Chapter Eight, Father my Father

After two days of lonely solitude, Tom was ready to tear the wallpaper down. Having finally given up on the possibility of sleep, Tom had slid out of his bed and headed down the stairs, making far more noise than was absolutely necessary. He glared as he stomped down the stairs and stopped in front of his father, sitting behind the kitchen table. The man was lighting a cigarette and Tom stared at the stick with furious intent, all but ready to let it smoulder to a crisp. "Now, now, young man, keep that temper of yours under control."

He shut his jaws together and growled: "You can't keep me locked up in here!"

"You should have obeyed the rules."

"Why?" Tom snapped and Tom Senior dropped his cigarette case to the large mahogany table. It clucked softly, catching the light coming from the electric, low-strung chandeliers.

"Because I am your father and you do as I say."

"That's no reason. You weren't there for the first seven years of my life either." Tom snapped back. No matter how much family life had grown to him, how much he didn't despise his grandmother's smothering antics anymore, he did not forget his father had left him there for the first seven years of his life. Even if his father told him he hadn't known about his existence, it was still a sour point for Tom.

"No, but I am here now, and you will have to deal with it. It's normal for a young boy your age to have rules to listen to."

He glared at him, the tip of the cigarette catching fire and his father hissed, dropping it on the table. "Tom!"

"I can do more—" He threatened half-heartedly and his father's face turned irritated.

"If you want to be treated like an adult, you will have to act like one. That means no threatening. No magically burning my cigarettes. No, it means you'll have to talk with us, with me or your grandparents."

Tom flushed. How was this man so calm? Not even Mrs Cole could keep her cool. And she actually had the audacity to hit him.

"Oh, and another thing, young man, if you try something like that again, I will send you to your room and you will be grounded for far longer. Tom flushed, anger mouthing in his blood and he resisted the urge to stamp his foot.

"This is unfair."

"Don't you understand what could have happened?" His father's voice raised only slightly and yet, he commanded a subtle authority.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Tom snapped.

"You did!" His father returned. "You disobeyed my rules because you were bored."

"This is like a gilded cage!" Tom snapped. "And you are crazy! I heard what the maids said!"

"Don't speak of things you don't understand!" His father snapped back and Tom's cheeks flushed. "I am not crazy. Or is the things you can do, this magic, a sign of craziness too?"

"I hate you!" Tom whispered and his father sighed.

"At least you are alive to hate. What if I hadn't seen you sneak away?" His father asked slowly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He suddenly seemed older and Tom glared. "Morfin would have killed you!"

"He wouldn't—" Tom muttered, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. "I would have stopped him." When his father looked unimpressed, he bristled; "I would. I am strong. I can do far worse! I stopped Mrs Cole from hitting me, I—"

"I'm sorry, what?" His father whispered and tom felt his cheeks redden when he realised he'd mentioned Cole's corporal punishments. "She hit you? Why did she hit you?"

"—Just forget it!"

"Tom!"

A warning edge had presented itself on his father's face and Tom averted his eyes. His father— his father was often just like him. The same fire in his eyes but he hid it better. Tom stared at the older man's face from his peripheral vision and drummed his fingers against the table.

"She hit all the children when she thought they misbehaved."

Tom Senior's face turned grim and he snapped the lid of his cigarette case shut. "Well, she'll soon be out of a job. No one hits my son."

"But you?" Tom asked cheekily.

"I don't think I've ever hit you."

Tom scowled. If his father ever tried hitting him he would—

"Yes, you would probably not take kindly to people hitting you." His father dryly retorted. "Grounding you and keeping you away from books works much better."

"I hate you!"

"Hate, love, thin line."

Tom's scowl deepened: "I don't do love."

His father laughed again and Tom stomped out of the kitchen. It irritated him to no end that his father had gotten so used to Tom's display of power. The first time he'd watched him use it, levitating the couch and coffee table through the living room approximately one month ago. Tom Riddle senior had been ecstatic, hollering for his gaping grandparents to come and watch and — didn't he tell them so; fucking witchcraft — caught Tom Junior's wrist. He'd been halfway of dragging his son along the garden, to showcase him around the village when he remembered one, he didn't like the village, and two, if those 'religious bastards' watched Tom yielding a power they did not know they would undoubtedly be truly afraid. Which would almost be worth it, if they'd hunted Morfin, but the villagers didn't need another reason to try and start an uprising, as far as Tom Senior was concerned?

"Hello young Master," Megan greeted and Tom frowned. She was holding both of her hands pressed against her apron-clad belly and he realised belated she was hiding something.

"What are you doing?" He asked suspiciously and she grinned shark-like, before yanking a book free from her skirt pocket. Tom stared with wide-eyes.

"Like to have this?"

Tom cocked his head to the side: "I'm pretty sure you could get into trouble for that."

She shrugged. "Don't worry, your grandfather seems to think I keep your father on his toes."

Tom smiled at that and slowly took the book. She disappeared around the corner and he pursed his lips. "You probably do."

Tapping the book with his fingers he returned back to his room, flopping back onto the bed and stared, as he'd done so many days now before, at the white ceiling. It was a Saturday and Tom still didn't enjoy those. They reminded him of the weekends in the Orphanage, where the child-seeking families came looked at him with starry eyes until they heard the stories the other children and the school matron had to tell. Propping his legs up on his bedpost he munched over next course of action. Perhaps apologising might be the right thing to do. The only problem—

"I have to sound sincere.'"

Tom had never been too good at sounding sincere and he opened the book to read. If only he could understand why his grazed uncle had attacked him. Pressing his lips tightly together he absentmindedly trailed his fingers over his neck. The bruises had healed already, but the memories were still fresh. He probably really did owe his father. Would he have died if his father hadn't happened upon me? Perhaps he should make a valiant effort to get along with the man. Obviously, his father had not been too impressed with Tom's display of power and he really didn't need Tom Riddle Sr to return him to the orphanage (even if Tom didn't really believe the older Riddle would truly do that).

To be continued…


A/N: Personally I think Tom Riddle Sr was an extremely spoiled child, but I also think the whole ordeal with Merope might have humbled (and scarred) him quite a bit. Anyway, it made him a patient man. I think he had quite a few years to get used to the idea of having a special son, so he's not going to fuck it up just now. As for servant's girl Megan, she has a soft spot for the oddball (and probably a healthy dose of resentment for her employer).

And Tom Sr. doesn't agree with his son not loving— Well, no parent wants to see the worst in their children I suppose. This chapter took quite long, I just couldn't find a way to convey what I wanted to in this chapter, but at least here it is. As for the next chapter, we'll jump ahead a few years. If I have to go through all of Tom's childhood this will be a long fic…

Let me know what you all think! Next update next week!