Disturbing themes end of chapter.

Chapter 22 – Alcazar Deslizan – August 18th, 1945

Tom entered the library at Slytherin castle, surveying the structures and shelves, as well as the condition of the majority of the reading material, and satisfied that everything had been done to task, he studied a few titles. After his win of the Slytherin seat two months ago, he had been given its location and ownership, as well as that of the Slytherin vaults.

The castle itself went by the name Alcazar Deslizan, and it was situated on an island in the extreme south of Ireland, on what was now modernly known as Cape Clear Island. It was rather ancient and large, and Tom would tell that different wings and sections had been added through the years by later family members, but it still generally held strong despite being essentially abandoned since the 1400s, due to an exceptionally strong stasis charm, which would have been when the last Slytherin daughter married into the Northern English Gaunt family.

Since first stepping into the fortress, Tom had been in awe of the grand amount of history that surrounded him, however, he had decided to not live there just yet, as he'd come to the conclusion after a single tour, that it needed to be updated to a few modern standards, namely: indoor plumbing, proper insulation, and a replacement of all upholstered furniture, bedding and linens, because due to the structure standing quite strong, the interior hadn't been nearly as lucky. Though the library had had its own level of protection separate to the rest of the castle, which went to show where the priorities of his ancestors laid, not that he was complaining.

Basically an extensive amount of work needed to be done for the castle to be livable by today's standards, and he had looped all of his knights into helping him organize it. Orion had been in charge of hiring companies for the indoor construction, while Abraxas took charge of hiring interior designers. He'd asked Bella and Rudolphous to find him some elves, as the practice of utilizing them hadn't been around back when this castle was fully functional (that had started somewhere in the 1600s).

Evan had personally taken charge of modernizing the kitchens (plural, as there were three, why? He couldn't say) and Frederick had been tasked with finding an exterior construction company to reaffirm the castle's foundations, as Tom didn't quite trust that it wouldn't collapse in on itself once every single stasis charm had been undone. Finally, after two months of work from over one hundred different workers, the castle was finished, and he was taking the first tour.

He ran a finger gently against the spines of the books on the shelves, noting the variety of languages and subjects, wryly observing that the majority were of a darker nature. He could almost feel the eyes of Salazar from his painting follow him, his access to the Slytherin vaults had found him pleasantly surprised at their contents.

One was filled with relics, and the other was filled with gold, not, of course, that he needed money anyhow, as Riddle money was just as useful. What surprised him had been the presence of portraits of the earliest Slytherin family members, including Salazar himself, all charmed to sleep and stashed to the back of the vault, like some shameful secret.

He'd remembered that there had only ever been one portrait of Slytherin in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, that portrayed a withered old man, with a beard that trailed to his feet, who rarely spoke, and when he did, it was to spew anti-muggle and muggleborn rhetoric in Old English.

Suffice to say, the portrait he had found had been when his ancestor was a young man, no older than thirty. He had dark, thick hair that was braided over his shoulder and tanned skin. His eyes were a pale green (very much like Tom's own colour) and his face was rectangular, with a strong jaw and a slightly hooked nose, but with delicately shaped eyebrows. Tom couldn't truly tell, due to the proportions of the painting, but he was under the assumption that Slytherin had been quite short.

The other portraits had been of Slytherin's parents and grandparents, as well as one of his younger sister, who had apparently died young, as she appeared no older than eleven in her portrait.

He hadn't told anyone of the portraits, because he'd found out soon after why they had been hidden away as they had because the truth of his ancestor was some truly groundbreaking information, enough to cause a sinkhole in the land's current politics, politics that had given him his seat, this castle and his power.

He had found out by talking to the younger Salazar in parseltongue (as he did not speak English as he knew it, in fact, his first language was Castilian, while his second was Irish Gaelic, and third was Old English) that Salazar Slytherin had never been a pureblood at all, but a half-blood.

He had spent an entire evening speaking to his ancestor, and he had learned a lot, firstly that his name was not even Slytherin, but Deslizan, and that his full name was Salazar Ciarán Deslizan, and that he had only anglicized his name for the house system at the school.

He had learned that he had been born in this very castle to a half-blood father, named Esteban Malek Deslizan y ibn Mehjabeen and a pureblood mother, Niamh Orlagh Peverell.

Furthermore, that it was his grandfather, Esteban Salazar Deslizan y Gomez de Ayala, and grandmother, Mehjabeen ibnat Malek al Madinat-Salim who had first built the fortress in 915 A.D upon escaping Castile and Madinat-Salim due to the scandal of his pureblooded grandmother eloping with his "magica-neuvo" grandfather.

Learning the Salazar Slytherin's grandfather had been muggleborn, and that the infamous parseltongue ability had, in fact, come from his Umayyad pureblood grandmother, had certainly popped a few holes in Tom's beliefs.

He understood now the reason for hiding the portraits, as his ancestor in all his captured and sane clarity had explained that his disdain for muggleborns was not because they were inherently inferior, but because they had been beholden to their non-magical beliefs and families, families that had been hunting down their kind and killing them.

Salazar explained how his younger sister had died, that during a trip the mainland, she had been caught by a few of the local men in an act of accidental magic while separated from their father, that she had been raped and beaten to death, and she had only been ten.

This humanization of the UK's most notorious bigot would never have allowed the sphere of power that had been built upon the discrimination of muggles and muggleborns to persist, so of course, the truth had been hidden away, in favour of the founder's more senile portrait, that further led credence to the structure of power currently in place.

On that note, Tom thought that something must have happened for Slytherin's views to turn so drastic, that it affected his mental capabilities later in life, to the point that he would infamously duel Gryffindor over these beliefs, and furthermore, leave Hogwarts, and never return.

Not necessarily in a mood to speak to his ancestor now, Tom decided against grabbing a book and turned to exit the library. When he had decided to return the portraits to the castle, he had not considered being challenged on everything he knew and believed, a lot of which he'd adopted during his years at Hogwarts. When he had first been sorted into Slytherin, he'd had become the infamous Slytherin mudblood, the anomaly in the house that had never seen a muggleborn before.

Nothing he had said had spared him the antagonism of his housemates, as anything he would have said would have either been construed as a weakness, or a lie to protect himself. So, he'd had to become much more vicious than them, striking back three times as hard as they, ripped homework had been rewarded with broken bones, and name-calling had been answered with merciless hexes, until eventually, they got the message and left him alone.

He scaled the stairs heading towards the "family" wing, thinking how his housemates had gone from being afraid of him, to grudgingly respecting him, to eventually becoming his friends, to finally becoming his knights. Though he was certain of one thing through his years of Hogwarts, he had never truly believed the pureblood pomposity, after all, how could he? He had muggle blood himself, his disdain for muggleborns had been both a holdover from being a bullied child and that of a boy hoping to make his ancestor proud upon discovery of his lineage.

It also fell in line with the path to power he'd craved, and had recently come to acquire, so would he now change it? No. Though this information might change the way he understood the world, and that of magical races, and perhaps he'd be a changed man if he'd ever felt an iota of empathy even once in his life, but he found the status quo benefited him, so, he would do nothing with this information, and furthermore, he would keep the portraits, as no one would be able to understand them anyway.

For now, he would stay the course, politically at least, his next goal there would be to decriminalize certain magics, as it had been a repeated talking point during his campaign by the Traditional Party, and since they'd essentially given him the power he had now, he would oblige them.

Upon reaching the set of rooms that he'd claimed as his own, he admired the work that had been done, Abraxas and Orion had really outdone themselves. The stone floor and walls remained, though thick carpets had been added, the cracks between all the brickwork had been caulked, and proper windows had been added to fully protect the rooms and insulate them. In both the sitting room, full private bath, and bedroom, all of the furniture was of a dark wood carved with snakes.

Walking into the bedroom, he appraised the dark green linens briefly before his eyes settled on the door to the left of the bed. Walking towards it and opening it, a purr of satisfaction curled in his chest at the attached bedroom that he found.

The furniture was made from the same dark wood as his own, however, instead of snakes carved upon the wood, the edges were carved with a braiding pattern similar to the Celtic knot, and a few fleurs-de-lis upon the corners. The bed linens were of a pale lilac, the exact colour of the robes Hermione had worn to the Slug Gala a year and a half ago, specifically the night he'd realized that he'd wanted her. It was the perfect colour, though of course it would be, after all, this room would be hers.

He thought of her for a moment, when he'd told her that he hadn't truly considered that she would be attacked so severely during his campaign, he hadn't been lying, he hadn't had anything to do with the Prophet article or the letters. Of course, he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so when that development occurred, he had absolutely used it to his advantage. Truly, if he was being honest, it had given him a sliver of satisfaction to see her brought low, though, in his defence, he had been quite angry with her.

Truthfully, he thought Abraxas might have been responsible, as he'd never forgiven her for slapping him, whoever had said that hell hath no fury than a woman scorned, had truly never seen a scorned peacock.

He went to the wardrobe and opened it, running his hand along the variety of expensive women's robes, all some sort of pale colour. It had been his own, personal, contribution to the room, seeing that they were the type of colours he liked the best on her, as they always complimented beautifully against her complexion.

Closing the wardrobe and making his way out of the rooms, he headed towards the entrance hall, where the floo was located, and called for Riddle manor while throwing a handful of powder in, he stepped through into Helen's office. The woman in question was seated at her desk, reading the muggle newspaper, and decided he had time today to inflict his presence on her, he took a seat across, with his hands in the pockets of his robes.

"Anything new?" he asked, hand fiddling with the chain in his pocket.

He had nabbed a time turner from the Department of Mysteries, it was an open secret that the Unspeakables abused the use of time turners with no actual recording for their own personal projects, nobody ever said anything, due to the illegality of the action, though they were usually used so that they could actually sleep in between studies and experiments.

Tom had an idea that required the use of one, so no one said anything when he borrowed one, not that they would, without implicating themselves.

Helen levelled a stare at him, before simply handing him the newspaper. Dropping the chain and taking his hands out of his pockets, he took it from her, and upon reading the title, his eyebrows shot up to his forehead.

"Did you know about these?" he asked, as he read the devastation in Japan by the Americans, and he'd thought the London blitz had been bad, incredulously he gazed at the photos that displayed mushroom clouds over what used to be the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

"Of course not, those were all the Americans, though if anyone in Britain knew about it, it would have been Churchill. I suppose it got the point across though, Japan officially surrendered on the fifteenth," she answered folding her hands under her chin, she looked troubled.

"Even as arms manufacturers and dealers ourselves, I'd never thought to see the day where man-made weapons could cause that much devastation," she continued, and he scoffed.

"You are not trying to convince me that you have a conscious now that the war is over, just admit you happily benefited and continue on with your life, no need to pretend to be horrified over acts of war now," he jibed, and she tilted her head at him.

"I don't regret my actions, but it doesn't mean I don't wish I never needed to. I'm certainly guilty enough both directly and indirectly and I acknowledge that." he perked at that, running his tongue over his teeth inside his mouth, as intrigue buzzed through him.

"You've killed? Personally?" he asked, his voice low and interested, she leaned back in her seat and regarded him as if deciding whether to answer him or not.

"I have, three Nazi soldiers, to protect Hermione," she paused, "and rest assured, I would do it again." her eyes pierced his and dove into the memory that echoed in her mind, not what actually happened, but just the memory of shooting three soldiers in the head. He was entertained that she clearly knew he was a legilimens, as she usually made effort to never make eye contact with him, and certainly, she was threatening him, but he found he was too amused to be angry. He was more interested in their apparent similarities than their few and far in between differences.

He could feel his mouth curl into a smile, before the floo roared to life, swiping both of their attentions, as Hermione stumbled through, landing on her side.

Tom watched as she sprung back to her feet, favouring her left leg, an lunge for the floor powder on the shelf to presumably go back to where she stumbled in from, and with a flick of his wand, he sealed the floo connection, before she could throw her handful in and call for 'Diagon Alley'.

When it didn't work, she whirled around to pin him with a furious stare, but Helen was already on her feet and heading towards Hermione. He took the opportunity to activate the anti-apparition wards he'd set up when he first created the protective wards, for good measure.

"Open to floo, Tom," the girl demanded, and he cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Not before you explain why you are in the shape that you are," he retorted, gesturing to her bleeding leg and dishevelled state of dress, noting a few braids that came out of the bun they'd been tied into at the top of her head.

"I don't have time for this! Open the damn floo!" she yelled at him, a look of panic flashing across her face, he instead got up and leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, while Helen cupped her daughter's shoulders.

"What happened?" and it seemed the gentle tone Helen had used had done the trick, as Hermione burst into tears.

"Grindelwald and his men attacked Diagon Alley, there was an explosion, I was with Kai, and we ran for the floo, oh my god, there were bodies lying everywhere, and there were some kids, and he just activated the floo and threw me in, I need to go-" she was hysterical at this point, and Tom cut her off.

"-You need to go where? Go help? You are not an Auror and you can barely stand on that leg," he scoffed, "You are staying right here, and not going off to play hero only to get yourself killed." he crossed his arms over his chest, and Helen gently moved a braid from Hermione's forehead to calm her.

"I agree with Tom on this one, I'd prefer if you'd stay here," she spoke softly, though her tone booked no room for argument, Hermione was livid, she tore herself from her mother's arms.

"You cannot keep me 'ere, so you locked the floo, I can still 'pparate," she snapped, her accent coming through stronger than he's heard it become in over a year. He watched her eyes widen when she realized she couldn't apparate either, she looked to him pleadingly.

"You set anti-apparition wards? Please, let me out, I need to do something," she whispered, as if hoping to change his mind, and he looked her dead in the eye.

"No."

She lunged herself at him, and he stunned her silently, catching her as she fell. She was clearly distressed and incapable of reason, so it seemed to be his only choice, while Helen looked on furiously at him.

"What did you do?!" she snapped, and he scoffed and ignored her in favour of carrying Hermione to the couch on the far wall.

"Relax, she's just stunned, she's hysterical right now, and it's for her own safety," he replied, as he laid her down, grabbing the blanket from the top of the couch and throwing it over her, before heading back to the desk and dropping himself into his original seat. Helen nodded, calming down, and headed to the bar.

"Drink?" she asked, pouring herself one.

"Sure," he huffed a small laugh, while he adjusted the wards on the property, to not let anyone in or out. They were his favourite part about them, that anyone approaching the manor now would instantly remember something they needed to do elsewhere, and anyone trying to leave will remember something they forgot to do inside the manor. He'd based the schematics off of the Hogwarts wards in that design, so as to not incite panic for when he did activate them.

He'd had to renew the four sacrifices a year to keep them incredibly strong, that not even individuals with exceptionally strong minds would be able to fight it.

Was it a complicated bit of magic that was borderline an invasion of privacy? Yes. Did he care? No.

He didn't want to have to worry about the manor staff going in and out of the grounds, and he didn't need Hermione fighting with him over the injustice of clipping her wings, or whatever metaphorical nonsense she'd use to describe it.

He took the glass from Helen and took a sip of the scotch, giving himself a minute before he would go wake Hermione, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, savouring the burn.

"So, anything else you'd like to tell me about the wards on the manor?" Helen asked and Tom opened his eyes, she had her elbows on the desk, tumbler dangling from one hand.

"Not necessarily, there were some restrictive features, but they are mainly for the safety of the inhabitants of the manor in the event of an attack," he fibbed, he wasn't exactly lying, as in the event of an attack, it would keep everyone safe, that just hadn't technically been the priority when he created the feature.

Nobody could apparate in or out, besides himself, he had control over to floo, he knew who and where everyone was in the manor, and he could prevent anyone from coming or going with the aversion aspect.

"Normally all the features are on standby, so as to not impede anyone, this is the first time I've ever had to activate any of them," he took another sip, he considered what Hermione had said, Grindelwald attacking with his men, how did they even enter the UK?

Perhaps it was a plot to get Dumbledore to act? And if Dumbledore lost, what would that mean for the UK? He doubted everyone would actively give up, and he was generally certain he would be safe, but...he glanced at Hermione on the couch, and tapped his finger against his glass pensively.

"Well, in any case...though I don't approve, thank you, for keeping her here," Helen spoke solemnly, gazing at her daughter, and Tom had to suppress a snort, thinking it must kill her to thank him for anything. Not to mention the idea of her thanking him for keeping her daughter safe, when self-admittedly, he was the biggest danger to her, honestly tickled him.

He didn't think he'd legitimately harm Hermione, of course, he wasn't a complete savage, but he was self-aware enough to know that his quest to have her would be unlikely to end in her happiness, and to be truthful, he didn't really give a damn.

He nodded, accepting her gratitude, before getting up to walk over to the couch, and kneel himself down beside it, as he cast a rennervate on Hermione, watching, entranced, as she slowly opened her eyes, before turning her head to look at him, and she held his gaze for a moment before narrowing her own into a glare.

"Did you stun me?" she asked, almost incredulous before sitting up and moving the blanket off of her.

"Yes, I did, though in my defence, you were being unreasonable," he replied softly, resting an elbow on his knee and chin in his hand. He watched as she looked confused for a moment before springing into a stand and dashing for the floo.

"I have to-" she slowed down as if she'd forgotten her train of thought, before turning and heading towards the door to the office.

"I think I need another book," she said resolutely, and Tom, satisfied, stood and looked towards Helen, who looked disturbed at seeing his wards in action, he returned to the desk and grabbed his glass of scotch before downing it all back.

"I will accompany Hermione to the library," he said after swallowing the liquor, and placing his glass back down on the desk, "I will see what I can find out about Grindelwald as well, and inform you of anything I find," he finished, before turning and leaving the office, following Hermione to the library, and once there he healed her leg and fixed her blue sundress.

He spent the rest of the day with her, while she read and he communicated with his knights via the journal for information. Apparently Dumbledore was going to fight Grindelwald after all, and Tom brainstormed that perhaps it was the perfect time to use the trinket in his pocket.

Hermione had remembered multiple times and tried to leave, but came back each time to the library until she finally retired for the night, and when she did, Tom went back to his rooms to dress in plain black robes with a larger hood, and grabbing his spare Knockturn alley wand, he apparated to a small alley of Little Hangleton village. By staying outside of his wards, he didn't risk the chance of setting them off and alerting his other self when he turned back time, and so, with little fanfare, he looped the chain over his neck, and noting the time at a quarter to midnight, turned the hourglass the appropriate amount, and disappeared.

Themes of extreme violence and sexual content ahead

Rathlin Island / Northern Ireland – August 18th, 1945

He leaned against the wall of the empty house he was currently using, eyeing Kai Fawley who was a bit tied up at the moment. His hands were bound above his head and his toes only barely skimmed the floor, he was spelled silent and immobile, his wand in Tom's pocket. The other wizard glared at him bravely, though he could see the undercurrent of fear in his dark eyes, his nostrils flaring as if he understood what was about to happen. The locket felt heavy on his chest, as if it too understood what would happen tonight, as if it understood that it would join the Gaunt ring as one of his Horcruxes.

"Don't look at me like that, it's truly nothing personal," he paused, before a slow smile crawled upon his lips, "actually, that's a lie, it absolutely is personal, you put your hands on something that belongs to me." It had been too easy, he had travelled to Diagon Alley to around the time he would have still been at Alcazar Deslizan, estimating that Hermione had shown up around three in the afternoon, so he needed to be there at the exact moment Fawley launched her through the floo to implement his plan.

He'd applied his disillusionment and had waited, he had heard from his knights that the attacks and explosions had started further up the alley, so he made sure to avoid those areas. It was half-past two when the first explosion sounded, screams were heard from civilians as pops from apparitions sounded in the air, he vaguely thought he saw a man with spiked white hair and black robes, calmly surveying the damage, but paid him no mind.

Soon enough, Fawley came running through the crowd, half carrying Hermione due to her injured leg, he watched as the wizard became distracted by unaccompanied crying children, watched as he grabbed the floo powder and yelled for Riddle manor before shoving Hermione through the flames, before turning to go to the children, who were obscured by more smoke and running bodies now.

It was a damn shame he never made it to them, as in one breath, Tom stunned him and grabbing his arm, apparated them both away, all the way to this remote island in Northern Ireland, that Antonin had once used for less than legal activities, which Tom had helped him with in exchange for helping make Hermione's gift last year.

"Though I have to say, I'm curious, was fucking her really worth it?" he asked, walking up to him and looking him in the eye, but decided he wanted to hear the words from his mouth, he silenced the house and undid the silencing charm on him, the wizard surely deserved some last words, anyhow.

"You're going to kill me aren't you?" Fawley asked, before his eyes widened in realization, "You're going to kill me because you want her," he continued, and Tom smiled, leaning back on one foot.

"Yes, I do, shame that you have to die, but never fear, your death will not be in vain," he placed a hand over his heart and spoke earnestly, and Fawley scoffed, before licking his chapped lips.

"She doesn't want you, and she is never going to want you, you can kill as many people as you want, but nothing will change that," he spoke lowly, and ice coiled in Tom's chest, as a slow smile reached his lips.

"Oh, we'll see about that, all it'll take is the right amount of manipulation to get exactly what I want," he spoke lightly, thoroughly enjoying the look of alarm on his captive's face, before re-silencing him and grabbing his jaw to make eye contact, "but for now, I suppose I'll have to live vicariously through you." and with that, he tore through Fawley's thoughts and memories.

He stopped almost cold when he came upon a memory from this morning, as he'd recognized her hair and dress, he clenched his jaw in fury at Hermione on her knees, with Fawley's cock in her mouth, those cat-like brown eyes looking up at him, at Fawley.

He fast-forwarded the memory to her bent over the kitchen table, her blue sundress piled up on her back and around her waist while Fawley rammed into her, as she keened and scrambled for purchase, before screaming as she came.

He continued to tear through the wizard's mind for more, like a junkie looking for another fix, or an alcoholic for another sip, and he found so many more, eagerly watching all of them. Memories of them in the shower, of Fawley's head between her legs, of her on top, grinding away, and her on her knees with her arse in the air.

He kept going, uncaring of the blood flowing from his captive's nose, only stopping when eye contact was broken, as Fawley's eyes rolled back into his head. He stepped backwards, panting, wincing at his apparent arousal, so he reached into his robes and tucked himself into the waistband of his undergarments.

He glanced at his watch, noting that two hours had passed and that his other self would be in the library with Hermione still. So, regaining his wits, he decided on what he wanted to do, twirling his spare wand in his hand, before casting a standard bubbleheaded charm around himself, he then proceeded to cast a modified inverted version around Fawley, with a few holes for air, before casting incendio on the bottom of the other wizard's robe.

Apathetically, he watched as Fawley died, suffocating due to the lack of air caused by the fire inside the inverted bubblehead, which also prevented the flames from spreading to anywhere else in the house, and small holes used to feed the destruction with more air, to keep it from snuffing out.

He watched every aching second as skin, muscle, and tendon, melted and his eyes exploded, but all he could think about was Hermione on her knees with this sorry excuse for a wizard's cock in her mouth, rage boiling in his gut hotter than the fire that was destroying Kai Fawley's corpse.

He briefly wondered what his life would have been like had he been like everyone else, with an exhausting belief in the intrinsic value of human life, and being utterly unable to picture it, he continued with his plan. Gathering his magic, he pulled at the severed piece of his soul, caressing it gently while guiding it to Slytherin's locket that was cradled in his hands.

He was dazed to notice that it hadn't hurt so much this time around, and Tom theorized that it was probably because he'd done it before. Feeling hollow, he stood and watched his handiwork, until the fire had nothing left to burn, and pieces of charred skeleton littered the ground. He looked at his watch to see that it was ten at night, he had a little under two hours to get back to Little Hangleton.

He carefully knelt down and laid a scarf down, levitating all remaining pieces onto it before bundling it up, scourgifying the entire house, and double scourgifying the specific area of death as well as himself, before disillusioning himself and apparating to the north shore of the island.

He walked to the small cliff, the wind braying at his robes as he emptied the contents of the scarf, letting the ocean take everything left of Kai Fawley, before burning the scarf with a quick incendio and dropping it onto the ground. He then took out Fawley's wand, and admiring it for a moment, he snapped it in half and threw it in after it's master.

Once he was sure it was all gone, he apparated to Alcazar Deslizan to shower and further destroy the robes he was wearing, as well as leave his spare wand in the small vault in the basement of the castle, before apparating back to Little Hangleton with minutes to spare as his other self disappeared from the small alleyway.

Tom was only mildly concerned that after the creation of the Horcrux, he felt like everything he did was in a blur that he hadn't much control over, however, he decided to shake off the feeling, and tired of apparating, he walked back to the manor. Once back in his rooms, he retired for the night, clutching Slytherin's locket close to his chest, his dreams featuring cracks in the mirror and cat-like brown eyes.

Authors Note: Hope you enjoyed the solo Tom chapter, he's really somethin' else, huh?