A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry for the wait; I'm currently overseas on vacation, and I've been so for roughly three weeks by now. I return home on the 20th.
At the very edge of the Welsh coast, facing the glittering grey-green expanse of the Irish Sea, was the small, quaint town of Aberdovey. It was comprised of no more than a handful of houses, all of them painted white with blue roofs, all of them at the bottom of a small green hill, with some pushing into the sea. At the top of the green hill, overlooking both the sparkling sea and the picturesque town, was a small palace, made from stone as white as snow that sparkled under the sun.
To the townsfolk of Aberdovey, there was nothing at the top of their hill, but to the five boys and five girls in the highest room of the palace's tallest tower, everything was clear through the room's tall window. Mirabel Abbott's bedroom was fit for a Queen; it was huge, the size of the Hufflepuff common room, draped richly in blue and gold (Mirabel's parents had hoped for her to become a Ravenclaw, Mary learned), and at its centre was a huge, four poster bed with enchanted curtains the size of quilts, over which a chandelier with hundreds of crystal suspended from the ceiling.
"This is beautiful," Mary whispered under her breath, trailing her fingers over a decorative vase as tall as herself, "Are all pureblood homes like this?"
"Not at all," Alice answered brusquely, "Mirabel's from old blood and old money. Her mum's a Smith, and the Smiths are the heirs of the Hufflepuffs — yes, of the very Helga Hufflepuff who founded our house — Mirabel's aunt, Hepzibah, is the heir of Hufflepuff."
"The heir? Didn't Hufflepuff have a lot of children, though? How could there still be an heir a thousand years after her time?" Mary asked, "I suppose it goes by right of primogeniture, then?"
"Primo-jenny what?"
"Primogeniture. The right of succession belonging to the firstborn child," Mary clarified, "Well, the firstborn son, usually."
"Is that how Muggles do —"
"No — Muggle royalty did it hundreds of years ago, but nowadays, at least for well-to-do Muggles, one's money and possessions often go to their favoured child. Through Wills — when you die, Wills decide —"
"The wizarding world has Wills as well, Mare," Alice pointed out with a teasing smirk, "Purebloods die as well, we're only human. And yes, family heirs are usually decided by the existing heir. It's just a title, though. Come to think of it, they don't really mean anything by themselves."
Mary continued through Mirabel's bedroom in awe. It was overwhelming in its splendour; she felt as though she was in a painting. But her wonder wasn't accompanied entirely by happiness—she thought of Tom, in his dismal little orphanage bedroom in London. What made Mirabel more deserving of opulence than Tom? Nothing.
"So there's an heir of Hufflepuff — what about the other founders?"
"At some point in history, there were heirs of all of them," said Alice, "But they just… disappeared — some of the families grow deformed and dumb over time, from marrying cousin to cousin, even sister to brother — and they just, well, disappear from public life, I suppose. My dad put it nicely — family trees should stay trees, they shouldn't become nests. You see?"
Mary dwelled on her friend's words—was it possible that the heirs of Slytherin were such a family as Alice described? But it made no sense, for both Tom and herself were healthy, good-looking, and very magically able.
"It's no surprise that Hufflepuff's heirs are doing well for themselves," Alice mused, "She was the sanest of the founders, without a doubt. A woman of the world."
"Al," Mary began, "I don't suppose you know if there's an heir of Slytherin, do you?"
"Not anymore," said alice, "I can't remember off the top of my head, but I think the last Slytherin heir who actually did things died in the 14th century."
"I see."
Perhaps Tom was mistaken; perhaps they weren't descended Salazar Slytherin, after all. Maybe they were born parselmouths in the way some people were born with perfect pitch, the talent of being able to accurately identify every musical note from mere hearing them. It was a sweet idea.
"Mary, Alice, c'mon," Wallace Davies bought the girls to his attention, "We're going ice-crashing."
"Ice-crashing?" Mary repeated in a question.
"You'll see — it's fun."
The Hufflepuffs left Mirabel's glamorous bedroom, going down a wide marble staircase into an equally glamorous garden, where Mary learned what ice crashing was—a once-popular summer pastime, it became regarded as too dangerous after a handful of wizards died playing it, nearly a century ago.
It was a versatile game—there could be as many teams as possible, but every team needed at least three players. At least one player to cast a shaping charm, another to cast a freezing charm, and the rest of the players merely to repeatedly cast aguamenti. Each team would make a large ball of ice, and hurl it at the other team's ball—whichever team's ball proved stronger would win.
In the case of Mirabel's summer party, there were two teams—the Hufflepuff girls, and the Hufflepuff boys. Mary was charged with the shaping charm, and Alice with the freezing charm, while Mirabel, Caoimhe, and Lucella conjured water. Mary recalled a rather wordy book Cassian had gifted her; Phanomenologie des Magie by Friedrich von Merveldt, which stated the importance of the meditation of forms when casting charms. Not merely to visualise a thing, but to think about the laws that shape the thing.
She considered the formula to find a sphere's volume—four-thirds of the sphere's radius, multiplied by Pi, multiplied by the radius twice multiplied by itself—all of the water that Mirabel, Caoimhe, and Lucella shot into the air seamlessly integrated into her sphere. She wasn't sure whether it was her contemplation on the formula that was helping per se, or whether it was the fact that the formula gave her something to contemplate on at all.
In either case, Mary felt excellent. Since the beginning of summer, she hadn't had a chance to do magic—not even wandless magic, as she abided by the Decree Against Underage Magic—and now, as she swirled her wand in circles, turning a gigantic ball of ice in the air, she felt power, calmness of a higher sort, the burning intensity of fire flowing through her veins.
"We're going to win, no doubt about it," Mirabel clasped her hands together and smiled at Mary.
Mary smiled back at her blonde friend. Their ice-ball was nearly twice as wide and as tall as the boys' one.
"Don't be so sure," Alice warned, "The fact that our ball is larger means it'll be harder to throw it."
"Nonsense. Mare will throw it like a pebble," Mirabel said sweetly, "Won't you, Mare?"
"We're supposed to throw it together."
"Mare," Alice began slowly, "What Mirabel means to say is that, as a team, it would be better if you chucked the ball — alone. We'd just drag you down."
She knew her friends were right, but Mary didn't care about winning. The game was about teamwork—it would be distasteful if the most important part of it was entirely performed by herself.
"I guess I'll throw it," Mary said with a sigh.
However, before the Hufflepuffs were able to smash their balls of ice against each other, Mirabel's mother, a very plump blonde woman in extravagant robes, came into the scene, furious—
"MIRABEL THEODOSIA ABBOTT! YOU RECKLESS, FOOLISH GIRL —" Mrs. Abbott angrily swished her wand, vanishing the large ball of ice Mary had sculpted, "Sorry, sweethearts - but you shouldn't play so dangerous a game. Why don't we go inside, I'll make you some butterbeers… MIRABEL, DON'T YOU POUT AT ME YOUNG LADY!"
Although Mary was a little disappointed she was denied the opportunity of smashing her ice-ball against the boys', she became content in Mirabel's extravagant sunroom, in which the girls all sat on one sofa, facing the boys in another, all of them with large glasses of butterbeer in their hands. Until lunch, they chattered frivolously. Mary thought that the boys were looking at her a little differently, as though something about her—or them, had changed. Perhaps she was just imagining it.
After a splendid feast of grilled seafood for lunch, Marcel Chandelier suggested Quidditch.
"We don't have a Quidditch pitch," Mirabel noted in a rueful tone, "nor Quidditch balls."
"I have a set of Quidditch balls at home," Wallace offered, "I could Floo home and get them —"
"And do what?" Alice cut Wallace off, "What hoops will we throw the Quaffle in? Or do you propose we throw them into the chimneys of the Muggles by the sea —"
"Oi! Now that's a tad bit rude, innit?" Ben Chapman interjected, "They may be Welsh, Alice, but don' bully 'em."
"Why don't we just build the hoops?" Mary suggested.
She thought of the ice ball she made in the morning—perhaps using the shaping charm against wood, while contemplating the formula for the area of a circle, would help in making Quidditch hoops. Plus, Mary wanted to do more magic—otherwise she'd have to wait until the school year began. Her housemates, however, looked at her with nothing but confusion on their faces.
"From what? We can't exactly conjure fifty-yard planks of wood," Walt Bluebottle pointed out.
"No conjuration," Mary assured with a smile, "Transfiguration — lots of transfiguration."
With Mirabel, Alice, and Marcel, Mary picked four broomsticks from an extended cabinet, and flew into the forest behind The Camellia—the name given to the Abbott family home—apparently, magical residences were usually given names. The cool Welsh air pleasantly washed over Mary; Salisbury was a little hotter than she would've liked, but Wales was perfect.
Where the Forbidden Forest was densely crowded with a variety of trees, bushes, and creatures, the forest of The Camellia had only thin, tall trees of the Welsh sort, letting the afternoon sunlight completely saturate the canopy.
"Won't the Muggles see us?" Mary asked.
"No," Mirabel answered proudly, "The charm around The Camellia makes it so Muggles don't look in our direction at all."
The process to create the goalposts was more difficult than Mary anticipated—two groups of three trees, a few hundred yards from each other just like the Hogwarts goalposts, were transfigured to become thinner and taller than the surrounding trees. The area of a circle was calculated by Pi multiplied by the radius of the circle multiplied by itself—Mary contemplated this, as she carved the top of the tree's trunk alternating between diffindo and flagrante.
She was proud of her work—the hoops were a little lower than actual Quidditch goalposts, and although she made the trunks of the transfigured trees a lot thinner, they much more dense than the supports of the Hogwarts Quidditch hoops.
"Excellent work, Mare," Mirabel patted her on the back.
And as soon as Mirabel's compliment came, the tree-hoops came crashing down, one thunderous thump after another, sending thousands of leaves from the surrounding trees flitting into the air like specks of water from a furious wave.
Mary had to do the whole thing again—this time, the hoops were a little lower, as she elongated less of the tree's trunk—she kept the bottom of the trunk untouched, so that the hoops sat atop cones instead of cylinders, more structurally sound.
"They look like hats," Alice noted, "It's brilliant, Mare — don't get me wrong, but they look like hats."
It took Mary a moment to realise that Alice was referring to the pointed hats of witches and wizards, and not a cap or a boater.
"A hat with a ring on the top," Mary agreed.
By the time of the actual Quidditch game, Mary was so tired from building the hoops that her flying was poor. It was five-on-five, girls against boys—three chasers, one beater, and one keeper on each team. Alice, Caoimhe, and Mary played as chasers—Lucella played as a beater, and Mirabel took the role of keeper.
Ben, Wallace, and Walt were the boy chasers, with Elias as their beater, and Marcel, as their keeper. Although Alice was the best flier among all of them by far, the boys won 150-80 in the end; Marcel was an excellent keeper, whereas Mirabel was rather hopeless.
Dinner was a feast; it was no wonder Mirabel's parents were so plump. Mary wondered if Mirabel would lose her figure when she grew up; if she did, it would be a pity—she had a sweet, heart-shaped face, and she knew how to present herself. Everyone's Hogwarts habits held over at The Camellia—Marcel and Caoimhe ate very little, Lucella was a vegetarian, and Ben Chapman ate furiously.
"You eat like a pig, Ben," observed Elias.
"Yeh, an' wot about it?" Ben answered the freckled boy, "Yeh ought ter learn from me, yer skinny like a street lamp."
"A street lamp?" Walt chimed in.
"A lamp on the street," Ben answered, mischievously.
After dinner, Mary and Alice were the last to leave—they planned to floo together to The Watchtower, the Turpin family home, from where Alice's father would return her to Salisbury. The Camellia had a room dedicated for the Floo Network, furnished with four white marble fireplaces, and a huge, animated map of Britain plastered onto the wall—on it, magical landmarks and the homes of various friends of the Abbotts were denoted by moving, colourfully painted symbols.
As the two girls admired the map in silence, Mary thought of what to write to Tom, or if she should write Tom at all. She had sent him several letters over the course of the break, and he had yet to reply. Initially, she accepted Tom's unresponsiveness—he was angry at her, and rightfully so, but then his utter silence became worrying; was he even receiving her letters? What if the other orphans were intercepting them? But she knew Tom was resourceful; even if the other orphans stole Mary's letters, Tom would retrieve them. No, Tom wasn't writing to her out of spite—and Mary's worry became resentment.
"Alice," Mary said gently, "There's something I need to tell you."
Her ponytailed friend turned to her with an amusedly puzzled look, as though to say that Mary's precaution was silly and unneeded, that Mary shouldn't have to inhibit herself at all, when in Alice's presence. Perhaps she was right to make such an expression, but what Mary had to say certainly necessitated it—
"I'm a parselmouth," she said, "Tom and I are descended from Salazar Slytherin."
For some bizarre reason, Mary had hoped for relief upon divulging the secret. After all, Tom had been unresponsive to her for weeks, whereas Alice was prompt and detailed in responding to all her letters. But no relief came to Mary was she spilled her secret, and she immediately felt guilty at betraying Tom's trust once again.
"But you're a Hufflepuff. You're one of us," Alice's voice barely masked her incredulity.
"Remember what the Sorting Hat told me, though? It makes sense, all of it. There are less than a dozen parselmouths in the world—a British one would have to be a descendant of Slytherin. Tom's sure of it."
Alice stayed silent, but her vulpine features contorted into an expression that measured in equal parts surprise and indignation. She accepted the reality of Mary's declaration, but she was oddly angered by it, so much so that she pretended to disbelieve it entirely—
"If you were Slytherin's great-great-great-great-grandkid, the Sorting Hat would have put you in Slytherin," Alice asserted, "It cares about blood. Why do you think every Weasley gets into Gryffindor, and every Black gets into Slytherin?"
"Blood matters, yes, but ultimately it depends on your character," Mary said gently, "Mum and dad raised me to be kind and see the good in the world, and so, I'm with you, Al. And didn't you say your dad was a Slytherin?"
"But being descended from Salazar Slytherin himself! That — that's like, being born a snake — you'd have to slither!"
"Well, too bad, Al," said Mary, "You know the saying, a wolf in sheep's clothing? Well, consider a serpent in badger's clothing."
Her friend went silent again, as though to discover some silent meaning behind Mary's jest.
"Why are you telling me all of this now?" She asked with a bizarrely sudden desperation in her voice, "I mean, I'm happy that you have, but why now—why not before? Surely you've known for some time now… Why me?"
"You deserve to know," Mary said firmly. "Tom wanted it to be a secret between us, but he doesn't get to decide everything for me."
Edward was older. When Mary last saw him a year and a half ago, he was still an adolescent—his face had been clean shaven, his dark hair swept to the side, a few curls drooping over his eye but never quite blocking it. He was handsome, then, in a boyish way. Now, his hair was short and gelled back by hard wax, like a soldier's. His shoulders were broader, and he wore a clean blue summer suit instead of a white silk shirt. He had a moustache, too, which was thin and waxed to curl at the ends, like a Frenchman's. Once, her brother was a handsome boy—now, he was a handsome man.
Mary sat by Edward as he drove his car—a rather long convertible with a cherry-red exterior, and padded vanilla seats. Though he drove at merely fifty miles an hour—a third of the speed Mary flew on Alan's Starsweeper—it was oddly exhilarating. Unlike the violent wind one flew against on a broomstick, the horizontal wind of the convertible pleasantly massaged Mary's face, like a sheet of silk blowing against her face. The country roads were thin and often tightly sandwiched between trees or the houses of towns, so the landscape would quickly unravel and disappear before Mary's eyes, like a film reel. Edward drove with only one hand, his other lazily dangling from the window holding a cigar, leaving a thin trail of smoke.
"Dad never smoked while driving. He always had both his hands on the wheel," said Mary.
"Well, it's a swell thing that dad isn't here, then, isn't it? We're free from his tyrannical caprices," Edward brought his cigar to his mouth and inhaled pleasurably.
"Yes, you'd rather be subjected to the tyrannical caprices of Saint Peter."
"I'm flattered, Mary, that you would regard your agnostic — in behaviour, rather than thought — brother as worthy of heaven. But you overestimate how difficult it is to drive; it's as easy to steer as it is to walk. As a matter of fact, I'll let you see for yourself."
"What? What do you mean —"
But before Mary could express her qualms about her brother's proposition, he quickly stopped the car, and pulled the handbrake. Then, with his sturdy arms, he propped Mary up from her seat onto his own, atop his legs.
"I'll control the speed. You'll steer — the road is exceedingly straight, so all you shall need to do is keep your hands steady."
"Ed, this is absurd!" Mary uneasily shifted in her brother's lap, "What if I crash?"
"Don't worry; you won't."
Edward released the handbrake and gently raised Mary's hands onto the steering wheel. The car began slowly, the pace rising as Mary saw on the small thermometer-shaped gage behind the wheel. Thankfully, Edward didn't go over thirty miles an hour. His judgement proved right; all Mary indeed needed to do was keep her hands steady, but it was easier said than done—she kept veering ever so slightly to the left, which necessitated her to veer rightward to compensate, rinse and repeat. She was zig-zagging.
"How do you keep it straight?" She asked.
"Keep the wheel steady — I suppose it's easier said than done; I struggled similarly when dad taught me how to drive — Mary, watch out, there's a bend."
The road, which was a wide, coarse dirt path, had a long curve to the left ahead. Where their current path had led them through small, idyllic well-to-do country towns and tame woodlands, the scenery ahead was rife with small hills and abandoned or otherwise run-down pastures; the financial Depression had sent many of the farmers into large towns, and the townsmen of the large towns into the cities.
Mary turned too steeply at the curve; Edward had to regain control to reverse and then properly complete the turn. Nonetheless, Edward continued to let Mary steer when the road was straight, interceding only at bends and turns.
"Have you smoked before, Mary?" Edward shook his cigar between his fingers, "Not at Godolphin, surely — but what about at the… magical school of yours, Hog-warts?"
"Hogwarts, it's one word," Mary corrected, cringing, "I've not, although magical smoking is, well, colourful — they mix magical substances into the tobacco."
Her brother seemed to contemplate the implications of her revelation for a moment, before he asked a bizarre question—
"Do the cigars have wings? And the pipes, do they have legs and arms?"
A few days ago, Mary showed him a chocolate frog, to undeniably attest to the existence of magic. It had been a mistake; she made Edward's first impression of magic a silly, frivolous piece of chocolate, and now, he thought all of magic was silly and frivolous.
"No, but there are enchanted pipes which conjure your subconscious into a ghostly apparition, so you can talk to them," Mary said in a severe voice, "I'm serious, Edward."
"There are some plants from Mexico that achieve a similar effect, or so I've heard."
"A friend of mine, who is also a Prefect of my house, advised me to stay away from those sorts of things. Strange plants, enchanted pipes — he said they're bad for your psyche, that they may even sway you towards dark magic."
"Dark magic, huh?" Edward repeated, dreamily, before continuing in a singsong voice for verse—
"Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."
Mary's instinct was to refute Edward's insinuation, but nothing came out of her mouth—she reflected upon his words, and realised that he characterised precisely how Tom felt.
"Anyway, smoking — allow me to show you the ropes."
Edward handed her his cigar.
"Hold it between your fingers and keep it slightly upward, just like that, yes. When inhaling, don't suck — just slowly inhale through your mouth and breathe out your nose — yes, just breathe."
Mary did as her brother advised, and she broke into a fit of coughing right away. She shrunk her other arm off the steering wheel to cover her mouth. She had anticipated a burning sensation; after all, smoking entailed the burning of tobacco, did it not? But there was no burning—instead, it was a warm, ticklish sensation that ran down her throat. Nonetheless, it was very lovely—at once, she relaxed, her nerves loosening like sunflowers opening at daybreak. Tensions in her shoulders, neck and chest faded away, like ice thawing over a fire.
"Sublime, isn't it?" Edward said quietly.
Mary, or rather Mary's hands and Edward's legs, continued driving through the Sussex landscape, going up and down the small erratic hills—here was a solitary cow, there was a small field of green wheat—while passing the cigar back and forth.
At last, they reached a large, quaint town, all stony grey houses manned by stoical-faced people wearing loose-fitting, practical clothes. There was nothing new in Great Hangleton; everything was of the last century. Yet, despite its lack of novelty and vanity, it was a pleasant town. The residents comported themselves with dignity; the streets were clean, and there was warmth in the air. Neighbours greeted each other, and children ran about in droves, like flocks of well-fed pigeons.
Little Hangleton was almost exactly the same as the town to which it was enjoined, save for two differences. Firstly, it was scarcely a quarter the size of the former town, and secondly, it had one house that stood out—eminently—from the others. All the houses in Great Hangleton were more or less the same size and style. On a small hill at the Westernmost point of Little Hangleton, was a huge stone house, with an even larger yard, overlooking the entirety of the small town.
It was mediaeval, Mary thought. There was the Lord's castle, and there was the small fief from which the Lord drew his labour and prestige.
"Behold the Riddle family, the Squires of Little Hangleton," declared Edward, "We shall pay your father a visit; he ought to extend his hospitality to you. When the day is done, I will retire to the Inn at Great Hangleton."
Edward drove around the outskirts of the small town, over a narrow dirt road which was clearly designed for horse-carts and carriages, rather than cars. At last, he parked his car on the road, a few yards away from the fenced estate of the Riddles.
Mary retrieved her handheld mirror and her hairbrush from her purse. She tamed a few unruly strands which the wind had tossed about in the last few hours.
Edward wore a light blue summer suit with matching trousers, with a large black bowtie pinned to his shirt, while Mary wore a white sundress decorated by dark blue flowers, and she had extensively cured her hair in the morning, in hopes of impressing her father. They stood out against the down-to-earth populace of the Hangleton towns.
"Rural decadence, an Epicurean contradiction," Edward gestured at the grand fountain in the estate's front yard, while ringing the bell at its barred metal gates.
To Mary's surprise, the bell was answered promptly. An old, bald man with grey sideburns came out the door. He wore a quaint brown tuxedo—he was a butler. He slowly strolled towards the gates, his solemn face staring straight at the Annett siblings as he went towards them.
"Mr. Riddle has no appointments today," The Butler stated wryly, "State your name and your business, sir."
"I'm Edward Annett, and this is my sister, Mary Annett — born Mary Riddle. Well, that makes our business rather self-explanatory, I suppose."
For a passing moment, the butler's wrinkled face contorted into a look of abject horror. He examined Mary with unmistakable disgust on his face, but he quickly regained his composure, or at least some semblance of it.
"Wait right here, sir!" He exclaimed with mock politeness, "I shall consult Mr. Riddle."
The butler quickly hurried back inside, while Edward and Mary waited in silence. She was about to ask Edward what he thought the cause of the butler's disgust was, but to the surprise of both of them, the butler returned very quickly. The subtle smirk that was on his face when he initially attended to them was back on his face. Mary's heart sunk.
"I'm afraid that you are mistaken, sir," he turned his head to Mary, "The girl has no relation to Mr. Riddle. You see, the Riddle family is small and keeps a meticulous record —"
"Oh, what gall!" Edward snarled as he grabbed one of the door's bars, "Go tell your master that if he wants to disown his daughter, he ought to do it in person! Otherwise I'll tell the whole town of the tale of his cowardice — of his disgrace!"
"You should leave, sir," The butler warned with an edge to his tone, "Mr. Riddle does not take kindly to trespassers —"
"Trespassers now, are we? Yes, yes we are, Mary! We're trespassers in the technical sense of the term, we're criminals trying to feed our families, criminals of good conscience! We contravene property rights and transgress book-written propriety —"
"Sir —"
"But this man's master, yes, he has a master, for he is a servant," Edward levelled a finger at the butler, while staring at the sky, as though to call upon God, "Is a trespasser of the worst kind. He has foregone the fundamental principle of civilisation — he has forgotten his family! And hear this, butler, all the townsmen and their wives shall know of this pathetic scene — how, then, will Mr. Riddle tend to his vanity?"
"Sir, I do not wish to resort to violence to remove you from the premises of Mr. Riddle's property," The butler warned darkly, "Leave at once; this is your final warning."
"Let's go, Ed," Mary tugged her brother's hand, "If my father is so cowardly as to hide from his daughter, I don't want to see him at all."
Without waiting for her brother's response, Mary pulled him all the way back to their car.
"What were you thinking?!" Mary snapped, "Foregone the fundamental principle of civilisation — who are you, MacBeth? They'll think we're mad! And your threats, Ed —"
"Shhh," Edward whispered with unexpected and maddening calmness, "It's all part of my plan. The Riddles are the gentrymen of this town; they derive their worth from the townsmens' conceptions of them — perhaps they're loved, at least they're feared. I'm a good storyteller; I've demonstrated that to the butler, and he'll relay this to his master. You see, Mary? We shall return here tomorrow, at which time they shall be willing to see you in person, even if only to prevent a scandal."
They rented two rooms in the dimly lit Inn at Great Hangleton—Mary insisted that they share a room and thus a bed, but Edward said that it was inappropriate, for Mary was no longer a 'girl', but now a 'young woman'.
Although Mary was brooding from her family rejecting her, the night started off in such a dramatic fashion that she soon forgot about the Riddles entirely. Country Inns always doubled as pubs, so Edward and her spent the night among the other patrons, in its dimly lit and damp lobby. A local drunkard, a stout middle-aged man who went by the peculiar name of 'Luddsies', made an unflattering remark about Edward's blue suit and his small moustache.
Quips were exchanged, and Luddsies threw Edward to the floor.
Then, after a minute of wrestling, both men rose with nosebleeds, and embraced each other like long lost brothers. Edward purchased Luddsies several glasses of whiskey, and Luddsies purchased Edward several gin and tonics.
Mary retired to bed after that, and it was during the morning of the next day that Edward relayed the rest of the events of the night to her. He made up a character, which he acted out in person—Edward Irvine was a fellow of the Archeology Society of Cambridge, and he was on an expedition to retrieve the lost bones of a Spanish Saint who had perished by the twin Hangleton towns. After enthralling many of the townsmen, who even offered to help him with his expedition, he confessed that he had been lying the whole time; instead, he was Edward, just Edward—a member of His Majesty's Royal Guard, and an officer on a secret mission at that, rather than a mere guardsman.
And of course, his antics were received with praise, rather than scorn—as Mary left with him from the Inn that morning, the other patrons greeted him as though he was a reputable local of their town.
"I discovered that the Riddles were held in low regard by their tenants, in both towns—they own the entirety of Little Hangleton, and around a dozen houses in Great Hangleton," Edward noted, as he drove with one hand and held a cigar in the other, "There was a debacle, a few years ago — during the height of the depression, Squire Thomas Riddle raised rents — yes, Mary, raised rents as England's economy was getting thrashed. The outrage was such that hundreds of tenants, from Little and Great alike, took up pitchforks and protested at the gates of the Squire's estate. He had no choice but to rescind his exorbitance, of course."
Mary was utterly unsurprised.
"I truly come from a family of devils," she said wryly, "It's fortunate that they abandoned me, perhaps—otherwise I'd have a soul set for hell."
As they arrived at the ostentatious house of Mary's father and grandfather, they saw that everything remained the same as yesterday, save for one thing—the bell was gone. Yesterday, it was fixed to the left pillar supporting the estate's gate, and today, there was no sign that it had ever existed; it was simply gone.
"This — this is utterly absurd," Edward scoffed, knocking his hand on the pillar where the bell had been, "Well at least it tells us that, if nothing else, your family fears you — it's an acknowledgment of the truth, in some capacity."
"It's an insult," Mary murmured in a shaky tone, "They don't even think I'm worthy of a doormat."
Although she was angry, the situation was as cruel as it was absurd. It was like a bizarre nightmare; she'd lose a leg, but only from a gigantic chicken biting it off in one gulp. She was certain that the Thomas Riddles, both father and grandfather, knew who she was. She couldn't fathom what motivated their denial; she understood cruelty towards strangers—but cruelty towards your own daughter? It made no sense.
It was unbelievable, so much so that it was enough to suspend Mary's belief in everything else, including the importance of the Statute of Secrecy.
"Forget about the chocolate frog, Ed," Mary said gently, "I'll show you real magic."
She wanted nothing more than to see the family that had denied her, the family that was ultimately responsible for her separation from Tom. The idea that her actions might have consequences either didn't register in her mind, or she thought that said consequences were a small price to pay for what she had planned.
Mary tensed her muscles, and turned into a bird.
Although she knew she had become tiny—she was half an ounce in weight and barely four inches in length—her coat of green feathers felt like a gigantic cloak on her back, like a huge rug. Her arms, which had become wings, felt extremely powerful; she had the bizarre thought that she could punch through walls. She flew over the barred door, savouring the sense of the furious wind powering her wings. Although the motions she needed to perform to fly as a bird were different from those that she did on a broom, the rules, with relation to acceleration, deceleration, and the wind remained the same.
Even as she flew rapidly, Mary was able to discern everything clearly. She could see everything; as a bird, there were one thousand rather than one hundred colours, and instead of merely being able to see ahead of her, her eyes saw every direction, ahead and behind her, above her and below her, all at once.
She found a window on the second floor which was slightly ajar. She flew onto the sill, and seeing that no one was there, she flew in, landed on the floor, and transformed back into her human form. Once again, her skin became thin, her arms weak, her head heavy, and her sight plain and confined.
It was a study; there was a large wooden desk on which there stood an antique lamp, a brown Victorian paper globe, and neatly ordered writing utensils. A black armchair was behind it, and the room was otherwise empty, save for three tall bookshelves which stood to the left, the right, and behind the desk. The books on them, though old, were neatly organised and recently dusted. At one of the lower compartments of the bookshelf behind the desk was a black violin case.
If only there was a piano, Mary thought, it'd be perfect. Nonetheless, a silly plan, one that would likely become very regrettable within a few minutes, came to her mind. She gently lifted the violin case, which was surprisingly light, and placed it onto the desk. After two attempts, she released the small metal hinges holding the lid, and opened the case, revealing the well-kept violin and the case's rich green interior padding.
Although Mary had no idea how to play the instrument, she knew to rest her chin on the small black pad, and to strike the strings with the long wooden bow.
She pulled the bow, rocking her head back and forth gently, as though she was truly immersed in her music. The sound was high and terrible, like a cat scratching its paw against a chalkboard.
Rapid footsteps came rushing down from above, down a staircase, through a corridor, towards Mary. She continued playing the screeching violin, only stopping as the door burst open—
"You dare break into my — put that down, you're making an awful noise! Get out, now! Leave, leave at once!"
The voice was high and sharp, like Tom's, but it was frantic and full of irreconcilable emotions—very unlike Tom's. Mary immediately inferred that it was the voice of a man who had been educated at a school with a Royal Charter, and likely a graduate of University as well—on second thought, it couldn't be farther from the voice of a conniving London orphan's.
The man to whom the voice belonged was Mary's father—this, she knew at once. He looked exactly like Tom—a small but firm jaw, high cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and the same thin head with perfectly symmetrical, perfectly sculpted features. However, her father had brown hair and blue eyes rather than black for both, and he was a man, rather than a boy. Perhaps Mary was imagining it, but there was a certain softness about him that Tom lacked—perhaps it was his hair, which was messier than Tom's, perhaps it was his deep blue bedgown, which gave him a casual look. His expression didn't match his voice; he didn't look angry at all, he looked scared.
Mary had hated this man yesterday, but now, she forgot all her preconceptions of the senior Tom Riddle—he was her father, her daddy, her papa, even if she'd never seen him before.
"Dad!" She exclaimed, before casting the violin on the desk and rushing towards Tom-father, throwing her arms around him like she did for Tom a year ago on the Hogwarts Express, "I've found you, dad! Well, my brother—not your son, and yes, I have a twin brother, who is your son, but not him—my adoptive brother, Edward—he found you for me!"
"You — you have to go! What do you want? What do you want, money? I'll give you a thousand pounds — just stop it! Stop! You can't be here!" Tom-father said in a shaky voice. "Please leave, stop it, stop-stop-stop!"
He sounded like a petulant boy—the father who had raised Mary would've never whined so impotently. But she didn't care; he didn't even try to shrug her hug off, when he easily could have. She tightened her arms around him, a stranger who was so transcendently familiar.
"I don't know what happened between you and mum," Mary said warmly, "I've never met mum. She died after giving birth to Tom and I, you know? Yes, my brother's named after —"
Suddenly and finally, he let her go, but he looked at her—at the lower part of her skirt—in terror. For a moment, Mary wanted to laugh, but her father immediately dispelled the budding humour in her mind—
"Blood! That's blood!" Tom-father exclaimed in a queasy voice, "Is that — you're menstruating! No, no, no…"
Mary looked down first in confusion, and then in horror—there was a small splotch of red on her white sundress! She touched the part of her dress around her butt, and although she couldn't see it, it was soaked, there must have been a lot of blood.
Of her dorm-mates, only Mirabel and Alice bled—both of them complained of the pain that accompanied it, but for Mary, there was nothing at all—just dampness, and a vague feeling of cold between her thighs and an odd soreness in her back, as though she had been carrying a bag of heavy rocks.
"I… I didn't know, I'm sorry, d-dad —"
"Are you okay?"
"I don't know."
"Can you… walk?"
"I don't know!"
"This is your first time, isn't it?"
"I don't — I mean yes! It is!"
"Oh God have mercy…" Tom-father began rapidly pacing in circles in the room, staring at the floor, breathing heavily.
A thousand questions paced through Mary's mind—why didn't she know? Weren't you supposed to know, when you bled? You were supposed to be able to foresee it, from days ahead—otherwise, how would you know when to prepare for it? Did her Animagi transformation catalyse it? As a warbler, she only flew horizontally, she'd never flown up as much as she had to break into her father's house.
Suddenly, Tom-father picked her up into her arms. She was cradled like a baby, and for a moment she became very scared that he would throw her out of his house, but he went upstairs, rather than down.
They went into a bedroom, presumably his bedroom, where he laid her down on his large bed and once again began frantically pacing in circles at her bedside. The sight of his fearful indecisiveness would've made Mary laugh, if she wasn't so scared and embarrassed herself.
"Breathe slowly. Try not to get distressed, don't get distressed!" He blurted in a tone that made his advice utterly futile, "Is the pillow comfortable — there are softer pillows in the wardrobes, I can retrieve them… Oh God have mercy!"
Mary found she was growing dizzy, nauseated, irritated and sleepy all at once. She wondered how much of her sudden sickness was due to her bleeding, and how much to her awareness of it; magical healers were of the conviction that stress contributed greatly to malaise. She felt guilty as well—she was making an utter mess for the Riddles.
Tom-father left the room for a minute, before returning with a bizarre pair of items—a hot towel, and a thermometer. He placed the towel on her head, which she appreciated, although she wasn't sure how it was supposed to help.
"Open your mouth," he instructed.
Mary did as she was told.
The thermometer, a long, cold glass rod, was placed into her mouth, while Tom-father squirmed—was her tongue frightening him?
"Whyth ah yeh takit me tem-piffer," Mary asked through the thermometer.
"I — don't — know!" He exclaimed in panic, "What if you have a fever?"
"Tom?" A new, female voice asked.
Mary hadn't heard her come in. She was behind Tom-father, and both she and Mary gasped as they saw one another. Although somewhat old—at least fifty, but no more than sixty—she looked very much like Mary. They had the same delicate chin, the same small, thin lips, aquiline nose and the same large, slightly downturned eyes, on the same round, slightly oval face—it wasn't her nascent wrinkles that distinguished her from Mary, but rather, her hair, which was a palette of black and gray in a puffy mane around her head, the style of old American actresses.
It was her grandmother, by blood, and Mary marvelled at how much younger she looked than her grandmothers by adoption. Tom-father's mother barely looked older than Mary's own mother! She was very beautiful; at once, Mary decided that she wanted to age like her, into her.
She looked at Mary, who must've been quite a sight to behold, with a towel on her head, a thermometer in her mouth, and a splotch of red on her dress. To Mary's relief, her brown eyes mellowed into something between pity and understanding, although there was still a great deal of uneasiness in her graceful features.
"Goodness, what are you doing, Tom?" She asked in the slow, condescending tone of a displeased parent, "Why are you taking her temperature, indeed?"
"Mother! I don't know — shouldn't we ask why she's here? Shouldn't we —"
"What's your name, dear?" Tom-father's mother cut off her son with a mere gesture of her hand.
"Mary," Mary feebly answered.
The woman sat still for a moment, seemingly rendered frozen by the news of Mary's name, before she continued with a wide, dry smile—
"How very charming," she said emphatically, "You wait here, Mary — and for goodness sake, Tom, take the thermometer out of her mouth."
Without a word, Tom-father did as his mother bid. Mary's new-but-old grandmother departed the room, and Mary and her father were left silent and uncomfortable. He was pacing in circles again. Mary thought she should say something; she wanted to regain the talkativeness she had merely minutes ago, but she had become so tired. Nonetheless, she didn't need to break the silence, because Tom-father did—
"I shouldn't have forced you away. I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you — truly, I am." He suddenly blurted out, but his eyes didn't meet Mary at all, completely unlike Tom who was always looking at her, "But you don't know, Mary — your… mother, she — she violated me! And in unspeakable ways too, I shan't go on or you'll think I'm mad —"
"With Magic," Mary murmured, "She compelled you with magic, didn't she?"
For a moment Tom-father gave her an astonished look, before he shrunk back with utter disgust on his face.
"You — you know, you're just like her, aren't you?!"
"I'm a witch, yes," Mary snapped; her father's rapid mood swings were becoming annoying, "No, I don't use magic to make boys enamoured with me. They get enamoured with me anyway."
"She taught you her ways from the grave, did she?" Tom-father snapped back, "What's the real reason you've come to visit me? Well?"
Mary's very young grandmother returned.
"Tom, quit bullying your daughter," she said in a weary tone, "We have to accept these affairs as they are."
She held a large white briefcase in her hand. It was something that could've belonged to a travelling doctor.
"Leave us, Tom."
"Mother —"
"Go."
He scurried out like the obedient son that he was. Mary watched his departure with dazed incredulity; she had never seen Edward carry that sort of obedience towards their mother, and Edward was years, if not a decade younger than Tom-father.
"Don't worry, Mary," Mary's young grandmother sat by her on the bed, and rubbed her stomach, "There's nothing to fear. Know that you're a healthy girl, and that you're destined to become a healthy woman—all of this is natural, child."
Her grandmother's words were quite unlike Tom-father's. Tom-father spoke quickly and rashly; even if he was in his late twenties, or early thirties—Mary didn't know—he was a mere boy, even more immature than Edward. Her grandmother, however, spoke calmly and judiciously, and she seemed to know exactly what to say to soothe Mary.
She explained some of the bodily facts regarding bleeding, which Mary had already heard from her mother and the Hufflepuff girls' Prefects time and again. She explained that she her white briefcase was used for storing pads, which were designed by a skilled women's physiologist in Guildford, and which were apparently much better than the pads made of gauze and paper that were commonly sold to and unfortunately used by women in big cities.
Within an hour, Mary was feeling much better, even if she had to change into an ankle-length Victorian dress that her grandmother—who she learned was similarly named Mary—had worn as a young girl. Although the huge skirt made her look like she was hiding a dozen quaffles under her waist, it was surprisingly comfortable in the summer.
It was in that comfortable yet unwieldy dress, with a pad between her legs, that Mary found herself at the dinner table of the Riddles. Like the rest of their house, the dining room was ample in size, and the furniture, though old and dark, was elegant and well-maintained. Aside from the living beings within their house, everything in the Riddle property was from Queen Victoria's time.
She sat next to Edward on one side of the table, facing Grandmother Mary and Tom-father on the other side. Grandfather Tom sat at the end of the table, perpendicular to both sides.
"And your adoptive father," Grandfather Tom began, in his deep, resonantly hoarse voice—he sounded so different from Tom-father, "To what station does he belong, girl?"
Mary wanted to scowl at being called girl, but it was perhaps that Grandfather Tom merely refused to call her 'Mary' because it was also the name of his wife.
"My paternal grandparents," Mary began with an awkward smile, "Were of the working class. Grandfather was a shipyard worker; grandmother was the youngest daughter of farmers. My father excelled in school and gained a scholarship to University, and now, he owns several steelworks across England."
"A metal Baron," Grandfather Tom wryly smiled, "Self-made… how vulgar."
Grandmother Mary and Tom-father both looked embarrassed on their patriarch's behalf, but neither of them were surprised—clearly, it wasn't the first time they had seen Grandfather Tom say something needlessly insulting.
"And your father, Sir?" Edward said with an excited smile, "I expect he was born in this very house — was his silver spoon bigger than yours, or smaller? At whose behest did the Riddles become the Squires of nowhere-in-Sussex town? George the Second? Perhaps William the Conqueror? Yes, the Annetts are Barons of metal—not all of us are fortunate enough to be Barons of corpses."
For a moment, an uncomfortable silence came over the table. No one touched their food, everyone uncomfortably held their forks and knives. Then, Grandfather Tom broke the silence—
"Hah!" He gave a raspy chuckle, "No matter how harshly you slander my father, you'll never hate him like I did —"
"A fine example to set for your son," Edward said drily.
"— but that's a story for another day," Grandfather Tom continued, as though he didn't hear Edward. "Mary! The sausage!"
For a moment, Mary sat dumbfoundedly still, before she realised Grandfather Tom was addressing Grandmother Mary, and not her.
"Yes, of course," Came Grandmother Mary's soft, patient voice.
Mary watched curiously as her grandmother took a smoked sausage from her husband's plate and put it on her own, cutting it into neat slices with her fork and knife. With a toothpick, she picked out the white parts—the fat—from them. Whether this dietary quirk was out of necessity for his health, or merely the condition of someone with a fussy appetite, Mary didn't know. She suspected it was the latter.
She shared an incredulous glance with Edward; they were both surprised that Grandfather Tom could order his wife around like a maidservant, or like a small child whining to their mother. Edward and Mary's father was nothing but courteous towards their mother, and their father was always the deferential one, whenever one of them was required to be deferential towards the other. It was strange to consider that the habits of the Annett household might not be as common as Mary had assumed.
Dinner continued without incident; Grandmother Mary encouraged Tom-father to fraternise with Edward—they were both of the same generation, after all, while Grandfather Tom asked Mary questions about Tom. She relayed the same half-truthful story that mother composed; she and Tom were students at a prestigious boarding school in Scotland, the same one that their maternal Grandfather—the Viscount Camrose, who truly existed—had attended.
She told her Grandfather of how Tom excelled in all his subjects, of how he charmed teachers, and of how he looked just like his handsome father. She even told him about Thane Mulciber through a half-truthful parable—he was a fourth-year who Tom associated with, and he got expelled for distributing anarchist pamphlets.
Grandfather Tom continued to address Mary as 'girl', while he'd refer to Tom, who he'd never seen before, by his actual name 'Tom', and in an appraising tone as well. He had come to greatly favour his grandson he had never met, but he didn't ask Mary a single thing about herself—it was as though she was nothing more than Tom's messenger.
They were to stay in Little Hangleton for three days; after all, it'd be unfair to her mother in Salisbury if she stayed with her true father in Sussex for any longer—the summer holidays were coming to an end. She and Edward were hosted comfortably in separate guest-rooms.
Grandfather Tom had planned to drive to London and adopt Tom right away the day he learned of his existence, but Mary deterred him—she hadn't written to Tom about the Riddles, and she wanted him to know everything she learned of them before they took him in, and deemed him their heir.
The relationships that burgeoned in those three days were strange, but perhaps expected. Edward and Grandfather Tom became greatly fond of another, even if the former was a progressive, and the latter, an incorrigible tory. Neither of them got along with Tom-father, who had the most in common with Edward, and both of them were rather dismissive of Grandmother Mary.
Mary, however, got along excellently with her fickle father; he had a sudden change of heart again, and began to act towards Mary as if she was some long lost treasure, which she supposed she was, in a way. He didn't seem to care much for her twin brother, unlike Grandfather Tom who grew increasingly enamoured with him.
Tom-father's fondness for Mary only increased after the first tumultuous day, and on the second day, he explained everything—or at least what he could remember of it—about his time with her mother, Merope. Of how he knew she was poisoning the water he drank with a magical substance—Amortentia, Mary suspected—that caused his infatuation with her, and of how he couldn't resist it despite his awareness of it—of how Tom and Mary were conceived, and of how Merope struggled with her conscience, finally caving in one day, giving Tom-father the choice to abandon her and her unborn children, which he opted for at once.
On her last day in Little Hangleton, Mary wanted to visit the place where her mother grew up. She knew that Merope's brainsick brother and father had been taken away, but perhaps they had returned—perhaps they had more answers.
"It's a shack," Tom-father said in the weary, sombre tone that infected him whenever he talked about Mary's mother, "and there might still be — madmen — living inside it. M-Merope's uncle and brother, Mary…"
"If I have to defend us, I'll use my wand," Mary told her father, "From the sound of it, none of the Gaunts had a proper magical education — I'd be able to fend them off."
"I'll bring my father's rifle as well," Tom-father assured, "If anyone still lives in the shack, they won't dare attack us."
"Charming," Edward drawled, "We're aiming for a family reunion, but we're equipped for a home invasion."
The three of them, Mary with her father and her brother, prepared to visit the Gaunts, or what remained of them. While both the boys—men, Mary had to remind herself, dressed handsomely, she wore another one of her Grandmother Mary's antiquated Victorian dresses. True to his word, Tom-father took out his father's hunting rifle, a long, brown gun known as the Lee Enfield that reminded Mary of a walking stick.
"Do you even know how to use that?" Edward asked.
"You point it the direction you want to shoot," Tom-father snapped.
"And how do you hold the rifle, Riddle?" Edward smiled, "Do you even know where the trigger guard is?"
"Fine!" Tom-father thrusted the rifle into Edward's hands, "Go on, then, show us what a masterful marksman you are!"
"I will, if need be," Edward smirked and slung the rifle over his shoulder.
They walked down the dirt path along the outskirts of Little Hangleton, and into the small woodland, which was where the house of the Gaunts was apparently situated. Mary thought they resembled a hunting party. The forest, which had short, gnarled trees and sprawling roots over the soil, was more reminiscent of the Forbidden Forest than the Welsh Forest behind Mirabel's house.
"And here we are."
At first, all Mary saw was a tall, terribly fat and terribly ugly twisted tree—but then she noticed that it was actually two trees that shared a trunk, a trunk which was actually a house, a shack the size of a garden shed, with a wood-plank facade overrun by moss.
Then, she noticed that several oddly shaped leaves appeared to be nailed to the shack's mossy front, until she noticed the leaves were the drying, desiccated carcasses of animals—she made out two snakes, and a squirrel.
"Good grief!" Tom-father scrunched his nose, although there was no odour—the animals had died long ago, "How shall we proceed from here?"
"You knock. I'll cover your back," Edward unslung the rifle, loaded it, and aimed it at the door.
"Annett, are you mad?! If there is anyone alive in there, they'll pounce on me at once, seeing you pointing a rifle at their face!"
"Or they'll attack you regardless, and they'll brutalize you before I can shoot them down."
"No! Are you daft, Edward Annett? Sling the rifle over your back; that way, they'll know you're armed, but they won't regard you as a threat—not immediately at least—think strategically! They—M-Merope's brother and uncles—they think like animals!"
"You've never gone hunting before, what do you know of how animals think?"
Mary had enough of the bickering men—she drew her wand, walked towards the door, and loudly knocked on it. Both her father and brother went silent at once.
"Put the gun down, Ed," she instructed.
Her brother did as he was told, but not without visible disappointment showing on his face, as though he would've delighted in hunting and slaughtering Mary's last maternal relatives like wild dogs.
For a minute, they remained utterly silent, straining to hear any noise coming from within the shack. Mary broke the silence by knocking again, this time with her entire fist rather than her knuckles.
Then, there were footsteps. Loud, heavy, uneven footsteps, and the door violently swung open.
Standing before Mary was without a doubt the most animal, most terrifying man—or creature—she had ever seen. Covered in a tattered brown coat splotched with muck, the man was only slightly shorter than Edward and Tom-father, but more strongly built, even if very fat around the waist. His head was Mary's cause for fear—he had no face, the entirety of his face was covered in thick, revoltingly dirty hair—there were dead bugs inside it—and his beard wiggled as though it hosted a nest.
Most prominent was his foul odour. The man utterly stank. His stench completely overpowered the faint cologne of Edward and Tom-father; he smelled like alcohol, sweat, soil, urine and decaying flesh all at the same time.
At first, no one said nothing—Mary, Edward, and Tom-father were too taken aback by his monstrous appearance, and the hairy man, probably by the fact someone had knocked on his door at all. Then, he broke the silence—
"You!" He hissed in a croaky, non-human tone, spitting thick brown saliva, "YOU!"
Mary realised that he was speaking parseltongue, and she was about to point it out to her accomplices, but it was too late—the hairy man suddenly ran towards Tom-father, with a wand in one hand, and a knife covered in dried blood in the other.
Then, bang—a gunshot.
"HALT!" Edward pointed his rifle at the hairy man, smoke rising from the barrel of it, and Mary realised he had fired a warning shot—the hairy man had surprisingly heeded Edward's order—he stopped, and even backtracked a step.
"It's him, it's him, it's the that Muggle… Riddle..." He conspiratorially murmured to himself; he thought no one could understand him, "Merope's dead, course Merope's dead, serve her right for marrying filth… serve her right… but why Riddle here?"
"Merope didn't deserve to die," Mary hissed back emphatically, watching as her brother and father gave her shocked looks—they evidently hadn't expected her to be able to communicate with something so monstrous.
"You speak it?" The hairy man whispered in a tone that sounded like surprise.
"Yes, I speak it. What's your name?"
The man turned his disgusting head to Mary, as if to assess whether she was worthy of learning his name. Then, he spoke, and even through parseltongue and his garbled inflections, Mary could make out his disgust—
"You look like him. And like Merope, too. Merope too, what did she do with him… Riddle and Merope...?"
"Yes, I'm their daughter," Mary said.
"Daughter? Merope and him? Half-breed! HALF-BREED?! If father was alive he kill you, see! But father dead! And Merope too, and now Riddle back... Where is locket, eh? Where is locket?"
"What is he saying, Mary?"
"Locket?" Mary asked, ignoring Edward's question, "What locket?"
"Slytherin's locket! It was father's, it had no right for Merope! None, see? It should'a gone to me, Morfin. Father said so, father said locket go to Morfin when he die!"
"Slytherin's Locket?" Mary's eyes widened in surprise; at once, it seemed, all of Tom's theories and Edward's investigations had come together in one big revelation—they truly were the heirs of Slytherin; this disgusting man was proof, "Salazar Slytherin's Locket?"
"Slytherin! Slytherin!" Morfin chanted in agreement.
He raised a fist at Mary, and she recoiled in fear for a moment, but then she realised he meant to show her something. Perhaps he had Slytherin's locket? Mary desperately wanted to see it.
"Stand back!" Edward prodded his gun at Morfin.
On Morfin's grubby hand, with its long, yellow-grey nails—it looked more like an animal's paw than a human's hand—was a gold ring set with a large black stone.
Although the ring looked rather clumsily made—it wasn't perfectly circular, and the gold didn't shine—it was the black stone that caught Mary's attention. The stone was the shape of a square, but imperfect enough so that it was unclear as to whether it was forged, or naturally recurring—but what was clear was that it was deeply opaque. It didn't reflect any light; it was darker than the deepest recesses of any cave—the sheer darkness of it ironically made it stand out.
At once, Mary inferred several rather obvious things about the ring. It must've been magical, and it couldn't have been purchased by the Gaunts, who indeed, as Tom-father described, were tramps—it must've been an heirloom, just like Salazar Slytherin's locket. She recalled Alice's words, 'some of the families grow deformed and dumb over time, from marrying cousin to cousin, even sister to brother…', and it all made sense, beautifully so.
At the back of her mind, Mary felt a sense of deja vu—magic was welling up all over her body, removing her pains and bringing blissful clarity to her mind, just like how it did when she tossed Justin Hurst about, and how it did before she wandlessly threw Crickerly against a door—but she did not care.
The ring was a vestige of a greater time; it was a crown among ruins, a treasure buried by history and decay. Tom would love it, that much was abundantly clear… and Tom deserved it—if the Gaunt family's glory once derived from Slytherin, the ring must have some relation to Slytherin, too—and Tom was more worthy of Slytherin than Morfin—without a doubt. It seemed not only unfair, but utterly absurd, like something out of a satirical novel, that Morfin was the owner of the ring, rather than Tom.
Plus, if she brought it back to Tom, he'd forgive her for betraying him to Cassian. He'd love her unconditionally and passionately like how priests loved God, like how she loved him, like how they loved each other eight months ago, during Christmas. Perhaps he still loved her that way—and if that was the case, he deserved a token of her love.
"Me, it's mine!" Morfin shouted as he seemingly sensed Mary's thoughts, "Mine—Marvolo said it's mine! Me Morfin—not you, half-blood whelp!"
Mary couldn't help herself. She raised an arm to touch the ring—it would be cold and smooth, like a carved gem…
But she didn't reach it, because Morfin shoved her away—he shoved her with such force that collided into Tom-father.
Then, madness.
"DON"T YOU DARE TOUCH MY SISTER!"
Edward sprung forward, turning his rifle and smacking its butt against Morfin's head.
"The ring! It's mine!" Mary heard herself say, "Edward, he stole the ring from my mother! He's a thief!"
She had no idea how the lie sprung so quickly from her mouth; it was as though someone else thought of it for her, and said it for her as well. But it didn't matter—her objective was clear.
"What? Mary, how do you mean —"
"YOU HIT ME, MUGGLE?!"
"Don't stand around and do nothing, Riddle!" Edward shouted at Tom-father, as Morfin tugged his rifle, "Do something!"
"What in God's name is happening?!" Tom-father panickedly shouted.
While Morfin had both his hands occupied with Edward, Mary quickly ran by his side, and with both her small hands, she took his fat ringed hand off the gun, and pulled the cold, smooth ring off his hand. It dropped to the floor, with a small clink.
"HALF-BLOOD WHORE!" Morfin bellowed.
Mary instantly dropped to the floor and grabbed the ring, moving with a quickness she didn't even know she had, while Morfin let go of the gun and grabbed Mary by the neck with both his strong hands. He was choking her—his hands were so heavy, so powerful—and she was growing breathless, her head going heavy and light at once—her sight growing blurry, all the shouts of Ed and Tom and Morfin merging into one static blur…
She thought of Tom's handsome face, and then the ring, and then Tom's face, and then the ring again, and then Tom's face, which became Tom-father's face—
She was immediately brought back to reality by a gunshot.
Air flooded back into her lungs, into her mind. She did three things at once; gasp for breath, feel the coldness of the sleek ring in her hand, and watch as Morfin writhed on the ground, blood spurting from a wound in his chest.
Another bang—Edward shot him again, and he went still. For one moment, Morfin had been madly writhing on the floor, and the next, he was utterly still. It was like boiling a flobberworm—they'd splash about in agony in the boiling cauldron for one moment, and simply become a still object the next.
"Bloody hell, what have you done?!" Tom-father's face twitched as he accused Edward. "Bloody hell! He — he's dead!"
"He… he was choking my sister," Edward mumbled. Mary knew her brother; where others would be frightful, panicked and blubbering when deeply fearful, Edward's voice would become small and quiet—he would rescind into a shy child. "He was choking your daughter."
"You killed him! You're a murderer!" Tom-father said with particular viciousness, as though being fierce towards Edward would distract him from the gravity of the situation.
"I didn't know what else to do." Edward's voice was pathetic and shaking.
"What a-are we going to do, Annett?" Tom-father said, his teeth clattering "It's an old bolt-action—the oldness makes it all the more loud. Someone — someone would've heard!"
Mary, however, didn't care for the pointless argument going on between the boys. She sat against the dirty wall, by her dead uncle, and put the cool, smooth ring on her ring finger. It fit perfectly—not just physically—it enlivened her magic, and to a much greater extent than she had ever felt it—she was submerged into a warm, deep lake, or a spring of hot water—but she wasn't merely human, she was Poseidon revelling in his elemental ecstasy. She closed her eyes, and smiled, utterly oblivious to the look of horrified revulsion on Tom-father's face.
A/N: IMPORTANT QUESTION—I would like to return to the form I wrote in for the first four chapters; that is, with the perspectives of both the twins in each chapter. However, if I do, I won't do it so religiously as to have a 1:1 structure—perhaps some chapters will feature more of Tom than Mary, and vice versa, and some might still be just one of their perspective's. Would you guys mind if I did this? Please let me know in the reviews, thanks!