It spills from his Father's skull as he strikes him again with the three-pronged candelabra that sits atop the grand piano.
Mrs Riddle screams as she watches her son's body hits the floor, pieces of gore splattering the face of her grandson as he raises the metal instrument again. Tom Riddle Jr. looks down at his Father's body with disdain, ignoring the screeching of his grandparents.
"You are no Father of mine," he hisses, kneeling, then raising the candelabra once more. He slams it down against the man's face, the face so similar to his own. Grunting with exertion, he crushes the jaw first, then the nose, then works until there is little left of Tom Riddle Sr. but a pulp, a mush of blood and flesh. He would be the only one with this face, the name of Riddle, there would be no connection to this - this Muggle, anymore.
He stands, looking to the terrified older couple. Behind them sits a large, ornate mirror, in which he sees the reflection of himself. His white school shirt is saturated with red. His face, his hands, are covered with the remains of his Father. An errant drop of blood drips from his hair onto his outstretched hand.
A vile grin spreads over his face and he lets the candelabra clatter to the wooden floor of the drawing room.
"Avada Kedavra," he whispers, coolly. The curse bounces, hitting, killing them both. Their bodies drop to the floor, quiet but for the rustling of their clothes.
Tom lets out a breath, surveying the mess that surrounds him. The mirror reflects a boy with wild eyes, hands stained with life. He feels more powerful that ever before, he feels majestic, he-
"Mother?"
Sunlight trickled in from the partially open window next to the bed. Warming rays fell upon the heavy duvet that covered her body, so she stretched her arms above her head to enjoy the feeling. As her head turned to one side, she caught sight of the alarm clock on her bedside table.
9:18AM. Blast!
She only had a little time left to get washed and dressed before meeting the lady of the house. Throwing the covers back, Hermione dashed out of the four poster and across the shining wooden floor to the bathroom. She had explored the large quarters the previous evening and, my, they were beautiful. A kitchentte, a bedroom, a sitting room - it was open plan, apart from the bathroom and decorated in deep purples and greens. It was comfortable, through a little too polished for her liking. After a short shower, she sprinted back into the main room to find her clothes, wand and tutorial books. Dropping the green towel from around her chest and onto the bed.
As she pulled on a pair of knickers, a soft coughing sound behind her caught her attention. When she turned, it shocked her to see Tom Riddle, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. She shrieked, snatching the towel from the bed to cover her nudity.
"Master Riddle, what on Earth?" she panted, stepping back so the back of her legs were touching the edge of the bed.
"Apologies, Miss Granger," he said, though she noticed that he never averted his eyes. "I was simply seeing if you would like to be escorted to the breakfast room."
"Um, well, yes - thank you," she replied, tucking the towel underneath her armpits. "Would you mind stepping outside for just a couple of minutes, so that I might get changed?"
Instead of doing as she said, the man simply turned to look at the wall. Hermione gritted her teeth together in annoyance - remaining calm and polite around this boy was exceptionally difficult. She pulled on her clothes as quickly as possible, slipped on her shoes and headed to the door. Tom swiveled to face her as she stood next to him.
"Let us go and meet my Mother," he said, offering his arm to her. Hermione returned his smile and placed her hand on his forearm. As they left her quarters and began to make their way to the breakfast room, a few thoughts reeled through Hermione's mind.
Firstly, the house brought back memories of a film she had once seen. Not the decor, so much as the maze of long, straight corridors. Images of a child cycling up and down hallways, of twins in blue...a shiver ran down her spine at the thought. Secondly, she noted Tom's attire. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, with a white shirt - not the clothing of a man who was simply going to breakfast in his own home. Hermione supposed this was usual for such an affluent family, but it would certainly take some getting used to. Tom seemed to notice her staring and smiled down at her, cocking an eyebrow.
"It is a very pleasant morning outside. Far nicer than the rain last night. Perhaps after breakfast you would like to take a look around the grounds?" he asked, as they began to descend the main staircase.
"That would be lovely," she replied, looking away from him. She hadn't simply been tired last night - there was definitely something off about the boy. Whether it was the way his smile didn't fit with his angelic looks, or the pompous way he held himself, she hadn't warmed to him yet.
"Of course it will be lovely. There's acres of it to enjoy." He steered her around a corner before finally releasing her from his grip. He stared at the doors ahead of them, his face hardening into a scowl. His next words were clipped, nearly-snarled, "Well, let's go and meet Mummy."
Before she had time to fully register his vicious tone, the doors to the breakfast room opened smoothly, by themselves.
"Did you do that?" she asked, slightly shocked. Unspoken magic was a difficult talent to master, let alone wandless magic. A young man of seventeen would hardly have such mastery - she herself had only learnt the skill a year ago and she was far more advanced than her older peers. The man didn't reply, but his signature smirk rose on one side.
The breakfast room was far more pleasant than she expected. The walls were painted a pale yellow colour, which accentuated the general lightness of the place. Four floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, letting the sunlight of the morning illuminate the highly polished wooden floors. The furniture, a long dining table and a dozen matching chairs, was ornate and similar to the style of the rest of the Manor.
A woman was sat at the end of the table. She was dressed in a black lace dress, fitted around the waist and flaring at the hips, with matching shoes. Hermione couldn't help but be envious of the woman's beauty - it was obvious where Tom got his striking features. Her skin was as pale as his, her eyes as blue and though her hair was a light silver, the silky curls matched his. Upon their entrance, the woman's eyes lit up and a genuine smile rose on her reddened lips. A smile - Hermione noted - not a smirk. There was something truly lovely about her smile, something honest and genuine. Instantly Hermione knew she would take a liking to her.
"My dear!" she cooed, in a soft and rather high-pitched tone. She stood from her chair and offered a pale hand. "Welcome, welcome. Do come and sit, sit, sit!"
Hermione grinned and walked further into the room ahead of Tom. She took the woman's offered hand to shake and was surprised by how delicate it was, loosening her grip in fear of cracking it. Upon closer inspection, the woman's beauty was not quite as perfect as she had initially thought. Though flawless, her skin was stretched too tightly over her bones, giving her a wasted look. Something about her upright posture and the tension that held her muscles made the woman appear nervous, twitchy almost. Her blonde hair was drenched in brittle silver and her make-up recalled the glamour of years-gone-by.
"Good morning, my name is Hermione Granger," she said, removing her hand and placing them behind her.
"She knows that, she was the one that hired you," came Tom's hard voice from across the table. He had placed himself in the seat to his Mother's left hand side, opposite Hermione.
"Tom!" the woman chided. Hermione could tell that there was little force to her warning, it seemed almost for show. "Now please, my dear, take a seat."
Hermione nodded and sat down to her right, ignoring Tom's hard stare. "Thank you."
"You are quite welcome, Hermione - I do hope you don't mind if I call you Hermione? I am Lady Merope Riddle, though, please, just Merope is fine. Never been fond of the title, have I Tommy?"
"No, Mother, you have not," he replied, as he reached into his suit jacket to retrieve a silver cigarette
case. After plucking a black skinned cigarette from the case, he snapped it shut and drew the tube up between his lips.
"Tom, must you smoke at the breakfast table?" Merope chastised, leaning toward her son with a smile.
Instead of heeding her words, he simply stared her down and lit the cigarette with a click of his fingers. Again, Hermione noted the brilliant use of wandless magic. Perhaps he was right, maybe he didn't need a tutor?
"So, Hermione," Merope began, drawing back her attention. "Thank you for agreeing to be Tom's tutor, Albus tells us that you are an exceptional young witch."
"He is too kind," she replied, flushing slightly. Merope smiled kindly and flicked her wand twice in the air. Food blossomed on the plates in front of the trio and their glasses filled with what appeared to be orange juice.
"Please, dig in. And you are far too modest, Hermione. Albus said you were the most accomplished student Hogwarts has ever had," Merope said, leaning forward to pick up a bowl of red grapes. Tom let out a breath of smoke at that second, seemingly pointed at his Mother's last sentence. "Now, I am so pleased that you are available to tutor Tom. I wished for him to have a more...one-on-one style of teaching. Much more detailed and tailored, don't you think?"
"Certainly," Hermione replied. There was something odd about Merope's reasoning, though she couldn't quite place what it was. Perhaps Tom was bullied at school? Perhaps he was expelled? Or maybe he just didn't like Hogwarts?
"Excellent, excellent. I was hoping that you might begin tomorrow, after doing an assessment with Tom today. Just to see which subjects need a little more work. After that, three classes a day, with weekends off? You can do as you please in your spare time, feel free to use anything in the house and explore the grounds. We have a wonderful library, a swimming pool and Tom has a lovely games room in his quarters. And I believe three hundred galleons a week will suffice?"
Hermione looked at Tom briefly, only to find him staring back at her from over the top of his fluted glass. "That all sounds wonderful, Merope. Thank you so much for the opportunity, I hope to live up to your expectation."
"My expectation," Tom retorted, stubbing his cigarette out on his empty breakfast plate. Hermione's mouth fell open slightly in shock at his rudeness. "I'm going up to my study, Mother. Have her come up after lunch."
"Of course, darling," Merope called, as her son left the room.
Silence fell between the two women as Tom's footsteps echoed through the marble halls. Hermione looked back at Merope and noted the strange expression on her face. It was one of utter adoration, though her eyes were crinkled, as if pained.
"Lady Riddle, might I ask you a question?" Hermione began, sipping on her orange juice.
"Of course, my dear, ask away," Merope replied, focusing her attention back on Hermione.
"From the very few displays of magic I've seen from Tom thus far, well, I'm not sure he needs a tutor. He seems to be very well educated, he can already perform wandless and wordless magic. At seventeen that is beyond advanced. As much as I would love to act as his educator, I don't want you to have to pay me for no reason."
Merope set down her glass and looked down at her plate. "Miss Hermione, I must confess there is a little more to this role than mere academics. Tom needs pastoral care, a mentor in the ways of the outside world, I suppose."
"A friend?"
The older woman smiled, sadly. "Yes. Tom has had a fairly isolated home life, thanks to the location of our home and the nature of our status. At Hogwarts, he had a few close friends, but I do not think they were the best influence on him. He...changed, when he got there."
"May I ask how?" Hermione asked, gently. Truly, she couldn't imagine Tom having any friends, he didn't seem like the type.
"Before, well, he was my little boy. He loved me so much - played with me, exercised his magic with me, an oh. Do you know, he used to play the piano for me and Thomas every evening? A boy's best friend should be his Mother - sadly, that is not the case," she laughed lightly, though her face quickly dropped into upset.
"So, you wish for me to spend time with him outside of the classroom?"
"If that is not too much to ask. It's nothing sordid, I assure you. He simply needs a little companionship now and then. To keep him -" she paused, as if lost for words. She continued, though Hermione knew the word she was looking for was 'sane'. "Anyway, do you think you would be up to it?"
"Of course."
Merope sighed and laced her hands together in front of her. "Truly, Hermione. Since my Thomas died a month ago, I want to keep Tom as close as I can. I worry about him."
Hermione paused momentarily. "I am sorry for your loss, Lady Riddle. It must be hard to lose a loved one."
"It is," the older woman replied, quietly. Her beautiful eyes creased up, as if she was trying to hold back tears. But, maintaining her composure, she simply took a deep breath and looked back at Hermione. "But we should not linger on the bad, should we? Worry ages the skin so."
"How has Tom been since...?"
"Tom-" Merope looked straight ahead of her, as if checking to see that her son were not standing in the doorway. "Tom and his Father were never close. But I believe he is affected, in his own way."
"I see," Hermione said, musing over her answer. "Well, I suppose I had better begin writing Tom's assessment, mustn't leave it too late."
"No, no, of course, you are right. There are quite a few studies around the house, Hermione, do feel free to use any of them," Merope smiled, leaning back in her chair. She fixed Hermione with a serious stare for a moment. "I must only ask that you do not enter Tom's quarters - the middle door on the landing - without his permission. He gets awfully irritable if I disturb his studies."
Of course he does. "Of course not, everyone is entitled to their privacy."
"Quite," she laughed. She had a lovely laugh, a light chime that warmed the house. Merope stood, the train of her gown falling gracefully to the floor. "Now Miss Hermione, I shall leave you to your activities. Good luck."
"Thank you, Lady Riddle," she replied, watching as the woman in black faded from sight into the maze of hallways. "I'm going to need it."
After breakfast had finished, Merope headed from the house, toward the family chapel that lay at the end of the eastern grounds. She had never had a faith, but her husband and his family had been devoted Christians and she felt it proper to bury them according to their God's wishes. Thomas Riddle Snr. had been a loving husband, even after she told him of her magical heritage, though his parents had never truly accepted her. Her family were long dead, though she knew her friends disapproved of her husband's Muggle blood. But for Merope, no-one else mattered but Thomas.
Years of wedded bliss, a home and then - a son. The Riddle's couldn't have been more overjoyed to bring another life into their perfect home. But, the boy never seemed to return their happiness and as he aged, he grew in distance. Merope loved him, no matter what he did. Even when he smashed the family china because Thomas was too busy to take him to the village market. When he dug his nails so hard into her arm that they left marks for weeks. Even when he began leaving dead birds on his bedroom floor, when left their dog under the Cruciatus curse for hours and threw tantrums when he was refused anything. When he began calling her a whore for marrying a 'filthy, foul, Muggle'. She still loved him, so dearly.
But, now?
Her eyes fell on her husband's grave. She had kept it pristine, covered it in flowers that never perished under a magical charm.
The house was quiet when she arrived home. It was dark outside, so she was surprised to see no lights were on. She waved her wand and the chandelier burst into life.
"Mother?"
She turned to see her son, emerging from the darkened ballroom.
"Tommy, what-" the words fell from her lips as Tom stepped into the light of the hallway. "Oh god, Tom."
He was covered in blood. His shirt was saturated, it dripped from his hair, his clenched fists, it was smeared over his face-
Merope hurried forward, pushing past her son, eyes adjusting to the dark of the ballroom. She already knew what had happened, she needed to see it, to make sure she wasn't dreaming all of this. And there, on the floor, three crumpled bodies laying in a dark pool.
"Someone must have burgled the house and killed them."
She turned to Tom, her mind blank. For a moment, she didn't believe he was her son and she lunged forward, grabbing his shoulders in her hands. She shoved him back against the wall, drawing her wand and pressing it to his throat in one smooth motion.
"What have you done Tom? What in God's name have you done?"
Tom's eyes bulged at his Mother's reaction. "Mother, please, don't I-"
"You're sick Tom, what have you done? I - cannot," she could barely get the words out for the angry panting that racked her chest.
"Mother, please," Tom begged, quietly. He was a powerful wizard, yes, but he was aware of where that power came from.
Merope blinked away the tears that were fogging her eyes and there, then, she saw him again. Her frightened, sweet little boy. Her son. Her one and only. Slowly, she lowered her wand to her side, still shaking violently. Tom ran to her and buried his face in her shoulder, weeping noisily. Raising her arms to wrap them around his back, she pulled him closer and ran a hand through his bloody curls. Both of them sank to their knees, Merope shuddering, Tom curling closer into her bosom.
"Tommy, shh. Mummy's here."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." he repeated, over and over, in a pathetic whisper.
The blood on his shirt was still warm.
"I've got you."
She would always love her son. Even though she still remembered the feeling of his smirk against her skin as he wept into her chest.