A/N: Thank you all for the lovely comments. I was ever so pleased, so I'm very glad with them. I'm also pleased you like this story and I hope you keep enjoying it!
Enjoy the next chapter!
o.O.o
Chapter three, The irony of Fate
11 November 1933
Tom Edwardian Riddle sat behind his desk in his office, staring at his notebook with a deep frown between his eyebrows. His parents were in the parlour discussing his mental health as if he couldn't walk in on them any second. With every day that passed they grew more concerned with him and no matter how many therapists he saw, or how many privet detectives he hired, to them, he didn't get better. Even though he stopped confining himself to his room, went out to town, ignored the heated whispers that followed him and shook the hands of women (with bated breath and tensed shoulders) his father introduced to him, they remained convinced he was damaged for life.
The worst part was that he couldn't even really blame his parents. In many ways, his obsession with his heir — for he knew for sure there must be one — was born out of a fear for women. He needed this child to be real because he was not getting anywhere near a woman if he had anything to say about it. At least, he was better at hiding it now. After returning home a bit over seven years ago, he'd been a wreck, only a shadow of the prideful boy he'd used to be.
It was only because of his doting mother (and the lack of an heir), that his father refrained from disowning him. For Thomas Riddle, Tom had been nothing but a burden the last few years and even worse, instead of the prized stallion, he'd been the laughing stock of the village. All of them had been gleefully watching as Tom fell. And oh, had Tom fallen. When he'd found back most o this mind and escaped from Merope, Tom had wandered the dreadful streets of London in a cloud of confusion and fear, until an old man had taken pity on him and drove him several miles to his home (perhaps thinking about the reward a wealthy family would gift him with).
Running his fingers through his dark hair, he squeezed his eyes shut, thinking about his breathing.
The only one who had been more furious than his father would have been the old beggar himself. Marvollo Gaunt had almost thrown himself at Tom when his father had threatened him outside and hissed all kind of insults at him. Several of them he'd not understood (although he understood the message) and he'd made sure to not come near the little Gaunt house again. Even without the grazed Gaunt Senior, the house served only bad memories, and he certainly didn't need flashbacks of a dissolved looking Merope offering him what he thought was a glass of water on a hot summer day. Yes, that glass of water had been the beginning of the seven blurry months he spent with Merope and although almost none of his memories was very clear, the mere memory of the woman had made him unable to sleep and woke him up in the middle of the night, screaming.
No therapist or even the occasional psychiatrist had been able to dissuade him from his firm beliefs that Merope had bewitched him and although his parents had been very unhappy about it, none had been able to get him near a woman either. Although he managed to shake hands with one when it was absolutely necessary and nod at his maids when it was expected, he had not been able to get truly close to any.
Lacing his fingers together, Tom ground his teeth together and tried to distract himself, while he waited for his appointment. A shabby man, going by the name of Rudolf Schneider, had promised Tom over the phone that, if a child born from him existed, he would find it and although Rudolf hardly looked like the trustworthy lot, Tom had an uncanny faith in the man.
Outside the rain was spattering down in heavy droplets and rivulets of water trailed down the windows and leaked out of the drains in gullets. He vaguely remembered that he used to like the rain as a child and watched the muddy lawns and backyard. The rain was so heavy, even the small village of Little Hangleton was difficult to make out and he smiled tightly. If only the rain could wash away his memories like it could do with the vision of the crummy village.
He'd been in the middle of fantasising the erasing of Priest Jonathan (who was sure he would go to hell for whatever it was he thought was a mortal sin) when his mother, Mary Riddle stepped into his office. Rudolf Schneider, dressed in an old brown trench coat, dark trousers and a scarf that had seen better days, smirked at him, several rotten teeth visible and Tom's smile became strained.
"Mister Schneider, how do you do?" He greeted, shaking the man's hand.
"Very fine, Mister Riddle." Schneider retorted, unaware of the dissatisfied gaze he received from Tom's mother.
Mary Riddle stared at the man with a scrunched up nose and it was only after several seconds before she noticed his gaze: "Mother?"
"Nothing Darling." She sighed and the door clicked shut behind her. Tom waited until her footsteps faded down the landing and nodded at a chair in front of his desk.
"And—" Tom began, "I trust you found me something."
Schneider smiled: "Of course, I did." Before rubbing thumb and index finger together. "For a prize of course."
Tom pressed his lips tightly together before reaching for his chequebook. "It better be good."
"I promise you, my good Sir, it is."
With an exaggerated flourish, he signed the agreed sum and placed the paper in front of the shabby-looking man. Schneider smiled broadly, patting the paper before putting it away in his breast pocket. "Very glad doing business with you, Young mister Riddle."
"Hm, the information, Rudolf."
"Of course, Merope Riddle nee Gaunt is dead."
For some reason Tom had not expected that and he froze, watching as Schneider crossed his legs at the ankles. He'd expected to go behind Merope's back and snatch the child away from her (who knew what horrors the child would grow up with under Merope's tutelage). He'd even considered hiring another kind of professional, one that would take care of Merope but now— She was dead and he did not need to do anything.
"She's dead?"
"Already for seven years in two months."
"And— the child?"
"She had a son before she died," Schneider admitted. "From what I understood he is the striking image of you. Dark hair and handsome. Even found out where he is now."
"Where?"
He's at Wool's Orphanage in London."
Then Wool's Orphanage London, was where Tom would go and he curled his fingers tightly around the pen he was still holding: "I see."
I-I. ⌡. Γ┐
04 January 1934
Tom Marvollo Riddle was fuming. There was no other way to put it. After a very distressful night at a hotel (he had never been in a hotel, how did these two idiot look-a-likes think an orphan could afford to stay into a hotel), his father had attempted a thorough interrogation. His father…
Tom Edwardian Riddle…
It was somewhat laughable that the name Tom detested so much was not the only trait they had in common. Seven-year-old Tom Riddle scowled, wrapping his father's large coat tightly around his shoulder. He'd been cold and his father, still blubbering — 'that woman hadn't been lying and look how much he looked like him' — into his hands, had wrapped it so tightly around Tom's shoulders, he almost strangled him with it. Tom glared at the older man and ground his teeth together.
Tom's father had the same appearance, the same name and even the same habits (at least the ones he had displayed by now). When he read the morning paper the morning after he'd practically dragged Tom and his trunk out of the orphanage (a reluctant grandfather in tow), he sucked his cheeks between his molars, chewing on his lower lip. It was an unconscious habit, but one Tom himself displayed when reading as well.
It was obvious to Tom that Tom Riddle Senior, was not the best father material. Apart from the distressed moment where he'd launched himself upon a very unsuspecting seven-year-old, he had been gravely unsure what a father was supposed to do. Tom was sure a father wasn't supposed to blubber and stumble, nor was he supposed to argue his sanity to his grandfather.
The trees began to thin and the light was changing. Tom Marvollo Riddle fidgeted in his seat and stared at his fingers. He was surrounded by expensive feelings and smelling leather and he'd never felt more nervous than he felt now. The two men, his father and grandfather, occasionally shot him curious glances, but at least had stopped trying to talk to him. They'd tried, quite forcefully really, but Tom had remained mute, staring at his hands, counting his fingers. At some point, the adults had gathered he didn't want to talk about his life at the orphanage, his (non-existent) friends and he didn't care what kind of automobile they were driving in. It wasn't like the name SS Jaguar meant anything to him anyway.
A very watery sun broke through the clouds and Tom peeked out of the window. The rain had abated hours ago, but instead, a thick fog was roiling around the automobile. Down the slope a town with little houses greeted him. It was nestled between two steep hills and the tower of a strangely large church greeted him.
"That's Little Hangleton." Tom Riddle, his father, said, leaning his elbows on his knees. "It might be small but we own ninety precent of the village."
"Hm," Tom answered, his eyes remained fixed on the church and hoped his father would leave it at that. He had no such luck.
"If you look to your right you can see the manor," his father continued, leaning over Tom's shoulder and pointing at a handsome manor house. It was— large, surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawns and Tom realised with a pang of worry that they were moving towards it.
"The gardens are open to you and you can go and see the horses, but don't move past the fence. The citizens aren't— fond of us. Money and power do that to people."
Tom slowly moved his gaze from the manor and stared at his father. Hoping he would see he wasn't serious, but the grave expression on his face told him otherwise. So instead of being locked up in his room at the orphanage, he would be locked up in an admiringly large manor? Such luck he had.
The car moved up the gravel path and Tom moodily glared at the stable pasture. The chauffeur, because why not have a chauffeur if you have money to burn and all, stopped the car in front of the manor.
His grandfather left the car without a word and directed the chauffeur — whose name Tom did no longer remember — to the house. The man, broad-shouldered and greying hair, nodded curtly and proceeded in taking Tom's measly possessions into the house. Everything he'd owned had all fitted in the rattiest trunk Mrs Cole had owned and now he was carrying it inside.
He grimaced.
It didn't seem like something that would ever belong in such a house.
"Are you coming, Tom?" Tom Riddle senior asked almost pleasantly, wiping his hands on his trousers. They must have been sweaty.
Tom looked up at the man. Tall and regal, expectantly waiting for him to follow him. With a slight bit of hesitation, he finally jumped out of the car before his father could offer to give him a hand. He did not need one.
"There are three floors." Tom Senior explained and Tom wrapped the big coat tighter around him, absentmindedly listening to his father while carefully spying around. The gardens were large and in the distance, a high iron-wrought fence shimmered. Tom Senior must have noticed his wandering stare and before he stepped inside, crouched down before him. "You must promise me not venture outside these fences without someone to chaperone you."
Tom's cheeks flushed. "Chaperone me?"
"Yes, I understand this is new for you, but the villagers— you are young and they will try and use you." He stated. "For now, you won't go outside the fence without me or anyone I deem worthy."
Tom bristled: "And what if I do."
Tom Senior's eyes narrowed: "Then you'll be grounded."
Tom stared open-mouthed at him. He'd never been grounded in his life. Gotten scolded and sent to his room without food, yes. Being caned on his back and sneered at, yes. But being grounded—
He stomped his foot in anger and stalked past him, glaring at the front door; willing it to open. It did.
To be continued…
A/N: First, Little Tom is resentful and perhaps a little bit moody. Don't expect him to know how to charm people immediately, but at least his father won't throw a hissy fit when the accidental magic starts. At least, not as much as others (he might throw a hissy fit either way).
Second, according to Wikipedia Tom Riddle Sr was born in August 1905. Which means, if you do the maths, he would be 28 years old in January 1934.
