January 1, 1944

A knock on the door.

"Son?"

Tom did not reply. No, he wrapped himself further in his warm blankets.

"Tom, hadn't you ought to get up now?" came his father's muffled voice through the door.

Given once again no response, Tom Senior daringly proceeded to open his son's door. Crossing the room with sure steps to the boy's bedside, he prodded and poked the lump of blankets until his son's face was revealed, haloed by swaths of green.

Sleepily glaring at his father, Tom asked, "Do you have any idea what today is?" before turning over back under his covers.

"We both know very well what day it is, Tom," his father said indulgently. "But you will be downstairs and presentable in fifteen minutes, understood?"

Tom's father then began to retreat. "Happy Birthday, son," he said before closing the door behind him.

Wide awake now, Tom rolled out of bed and seized his wand off of his side table drawer, pointed it at his mussed bed and said, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Although it was only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing his bed sheets and pillows lift into the air and land neatly back on his bed. Reveling in the removal of his trace, Tom sent his possessions flying around the room. Tom also turned the grey nightshirt he was wearing bright green and, purely for the pleasure of it, cast and engorgement charm to puffy pillows. Satisfied and with a slight smirk on his lips, he entered into his bathroom, a trail of day clothing floating behind him.

Shortly later, Tom following the scent of food, arrived in the dining room and found a pile of presents waiting on the far end of the long oak table and white carnations and snowdrops arranged in crystal vases covering every flat surface. Tom's family sat chatting lightly when he walked in, an impressive display of breakfast foods spread in front of them.

Eggs, sausage links, black and yorkshire pudding, English bacon, breakfast potato, croissants and assorted jams, baked beans, sliced fruits, and pie.

"Happy seventeenth, Tom," Mrs. Riddle said, smiling at Tom.

"Those are our presents on tops," Thomas Riddle said as he gestured at the rather large stack of presents. "The others came by owl. Quite many,really," he added and clapped Tom's shoulder fondly when his grandson sat in the chair beside him.

As the family began to eat Tom's Birthday breakfast, Tom wondered how Mrs. Bryce had been able to get her hands on the fruits and meats, what with the Muggle Ministry of Food rationing England's food supply due to The World War.

The Riddle's were nearly finished eating when Tom Sr. Cleared his throat, gaining everyone's attention.

"Tom, you and I are going to London to spend the day."

Tom's brow furrowed in confusion, and it only deepened when he saw his grandparents did not seem surprised by the news. "London? Why?"

"No particular reason," his father said just a tad too rushed, "We'll make a day of it! Have a cuppa, look around the shops," he added more surely.

Although Tom felt there was something more to this trip, that there was something being kept from him, his father seemed adamant that they would be spending the day in cold London. So, he simply nodded and said, "Alright," and thanked his Family for the lovely breakfast and gifts. He drew his wand from his trouser pocket and vanished the gifts into his room, drawing three separate reactions.

His father flinched ever so slightly while his grandmother took an expression of surprise and his grandfather, wonder.

"I had thought you were naught to do tricks outside of your school," Mary Riddle put in first.

It was Tom's father who answered, "Tom is seventeen. He is of legal age by wizarding standards, Mother, they do things a bit differently than we do."

"Seventeen? How preposterous," Mary Riddle said.

Tom's father shrugged at his mother and turning to his son said, "You'd best go up now and get ready, we'll be leaving soon."

Tom stood and went up to his room as advised. He really did not want to go to London. What he really wanted to know was what his father was planning, he thought as he entered his room. He had, a niggling feeling. Well, at least he had his magic. Yes, A warming charm would be in order, he would cast one in his father's car, he thought as he dressed in warmer clothes.

. . .

How had they end up here? They had gotten their cuppa in a small tea parlor and they had walked the main streets of London, weaving in and out of various shops. Tom had even bought a few books. And Now? This couldn't be happening, Tom kept telling himself. His stomach felt queasy, he couldn't possibly ignore it. It felt very, very wrong. So he wiped his face of all emotions.

"Tom?" His father stood beside him at the black, iron wrought gate of the cemetery. Both stood similarly dressed with scarves wrapped tightly around their necks and gloved hands buried deep in their jacket pockets. Tom Sr. shuffled his patent leather boots in the thin layer of snow covering dead grass.

"Now you know why I brought you to London." When Tom did not respond, Tom Sr. elaborated, "M- Your mother is buried here." After his talk with Hermione, Tom Sr. knew this visit would be necessary. That he owed at least this much to... his deceased wife.

So after some afternoons spent in deep thought and some lengthy discussions with his own parents, he steeled enough nerve to call the matron of Wool's orphanage. And by no means did Mrs. Cole spare a single detail of that New Years night. However, on a lighter note, he discovered, bless that woman, 17 years ago, she had arranged for a priest to give Merope her last rites and an undertaker to remover her body at first light. Merope had escaped the fate of a paupers grave and he was told she was given a simple burial and headstone.

"I'm not exactly sure where, but-"

His son had started moving on his own and the gate, as if on its own accord, swung slowly open, allowing Tom through. Rather curious, Tom Sr. Followed his son into the cemetery, past rows of graves, some littered with withering flowers. It was a fairly small cemetery, so it did not take long before he halted abruptly behind his son. Looking around Tom, he stepped closer to see the little gravestone.

Mrs. Riddle

Mother

D. 31 December, 1926

"I've never been here, before," Tom conceded to his father softly. "Jean. She showed me, you know, your memories."

"What do you make of it, son?"

I don't know what to, was what he wanted to say. "Why couldn't you tell me? There was always something... It never made sense. Not before." Abruptly he turned to face his father. "Why are we here?" he demanded.

"Well, I owe it to her, don't I?" he said truthfully.

"Why do you think that?"

"Well, I- I left."

And Tom could see it was killing his father to say it.

"Not willingly."

"True," he sighed, "But I did know that I was married. I had responsibilities. I, at the very least, have bothered to know what was made of her. I'm also doing this for myself. Bringing you here, letting you into my memories, I gain from this too."

"How?" was all Tom could say.

"You deserve something from your mother. To know that she loved you-"

"She wouldn't stay alive for me," Tom interjected. "She didn't raise her wand to save her own life. She had a choice! She chose in death in spite of a son who needed-" He cut himself off sharply, he had said more than he meant to.

"Yes," his father agreed, "But, She was greatly weakened, wouldn't you imagine? And, I can't say I believe she could have had that kind of courage. Not where she came from."

Then, "And I would think that you of all people should show her some respect or be willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Do witches and, and wizards not die too?"

Those words rang in Tom's ears.

"Will you disgrace your own mother, and dismiss her so easily?" He said scolding.

"Why do you care so suddenly? You can barely stand to hear her name." Tom said coldly. "She took advantage of you." Because you were weak.

They stood at a stalemate for some moments. What could Tom Sr. say to his son? It was all true, and yet...

He cast his eyes down, he couldn't look at his son. "I just wanted," he exhaled, then tried again, "I just want for you to have a mother. Life was rather cruel to M- Merope. The least she deserved was a son who loved her back." Still unable to look at his son, he turned and left his son at the grave.

Tom was left alone. And he was furious. How dare he turn his back! Did his father not know that he had the power to end his existence-

Immediately he regretted the thought that so smoothly passed through his mind. He, He hadn't meant it and it sobered him immediately. He had never had a serious argument with his father. How has this happened? How had things spiraled this way so quickly? It was unexpected, and Tom did not like surprises. Especially ones that were not tipped in his favor. He had lost control.

Did he love his mother? The right answer would be, of course I love my mother! So why couldn't he say it? Because you're not normal. Tom knew he was different. He was special.

He loved his father though. Didn't he? He turned to leave. He could... he could admit when he was wrong.

As he left, something made him slow his steps. Made him turn to face his mother's grave. Shouldn't he... say something? Do something? Leave some flowers perhaps? His hand wandered to his pocket and he clenched his wand tightly. Maybe he could...

-No. He wouldn't. His mother was weak. and he didn't owe her anything. She had left him, whereas his father, at least, had not abandoned him completely. He swiftly continued walking back through the graveyard to the car. He ignored the horrible, horrible feeling like he was doing something very wrong, that was tearing at his insides and making his heart beat just a little faster. He quickened his pace, passing through the cemetery gate, wanting nothing to do with the place, and did not stop until he reached his father.

It was a silent drive home.