into the solarium.

His hair fell in sleek waves, one stray curl winding around his forehead. He maneuvered his way through the cramped room, carefully keeping his elbows to his sides so not to knock into any of the crowded shelves.

His eyes lingered briefly on an eerie mannequin head, crowned with a bronze and ruby tiara, its eyes hollow and porcelain face cracked. It was a fair sight prettier than Hepzibah, at least.

Tom gingerly grasped Hepzibah's hand, his gloves a meager barrier between his skin and her sweaty palms. He brushed his lips over her knuckles, not-quite touching.

"I brought you flowers," with a twitch of his wand, tucked into the sleeve of his suit jacket, he conjured a bouquet of red roses - very, very similar to the rose bush growing in her front yard.

"You naughty boy, you shouldn't have! You do spoil this old lady, Tom."

With a pop, Hokey reappeared with a silver tray of cakes and sandwiches, the corners perfectly cut and the pastries oozing with sweet filling.

"Help yourself, Tom," Hepzibah urged, biting into a pastry and delicately wiping the corners of her mouth. "I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I've said it a hundred times - "

She rambled on. Tom smiled dispassionately.

It was a charming smile, tight-lipped with a deep dimple denting his cheek. Hepzibah nearly swooned. "Well, what's your excuse for visiting me this time?"

He talked business, but Hepzibah was distracted by his eyes, and the way they sparkled intelligently in the sunlight. She latched onto the name Burke. "Oh, yes, yes. Burke. Forget him. I've something to show you that I've never shown Mister Burke. Can you keep a secret, Tom?"

He could.

"I had Hokey bring it out for me. Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mister Riddle our finest treasure. . . . In fact, bring both, while you're at it," she gave him a sly wink.

The house-elf balanced the cases over her head as she navigated the room, nearly tripping over a footstool. Hepzibah hissed beneath her breath, beady eyes fixated on the leather cases. Hokey righted herself.

Hepzibah flattened out the folds of her robes and patted her thighs for Hokey to settle the cases. "I think you'll like this, Tom. Oh," her eyes raised to the heavens, her tongue trapped between her front teeth in an aborted prayer. "If my family knew I was showing you . . ."

Fingers settled on either side of the lid, she carefully opened it.

"Have a good look," she said. "Don't be shy, now."

In his long-fingered hand, Tom lifted Hufflepuff's cup out of its silk wrappings. The small, golden cup was delicately wrought, the handles twisting like vines. A badger was engraved into the metal, with a wreath of gold winding down the stem.

"A badger," Tom murmured aloud. "Then this was . . . ?"

"Helga Hufflepuff's, as you very well know, you clever boy!" Hepzibah leaned forward, corsets straining, and she patted his cheek. She found his curiosity adorable. "Didn't I tell you I was distantly descended? I'm certain I did. This has been handed down in the family for years and years," she let out a small breath. "Lovely, isn't it?"

But her eyes were tracing his handsome features.

"Lovely," he repeated, holding the cup as though it were as precious as a child. Perhaps, leaning as close as she was, Hepzibah could see the avarice in his eyes.

"I just keep it nice and safe in here." She returned the cup to its box, gently patting it down. "But I think you'll like this even more, Tom," she confided. "Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see."

Tom hid a grimace but dutifully scooted forward.

"Of course," Hepzibah said absently. "Burke knows I've got this one - I bought it from him after all. I daresay he'd love to get it back when I'm gone!"

She slid back the filigree clasp and slowly opened the box, as if savoring the moment. Settled upon smooth crimson velvet was a heavy silver locket. Without invitation, Tom's hand darted out to lift it, breath catching in his throat.

An emerald eye winked at him from the painstakingly engraved serpent. The locket swayed from it's chain, and Tom could swear the metal snake wriggled in reaction to his magic.

"A fan of Slytherin, are you?" She asked, pleased by his reaction. "It's truly his, I had a lineage expert confirm it. And I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, too, but I couldn't let it pass. I just had to have it for my collection," she boasted. "Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value -"

She reached out to take the locket back.

Tom gave little resistance, his jaw clenched tightly as it slid through his fingers. He closed his eyes, letting out a sharp breath through his nostrils.

"I wouldn't wear it. As pretty as it is, it's got all sorts of enchantments I haven't gotten around to removing. But can you believe it?" Hepzibah prattled on. "Threerelics from the Founders, all in my - oh, are you alright, dear?

Tom blinked. He fixed a bland smile onto his features. "Oh, yes. I'm very well. Just . . . wait, did you say three?"

"Oh," she flushed, fanning herself. "Yes. My most priceless possession, really. It's a bit controversial, but I suppose . . . you wouldn't want to see it, would you?"

Clenching the armrests of his chair, Tom gave a charming smile. "If it's no bother."

"No bother. No, no - none at all," she fluttered, struggling to rise. Tom stood and offered his elbow - "Such a gentleman."

She led him through the house, past shelves and cabinets and cases filled with artifacts. Orbs and celestial globes were precariously held up by cushioning charms, their exteriors polished and pristine. Old tomes lined the shelves, likely untouched for ages. Hepzibah didn't seem the type to read in her spare time. There were dozens of overgrown potted plants with fruit flies buzzing above them. Gross, Tom thought.

They stopped at a blank wall, unadorned with neither shelf nor curtain.

"Watch out for the demiguise curtain," she said idly, batting aside an invisible barrier. The fabric lit up at her touch, revealing a furry white pelt. A hidden hallway was revealed, an entire other wing that Tom had no previous knowledge of.

His lips parted.

The hallway was sparsely decorated compared to the rest of the house; Tom almost thought he'd entered another building, if not for the familiar putrid paisley wallpaper and the bronze plant pots.

"This way," Hepzibah dragged him along. The air smelled of something vaguely earthy and sweet, like a flower garden. Peering out the window, he spotted a small courtyard; a toy Quidditch bat was abandoned in the grass, and a child-sized broom was leaning against a closet door. Grandchildren, perhaps? Tom pitied the results of her procreation.

"He'll be in the library, I suspect," Hepzibah knocked swiftly on a large wooden door, for propriety's sake, before wrenching open the knob. "Hadrian, darling? I've a guest I'd like you to meet."

Sitting at a table, surrounded by stacks of books and scrolls of parchment, was a boy stained with ink.

His head was bowed over a parchment, a quill dutifully scratching out an essay. Around fourteen, Tom guessed by the textbooks - he'd been assigned the same during his fourth year - although the boy was smaller than even Tom was at that age.

"I didn't know you were a mother," Tom said quietly. "You're far too young."

"Oh, you," Hepzibah batted his arm. "Hadrian's adopted - he's . . . well. I'll let him show you. Hadrian, dear. Hadrian. Hadrian. "

He was ignoring her.

Hepzibah sighed. "Pardon his manners," she reached for her wand. "His teenage years have made him inconceivably moody. Hadrian, darling." With a flick of her wrist, a stinging spell made him drop his quill. He gasped, jerking his hand to his chest, and raised his eyes to glare at them.

Tom was struck.

The emerald eye of Slytherin's locket was nothing in comparison to the Killing Curse green of the boy's gaze.

Hepzibah tapped her wand impatiently against her arm. "Say hello to our guest."

His nostrils flared. He barely glanced at Tom. "Pleasure."

"Do the thing," she said earnestly. "Show Tom what you can do."

" . . . I - I'm studying, Mother."

"Hadrian."

With that one word, Harry sealed his lips shut in resignation. Avoiding her gaze, instead glaring at her ridiculous ginger wig, Harry hissed;"Leave me alone, you stupid wench."

Blood rushed through his ears. Tom felt dizzy. Although the words were uncouth, and a bit rude, the fact remained. The boy was a Parselmouth.

Tom whispered. "Incredible."

Tom carefully peeled off his gloves and placed them atop a bookshelf. He crouched down to the boy's level, greeting him with a firm shake. The boy's hand was small, nearly enveloped by Tom's long-fingered grip. His touch was nothing special - the boy's skin was cold, and his shake weak, but Tom could see the fierce displeasure in the boy's eyes. "Hello, Hadrian."

"Harry," the boy corrected quietly, stealing his hand back. A plate of sandwiches and a cup of milk was at his elbow, the meat plucked out and uneaten. He took a quick sip, wiping milk from his top lip.

Tom smiled at the sight. Just a child.

"Harry, then. My name is Thomas, but you can call me Tom."

Harry ducked his head, the glare softening. Slowly, he picked up his quill and continued his homework. "Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Tom asked, settling down into a chair across from him. "That was my favorite coarse at Hogwarts."

Harry scratched out another sentence before responding. "Mine too."

Tom's lips quirked in the first genuine smile since his arrival. Fascinating.

Hepzibah squealed a bit behind them. "My two boys," she fanned her face. "Getting along so well. This is excellent, Tom, you have no idea how difficult it is to get Harry to actually hold conversations like a proper wizard - "

Tom tuned her out, as he was prone to, and focused his attention on the boy before him. He could see hints of Gaunt in the boy; with his dark hair, pale skin, and delicate bone structure. He could see it the astigmatism, the stubbornness, as well as the boy's affiliation toward Dark Arts.

It was strange, though. He thought he'd seen the last of the Gaunts nearly a decade ago when he framed his Uncle Morfin for the murder of the Riddle family.

"Let's leave Harry to his schoolwork," Tom cleared his throat, interrupting Hepzibah's chatter. "He's a very dedicated student. Best not distract him."

Hepzibah agreed, giving Harry a quick pinch to his cheek. "My clever little boy," she cooed. As she turned away, Harry scrubbed viciously at the red mark left on his face.

Tom could feel the boy's gaze on his back.

As soon as they reached the hall, Tom burst. "Wherever did you find him?"

"Ah," Hepzibah hummed. "Tragic story, really. A fire had started in the woods outside his home, and when Muggle firefighters came to put it out, they found him. He was trapped inside the wards around an old, ugly shack with his father. An abusive, drunken, violent man. Awful, just terrible," she sounded delighted at the tale. "What a brave little boy he was."

Tom's nostrils flared.

It was funny, though; He didn't even need to enchant the woman to have her spilling her secrets.

"Harry made quite the ripple, breaking the Statute of Secrecy a dozen times over. The Ministry was contacted, memories were erased, and he was taken from the home. A lineage expert contacted me," Hepzibah swelled. "They knew I was a lonely old woman," she sighed, as if world-weary. "With wealth to spare, and I thought; how amazing would it be to reconnect the lines of Hufflepuff and Slytherin?"

"He was cheaper than the locket," Hepzibah added, puffing out the laugh. "But a hassle to raise."

Front teeth scraped over his bottom lip. "You never publicized the fact you were a mother."

"Well. Harry isn't an easy child. At first, he was a sweet boy, quiet, docile - but as he grew older, he began to test boundaries and - more than that - test my patience. Being a single mother is difficult," Hepzibah said sagely.

"No matter your flatteries, I'm not as young as I used to be. I do wish he had some proper male influence, though . . . " she side-eyed him, pressing her shoulder into Tom's. "A father figure, you might say."

"Pity," Tom said shortly. He was anxious to pry himself from her sweaty grip, his mind reeling.

They reached the sitting room and Tom sat her down in the loveseat. "I'm afraid I must take my leave, Miss Hepzibah. Burke will be expecting me."

Hepzibah frowned, disappointed. Before she could protest, Tom bent low to press another kiss to her knuckles. "This meeting has turned out to be such a boon. How grateful I am to have met you, Miss Hepzibah."

She crowed, running a fat hand down his face, caressing the sharp cheekbones. Tom resisted a disgusted twitch. "Anytime, Tom. Anytime. I'll have Hokey escort you out. Hokey!"

Hepzibah waggled her fat little fingers in goodbye while Tom let himself be escorted away. When they reached the front door, he detached his hand from the elf's and reached purposefully into his pocket.

"Oh, dear," he tsked. "I seem to have forgotten my gloves in the library."

Hokey stared balefully up at him, little ears perking up. "Hockey can fetch them for Mister Tom, sir."

"No need. I remember the way."

Hokey hesitated. "Hokey is just - concerned. Master Harry doesn't like to be disturbed."

"It'll only take a moment," Tom said, growing irritated with the creature. "He won't even notice I'm there. You know," Tom crouched down, squeezing Hokey's thin, frail shoulder. He spoke softly, conspiratorially. "Earlier, I noticed the rose bush outside was a bit . . . underwatered. You know how your mistress loves those flowers. She wouldn't be very pleased if they were to - wither and die, would she?"

Hokey's bulging eyes went huge, her breath catching. "Oh!" she wrung her ragged uniform. "Oh, thank you, Mister Tom - Hokey has been bad, very, very bad, neglecting Mistress' garden - "

"No need to thank me," Tom said magnanimously. "I can tell you're very loyal to your mistress, and I know you don't wish to cause her any unneeded stress. Go to take care of the flowers," he ordered softly. "I can see myself out."

Bowing gratefully, Hokey disappeared with a pop, leaving Tom's hands to fall to his sides.

His nose crinkled, and he wiped his palms onto a lace tablecloth. Eyes shrewd, he could hear the faint hum of music from the sitting room where Hepzibah was likely working on her cross-stitch or whatever old ladies did in their free time. Balancing his weight and walking heel-to-toe, Tom crept through the building, trying to find the invisible demiguise curtain.

Seeing the same suit of armor twice, he had to backtrack, having gone around in a circle. Tom trailed his fingers against the wall, and hummed in triumph as they caught against something warm and furry. Peeling open the curtain swiftly, he ducked into the hidden wing.

The library was the third - no, fourth door down, and Tom took a moment to merely rest his hand against it. He could hear the faint sound of steady breathing, a quill scratching against parchment, pages turning.

Frustrated with himself, Tom blinked rapidly. Don't be a coward, he chastised himself, and opened the door in one swift movement.

The boy didn't even look up.

"I . . . seemed to have misplaced my gloves," Tom said to announce his presence.

Somewhere, a clock ticked, filling the awkward silence. The boy sniffed. "They're on the shelf."

Tom fought a grin at the boy's tone. He grabbed the gloves and lifted them in thanks. "Sorry to intrude." Tom turned his back on the boy. A book closed. His muscles tensed.

"No, you aren't," Harry sighed, as if resigned. "And you're not as clever as you think you are. This isn't the first time someone's 'forgotten' a possession of theirs in this wing."

"O - oh. Have they?"

"Professor Slughorn misplaced his monocle. Arcturus Black, the dumbass, dropped his wand and kicked it under the bookshelf. Madame Smethwyck lost an earring. You're not the first, and you're not the last to try to - ah, win the favor of Hepzibah Smith's favorite parlor trick."

Tom coughed loudly, hiding a laugh. "Oh, really?" he said, asked. "Well - " slipping his gloves away, Tom gingerly sat across from Harry. The boy didn't object. Or react.

"What else did the others do, hm? Did they . . . " Tom lifted the corner of Harry's parchment, boldly turning it toward him. The boy's penmanship was atrocious. "Did they ask you about your schoolwork, in a vague attempt at relatability? Or did they tell you how fortunate you are to be raised by Hepzibah, surrounded by heirlooms and history?"

The boy snorted. He tugged his paper out of Tom's grip, airing out the ink and rolling it into a tight scroll. "Yes. To both."

"Well. Do you feel particularly fortunate?"

"Oh," he said scornfully. "Every damn day. 'Course, I'm not allowed to touch the heirlooms. Not since I broke a 17th Century teacup in my first week here."

"Teacups can be mended with a flick of a wand," Tom noted.

Harry gave a light shrug, eyes falling. "That's what I told her. And I was locked in my room for a week for my 'attitude'." He capped his ink well and made to rise.

Tom cast around in his brain for something to draw the boy's attention, draw those eyes back up to him. "Not a fan of ancient artifacts, then? Hm. I don't suppose you could tell me what you think of this one, then?"

Tom slid the Gaunt ring off his finger and laid it in his palm. The facets of the gem gleamed like blood.

Harry physically recoiled.

"W - where - "

Harry's breath picked up. He looked close to falling out of his chair. "Where did you get that?"

"Oh, this old thing?" Tom held the ring between his thumb and forefinger, peering down at the ugly, scratched stone. "Family heirloom. Did you know," he said conversationally. "That symbol, right here? That's the sign of the Deathly Hallows? Ever read that story? No? Well, it's also known as the signet of the Peverells, an old, old family. Rich history, really fascinating, if a bit gruesome. If you asked Hepzibah, I'm sure she'd tell you all about them. She likes that sort of thing."

Harry made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Tom might've been concerned, if not for how the boy leaned forward, unwittingly intrigued.

"Where - did - you - get - that?" the boy hissed.

"Stole it," Tom said back, the language curling off his tongue. "From an old man in an old shack. My uncle." Harry's hand came up to clap over his mouth, as though he was about to be ill. "Your father, I'm guessing."

Heedless to the awful pale color that washed over Harry's features, Tom pressed on. "Funny how he never mentioned having a son. Then again, he wasn't the most conversational. And it's not as though there were any family photos," Tom laughed, cruel.

"We didn't . . . " Harry breathed out. "Exactly part on the best terms. H-how is he?"

Tom's response was cheerful. "Rotting in Azkaban for a murder he didn't commit." Green eyes slammed closed. "Relieved?"

"He killed my mother," Harry murmured. "Or might as well have. I-it's no less than he deserves."

"Hm. And from what the bitch has told me, he wasn't quite the lovely father you'd expect, either."

Harry didn't clam up like Tom half-expected he would.

Instead, the boy sat up, nostrils flaring. "It's not a secret," he spat, in English. "But she doesn't need to tell everyone she meets how brave and special I am for surviving. How proud she is of her little boy - abused and meek and on the mend - whenshe's almost as bad as him. Almost."

Harry was being daring, Tom suspected. Just daring Hepzibah to hear him curse her out, walk into the library and see her special boys talking behind her back.

With barely a twitch, Tom cast a silencing spell around the room.

Harry quieted almost immediately; as though he could sense the spell washing over them. He stared at Tom for a moment, affronted, before a weak sneer twisted his lips.

"'Course. Can't have sweet Miss Hepzibah overhear us." Knocking his chair back, Harry stood and grabbed his books. He put them away violently, but Tom could see the tremble of Harry's hands. "You're not here to steal me away like a knight-in-shining-armor, are you? You want something."

"Doesn't everyone?" Tom spread his hands across the table. However, it wouldn't do to seem duplicitous, even playfully so. The boy was too perceptive. "But yes. Hepzibah has something of mine. My mother's really. A locket."

Harry spared Tom a look over his shoulder, considering.

"You're Aunty Merope's son." It wasn't a question. "My fath - Morfin liked to talk about her. About how useless she was, an ugly, magicless Squib - "

If he was trying to rile Tom up, it wasn't working. Tom never knew his mother enough to be insulted on her behalf. And, after all, it was true.

"He always claimed she was dead on the side of a road somewhere," Harry mused, staring down at a dusty tomb. "Discarded. Abandoned by that Muggle nobleman, Thomas - " Realization flooded Harry's face. Then amusement. "Thomas Riddle. You're named after your father, then? The Muggle?"

A chink appeared in Tom's flawless mask, a hint of red in his eyes.

"Not like I can judge," Harry flapped a dismissive hand. "My mum was Muggle too. She was," his voice cracked. "From the village. He t-took her, kept her. Like - like Rapunzel in a filthy, disease-ridden tower."

And there's Harry's Achilles heel, Tom noted, although he felt no urge to abuse it. Yet.

"I'm n-named after my grandfather, on her side," Harry said, changing the subject. "Harry - not a very pureblood name, is it? Not going to strike fear into the hearts of men, that's for certain."

"Planning on a mass genocide?" Tom asked, endlessly amused. "A tyrannical rule? Going to become the next Dark Lord, after Grindelwald?" he pronounced the name in it's proper German. Languages came easily to him. "Awfully young for that."

"Dark Lord Harry Smith. Not that menacing, you see?"

Tom laughed. "Could make an anagram of it, I suppose." Tom took the drying quill and quickly scrawled out his own name. "I am Lord Voldemort."

Harry peered over the man's shoulder and resisted a snort. He pointed out the letters. "It could also be Mr. Tom, a dildo lover."

Tom's face turned bright, scalding red. He quickly flipped the parchment over and pushed it out of sight. "You get my point. If you don't like your name - make a new one."

"Is that what you've done, Lord Voldemort?" Harry said, peering at Tom with an odd expression. "Why are you collecting ancient artifacts, Tom? The ring, the locket - "

"I simply have a professional curiosity. I work in the industry."

"Right. And what about me?" Harry asked. His smile was more of a slash, a painful, jagged rictus. "Was it just professional curiosity that made you come back here?"

"Not quite."

"It's a little late to be a family, Tom. I'm not a little boy - I'm not looking for a knight in shining armor anymore. Too much time has passed."

"Time is relative," especially when you're immortal. "Is it so hard to believe I truly want to get to know you? I've never - " Tom wet his lips. "We're the same, you and I. My mother died, too. Right after birthing me. I never knew my family. I reached out to them, once."

"Didn't go over well, I'm guessing," Harry said sharply. "Seeing as you had to frame my father for a murder. Not that I'm not grateful."

Tom eyed his cousin.

The boy was a mess of contradictions; shy in one moment, cunning in the other, then rude as a Gryffindor. "What house are you in?" Tom asked suddenly, needing confirmation.

Harry peered at him, as though wondering it's relevance. "Gryffindor."

Tom's mouth popped open, but Harry interrupted. "I know. Strange, for the Heir of Slytherin and ward of a Hufflepuff and blah, blah - the Sorting Hat thought I'd fit in any house. Ravenclaw appealed to me, simply because it was a fine neutral ground. But . . . " Harry shrugged. His eyes sparkled. "No one suspects a burgeoning Dark Lord in Gryffindor."

Sometimes, Tom thought to himself, he couldn't quite tell if the boy was joking or not.

"Here," Tom said, pulling the Peverell ring off his finger. His horcrux thrummed inside the ring, rattling anxiously. It had been the murder of his father that split his soul. "Take this. It's your birthright, after all," he said slyly. "Unless you don't want it?"

Harry frowned at it, a furrow of indecision between his brows. "Not really," he drawled. "It was my father's ring."

"And it's only fitting you be the one to wear it," Tom urged. "We're the last of the Gaunts, after all - Morfin is as good as dead. He can't stop you from taking what's rightfully yours."

Harry hesitated. He reached out, slowly, before his finger graced the cursed stone. It was cold. The Peverell mark gleamed up at him, almost comforting in a way -

He glanced up at Tom. "You won't want it back?"

He sounded so unsure, as though he wasn't used to things being truly his. Tom, once, felt something very similar. Tom expected the separation from his horcrux to be uncomfortable, or even painful, but he felt nothing but a slight contentment. Tom once had nothing; then he had a diary. A wand. A snake. And a ring. Soon, he will have more. A locket. A cup. And a boy. A boy just like him.

His boy, his kin.

Someone to raise, to teach, to cherish to punish and protect.

Tom tucked his hands beneath his thighs, fighting the urge to stroke Harry's fringe away and mark him. The ring was enough, for now.

"I'll be back," Tom said, clearing his throat. "In two days time, for the locket. And the ring, if you decide you don't want it." He stood, taking his gloves with him this time.

Harry's gaze darted up, meeting Tom's with an unnerving stare.

"You promise?" he said, voice small.

Tom, staring down at the child, was once again struck by how young Harry was. The boy absently slipped the ring onto his thumb, as the loop was too big for his ring finger. He'd grow into it.

"I promise," Tom said firmly, in the language of the snakes. It was impossible to lie in Parseltongue. Snakes knew only truth, and fact. They knew only of solitude and survival and sometimes, of eggs and of mates, and of kin.

Tom paused at the door. "What's your favorite flower?"

Harry hesitated, "L-lilies. Does it matter?"

Tom nodded once, giving him a secret smile, and left without a goodbye. Because really, it was a hello.

Harry stared down at his father's ring, his heart beating a tattoo through his chest. He was fourteen. And he had the promise of a family.


To be continued . . .