A/N: Here we go. Hopefully, the fourth part of this thing. Might add more in the future, lmao. We'll see. This is also a continuation. Also, I have no idea what exactly is the time of this thing. Somewhere in the 2000s, I guess? I'll leave it ambiguous. Dang. I don't think Harry and Hermione and everyone were born on the canon birthdate. Lol, oh well. Ambiguous, it is!
And I changed the work to be more open-ended. Not completed. I need to do the same for the , but I'll do it way later. It's still registered as complete work.
Yes. . . I'm pretty sure there's a 5th part. It's surprising how much there is to write for "Origins." Gosh. . . I love it.
I.
She doesn't recognize the psyche. He has dark hair, yes, but his mannerisms are not Professor Riddle's. He furiously licks his own lips, as if trying to eat them. When he sees Hermione flying at him with the intention of smacking him down, he roars in rage. "Bloody Legilimens! Both of you!" He grapples Hermione, shoving her away.
Hermione deftly avoids his grasp. She slips out of them and picks up some of Professor Riddle's memories, throwing them at him. Mundane memories, too. She smirks with satisfaction when they all hit. Enjoy being in class, she thinks with dark pleasure. He doesn't have the finesse of an actual Legilimens. Instead, he bundles through the mind awkwardly. Somewhat practiced, but mostly awful. Nevertheless, he possesses strength.
He shoves those memories aside and rush her.
Too much strength.
Hermione's eyes widen. It's quite disturbing how powerful his presence is. Or rather, his psyche is. This. . . can't be Professor Riddle, can it? It's been years since she has seen Professor Riddle's psyche, and that was while she wasn't a true Legilimen.
She runs through the memories, towards Professor Riddle's core. The stronghold of the psyche. The one place that houses the older memories. But also the more powerful ones. Perfect for sticky memories.
She stops next to a memory that reeks of calmness. Then she glances back at the angry psyche stalking her. Seems perfect.
Hey, dumbass, she screams. A part of realize this is the equivalent of waving a huge red flag in front of a charging bull. Smart. Just smart.
Instead of withdrawing and focusing, she expands her presence and thins herself out. Like how a white blood cell engulfs a foreign agent, she wraps herself around the psyche and pulls him into one of the oldest memories of Professor Riddle.
II.
She tightens her hold around the squirming psyche as they live through Professor Riddle's childhood. With his eyes, they see. With his ears, they hear. With his touch, they feel. Everything. Every brush of the wind, every gentle movement of the breeze. The sun on their skin. On Tom's skin.
The caseworker knocks on the white double doors of an expensive peach-colored home with brick walls. It's beyond anything Hermione can afford. From the carefully trimmed white roses to the freshly painted mailbox, Tom is tempted to run far, far away. In a soft voice, he says, "He doesn't want me here. I know it."
The caseworker, Miss Prism, blinks at him. "Now, Tom. You wouldn't know that."
"He knew about me since I was born, doesn't he?" Tom replies, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then why didn't he get me? Take me out of the foster care? That's eight years of knowing. Eight years of inaction."
"Oh, Tom."
"Does it matter? He already has a perfect son. No need to think about the bastard son," he spits. His voice, his words thicken in a way she has never heard. Reflective of whatever background he came from.
A handsome, dark-haired man opens the door. He so clearly is Tom's father. The same built. The same appearance. Except for the eyes. This man possesses light blue eyes, a sharp contrast to Tom's dark eyes. He looks at the caseworker first and then pales when he examines Tom's face. He takes a slow step backwards. "Is that. . .?" he breathe shakily.
"Mr. Tom Riddle?" says Miss Prism, her hand adjusting her poofy blonde hair. "Would that be you?" It's highly doubtful she needs any confirmation. The boy looks so similar to the man in the doorway. It's unmistakable.
"Yes," he replies weakly. He opens the door wider. "Come in, I suppose." His hands are shaking, and he swallows hard.
They sit awkwardly around the coffee table in the living room. Tom's biological father fidgets with his hands, as if unclear where to place them. Miss Prism has her briefcase open on the table. She peers through Tom's folder, and she says, "Your former wife, Merope Gaunt, died before the divorce papers were finalized."
"It was a mistake," he blurts out.
Miss Prism ignores him. "Doesn't matter. What happens, happens. What matters is now. You have a son in foster care. Any time my office attempted to make contact with you, you never respond."
"I was mad."
The caseworker ignores that too. "From our records, it says you have a younger son named Gabriel Riddle from your second marriage. Your second wife died two years after Gabriel's birth in a car accident. You have been a single father ever since she died."
"I don't know how I felt the way I felt. If you would understand. . ."
Miss Prism finally looks up. "Mr. Riddle," she begins, in a soft voice. "What was in the past is in the past. There's a boy here moving from foster home to foster home. He's not well-adjusted and he is troublesome, but he's cleverer than most. For better or worse, he's your son. He may be half of Merope Gaunt, but he's also half of you. This is your child."
"She never asked if I wanted any of this. She. . . took what she wanted."
In Tom's eyes, the man looks painfully vulnerable. Weak. Even desperate, trapped in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. As if he's collapsing under the weight of the past and unable to move forward, to push on.
"Look, Mr. Riddle. Your first wife did put Tom under adoption. She never told the caseworker what you wanted. It was only until six months ago, when I did a check up on Tom's case when I found that you were—"
"Dad?" says a voice. It's a younger boy. A soft version of Tom. His light blue eyes are focused on Tom's, and he asks, "Who is that?"
"This is Tom," introduces Miss Prism, her hand gesturing to Tom on her left. Her red fingernails tap on Tom's file. "Your older brother."
Gabriel frowns with confusion. "I don't have a brother."
"A long lost, older brother. Now found," adds Miss Prism.
To Tom's surprise, Gabriel's eyes lights up. "I've always wanted a brother!"
And that is the moment Mr. Riddle caves. That is the moment when Tom knew he was going to stay with his biological father.
Hermione tightens her hold around the psyche, who is just as enraptured by the memory as she is. She watches as Tom, completely confused, is dragged by Gabriel to his bedroom. Tom sits on the white carpets as Gabriel talks on and on and on and shows Tom his impressive Pokemon card collection. He asks hundreds of questions but never waits for an answer.
III.
Mr. Riddle always avoids Tom. But Gabriel, on the other hand, clings to him like a shadow. They go everywhere together. To school, to the candy shop, to the park. Gabriel walks, and Tom follows. If he asks himself why, he would suppose it's because he has nothing better to do. But perhaps, it's also jealousy as well. Gabriel, who is capable of drawing teachers to love him. Gabriel, who could get free candy from the shop. Gabriel, who is always invited to play tag with the other kids on the playground.
Then there's Tom. Tom, who is praised by his teachers for being brilliant and ahead of his peers but not loved. Tom, who is asked if he would want a receipt for that purchase. Tom, who is almost never invited. He was invited once, but he declined. They never asked him again.
One night, he gets up from the bunk below Gabriel's for a glass of water in the kitchen. Mr. Riddle sits at the dining table, staring pensively at the empty bottle of scotch. He sees Tom, and he doesn't say a word.
With the hair on the back of his neck standing, Tom reaches for a glass in the cupboard by stepping on a chair and then fill it up with tap water. He takes a sip.
"Figures she names you Tom Marvolo Riddle," he mutters.
"What?" Tom blinks.
"Tom, after your father. Marvolo, after your grandfather." He pushes away the empty scotch. "It's one of those poetic things she liked."
She. . . his mother. His very dead mother.
Tom's throat dries. Here she is, alive in Mr. Riddle's deepest memories, only brought out by the wandering thoughts of a drunk man.
He carefully asks, "Did you. . . ever love her?"
Mr. Riddle stares at the bottle, blankly. "I suppose I must have at some point. But it seemed just like a dream. I went crazy for Merope, but I didn't have any control over anything I was. . ." He glances helplessly at Tom, and then a light goes off in his head. "Why am I even telling you this? You should be in bed. It's after midnight."
Tom, very much aware of Mr. Riddle's towering frame, is escorted back to bed.
"Daddy," whispers Gabriel from the top of the bed. He groggily rubs his eyes and yawns. "Is it morning yet?"
"No," Mr. Riddle whispers. "Go back to sleep."
"I need to pee."
Mr. Riddle helps Gabriel down the ladder and then leans against the wall while he waits for Gabriel to finish his business. Gabriel trots back to the bunk bed. Picking up Gabriel by the armpits, Mr. Riddle places him on the second step of the ladder. "Here you go, buddy." He places a quick kiss on the back of Gabriel's head.
Once Gabriel is safely tucked, Mr. Riddle turns towards the door.
"Daddy."
The single word stops the man in his tracks. "Yes, Gabriel?"
"Does Tom get a kiss as well?"
After a long moment of hesitation and perhaps even thoughtfulness as well, Mr. Riddle gently kisses goodnight on Tom's forehead. Then he leaves the bedroom's door slightly ajar.
IV.
If there's a reason why Tom integrated into the Riddle household so well, it would be because of Gabriel Riddle. Gabriel, always open and at ease. The more time Gabriel spent with Tom, the less jealous Tom became until Gabriel is the closest—and only—friend Tom has. The more time he spent with Gabriel, the more time he also spent with Mr. Riddle as well.
And Gabriel manages to get the other children to ask Tom if he wants to play tag. But Tom always declined.
When Tom is a day from being ten, Gabriel asks, "What is empathy?" The two brothers lay on top of their beds, unable to fall asleep at night.
Whenever there's a birthday, Mr. Riddle always buys cake.
"I don't know," replies Tom. After a moment of silence, Tom gets up from the bed and reaches for the dictionary on the bookshelf. Under the bright moonlight of the full moon, he searches for the word and reads aloud, "Empathy. Noun. The ability to understand and share the feelings of another." He quietly places the book back onto the shelf.
"Frank says I have a lot of empathy yesterday," announces Gabriel.
Frank is right.
Gabriel does understand people. Much more than most. It's a strong contrast between them. Tom, the erudite, extremely knowledgeable—or at least, curious—child. Then there is Gabriel, the one who connects emotionally with everyone.
Empathy.
It's a strange word for an equally strange thing.
"You could genuinely connect to people and understand them," says Tom. It's the same thing Gabriel did with him. Tom makes a silent promise to himself to learn how Gabriel does it. He yawns. Maybe in the morning.
V.
"Tom, you want to play?"
He nods.
The girl touches him on the shoulder, face grinning devilishly. "You're it!"
It's a fun game to play. The exhilaration of running, of tagging someone, of fleeing away from the monstrous hands of it. He has no idea why he never played before.
VI.
Gabriel slowly picks up the dirty-brown garden snake out of the rosebushes. He beckons Tom closer. "I have seen him, but I've never been this close."
The two children crouch down, hidden behind the carefully pruned rosebushes. Gabriel gently pets the snake, following the scales.
"Her," says Tom. "It's a her."
Gabriel blinks in surprise. "How do you know?"
Tom shrugs. He doesn't know, but he can tell it's a female snake. Not a male. He isn't sure if he is imagining it, but he hears the snake softly whisper hi. Then it wiggles briefly in Gabriel's hand. Gabriel, as if sensing the snake's wishes, sets it down and lets it slither out towards the distance.
VII.
Mr. Riddle has set the table for dinner one night. While the boys are chatting about the recent developments in their neighbor's backyard (they're building a pool!), Mr. Riddle accidentally jostles his elbow against his untouched but open wine bottle. It falls to the marble floors, shattering on impact.
White fluid spills. An overwhelming smell of alcohol quickly overtakes the natural rose scent.
Mr. Riddle springs into action. He moves aside the chair and bends down. "Gabriel, get a baggie from the kitchen."
"Yes, Daddy," replies Gabriel, running off for a bag. Tom, almost instinctively, grabs napkins off the table and begins to pile it on top of the liquid.
Mr. Riddle quickly begins to move the glass pieces closer to each other. He hisses as he slices his own finger across a jagged glass piece. Blood quickly begins to flow, seeping to the floor and mixing with the wine.
"Tom," Mr. Riddle starts. He quickly wraps a napkin around his bloody cut. Tom's eyes stare at the dripping blood, enraptured. Blood is life. And Mr. Riddle is losing his blood. Tom's heart pounds loudly, and he doesn't know what is happening, but he could have sworn that the massive cut has started closing the moment he ran for the first aid kit.
When he comes back, he sets down the first aid kit on the ground. He pulls out a bandaid and holds it out to his father. There's dried blood on his finger, yes. But when Mr. Riddle searches for the telltale break in his skin, there isn't one.
Father and son look at each other in bewilderment.
VIII.
Three months before his eleventh birthday, Gabriel's and Tom's grandparents came down from Manchester to visit them. The doorbell rings, and Mr. Riddle goes to open the door. His parents hug him tightly, cheerily shouting greetings and wishes. Then Mr. Riddle's mother stops in her tracks when she sees Tom.
She pales. "Is that. . .?"
"Merope's son. His name is Tom," confirms Mr. Riddle.
"After all this time?"
He nods. "He's my son." There's a tone of acceptance, of finality.
That's when Tom is furiously hugged by Grandma. She clutches the sides of his face and says, "Oh, my darling. You look just like your father."
IX.
"He's a what?" Mr. Riddle blinks incredulously at the bearded man standing in the midst of his living room. "Repeat that again?"
"A wizard," says Professor Dumbledore.
"Was. . . Merope Gaunt a witch then?" he inquires.
Dumbledore shakes his head. "She was a squib. She's not capable of magic, but she is descended from witches and wizards."
Confusion clouds Mr. Riddle's face. Then he shakes his head, a polite smile descending upon his face. "But where exactly is Tom going?"
"Hogwarts," Dumbledore replies, a twinkle in his eyes. "A school for witchcraft and wizardry, Mr. Riddle. One of the best schools for magic."
Where Mr. Riddle is completely apprehensive about the school, Tom cautiously whispers, "Prove it. Prove this isn't a joke at all."
Dumbledore, picking up a carnation from the vase, runs his left hand over its body. It shifts quickly into a colorful lizard.
"Wicked," says Gabriel, his eyes bright with fascination. Only Gabriel, only Gabriel. A hand slowly touches the lizard's head. "It even feels real."
"It's called Transfiguration," he says.
"But I have magic?" asks Tom. "Do I?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkle once again. "Has anything strange ever happened to you? Something that is impossible or improbable? Has anything happened whenever you were upset or angry?"
He remembers his tantrums back in the foster systems all of the sudden. The strong, improbable events that were quickly dismissed as nothing but a figment of imagination. His father's deep cut from glass. Talking to snakes. What if they were all because of magic? What if?
X.
On the train, he sits in a simple white shirt and jeans as he reads through a textbook about potion-making. He's not quite sure what to expect. A wand with a phoenix feather core is tucked into his pocket, and he squints as he tries to understand what half of these things even mean. Cauldron? Some oddly-named squid eyeball? Stir counterclockwise six times and then stir the other way for exactly two times at the same pace. Then let it sit still for two hours.
The compartment door slides open, and a red-haired boy comes in. He's dressed in his black robes, his face slightly pale. Politely, he gestures to the empty seats across from Tom. "Those taken?"
Tom shakes his head.
The boy quietly settles in the seat. His eyes land on the book Tom's reading. "First year?"
He nods. "First year," he confirms. "Tom Riddle."
The two boys shake hands. His hand is firm and steady despite the anxiety he emits. They take back their hands.
"Charlie Weasley." A pause. "What house do you reckon you'll get into?"
Tom has already read all about the houses from Hogwarts: A History. Gryffindor, bravery and courage. Ravenclaw, intelligence and wit. Slytherin, cunning and ambition. Hufflepuff, loyalty and friendship.
He knows he won't be in Gryffindor. It sounds more like a house for reckless behavior than for actual bravery. He could remember the older children who taunted the smaller children back in foster care. They never bothered him after the weird snake incident, in which a venomous snake bit Tom's tormentor in the shoulder. But he always saw whenever they are bullying the other kids. Standing up to them, facing them out with bravery was—and still is—absolute foolishness. It's borderline suicide.
Cunning, ambition. Slytherin. He could easily see himself there. As easily as he can see himself in Ravenclaw. But Hufflepuff. Loyalty and friendship. For some reason, it brings about images of his own brother. Gabriel with loads of empathy. Gabriel, who would be accepted into Hufflepuff without a single millisecond of doubt.
Tom shrugs. "I don't know."
"My whole family is in Gryffindor," Charlie says. "Wonder if I'll end up in Gryffindor as well. I don't feel. . . brave or anything."
A pause. Then Tom, after a moment of choosing his words carefully and then ending up to go with his gut, tells him, "I think it's in the blood."
Charlie nods. "I hope so. Merlin forbid I end up in Hufflepuff."
Tom blinks. "What's wrong with Hufflepuff?"
His voice drops into a whisper. "Bill, my brother. . . He's older than me by two years. Third year right now. In Gryffindor. But if I end up anywhere but Gryffindor, I'll never hear the end of it from him."
"Who cares what other people think?" Tom replies, raising an eyebrow and looking at him from behind the covers of the textbook. "All that matters is your own opinion of yourself, right?"
"Right."
XI.
"Riddle, Tom!"
Tom releases a long breath he didn't realize he has been holding. He makes his way slowly to Professor McGonagall and sits on the wobbly wooden stool. The hat is dropped onto his head, and Tom waits.
Tom Riddle, interesting mind, whispers a voice. You have plenty of potential. A lot of will and a desire to learn. Maybe even a desire to experiment and to perfect ideas. Perhaps Ravenclaw would be right for you?
Tom glances around. The voice. . . The sorting hat's voice is coming from within his head. No one else can hear anything.
But also possessing empathy as well, to attempt to understand human nature. Perhaps it would be Hufflepuff?
The hat pauses.
Possessing courage to do what doesn't come easily for you, Tom. Opening up to people. If you let yourself be willing, you'll find a lot of friends here at Hogwarts.
"And," he asks.
Blood of your forefather, blood of your mother. The founder's wishes to see his heirs in his house. You will fit well in there as well.
"Forefather?" he whispers.
The hat doesn't respond to that.
You would do equally well in all houses, Tom Riddle. Gryffindor, home of bravery and courage. Ravenclaw, nurturer of intelligent minds and creator of tomorrow's thinkers. Hufflepuff, den of friendship, understanding, and above all, loyalty. Or Slytherin, as what Salazar Slytherin would want me to put you in.
Tom doesn't know what to say to that. Forefather? As in. . . this Salazar Slytherin is his ancestor from many, many generations? He has read the history books, read all about Salazar Slytherin and his noble, pure blood. His somewhat peculiar obsession with blood purity, though each of his heirs has apparently taken it to more extreme degrees or so it is written.
Magical blood, that is.
When he read that section on the so-called "blood purity," the very taste in his mouth turns bitter with disgust. Muggles. Non-magicals. Like his father. Like Gabriel. Like Frank. Like all of Gabriel's friends. What exactly makes wizards so much better than Muggles?
The sorting hat picks up on his thoughts. Fascinating. Like all of your grandfathers and grandmothers and ancestors before you. . .
"SLYTHERIN!"
It was nearly a hatstall.
Second A/N: I swear, Gabriel is secretly a Canadian and is trying to kill people with kindness. That's all I can say. Next part is coming up. Currently writing it. I hope this is a direction you like.
And what is the point of Gabriel? I kind of wanted someone who is a really, really soft teddy bear, too pure for the world. I live for sane!Tom.