August 13, 1943
The sunset melted into gold and gradually descended. Darkness and shadows clamoured happily, expelling the last halo of the day; the blood-red across the horizon was the final sacrifice of light. Once dark, the demon's most rampant moment would be ushered in.
Riddle House wasn't far from old Gaunt Shack; but if Riddle House was the most lavished and beautiful, then Gaunt's Shack was the most broken and dirtiest. The walls were covered in moss, window sills overpopulated with nettles, and the shabby railing looked like it'd break with a single touch; the dead snake nailed to the door was too dirty for its colour to be recognised, and it's staring eyes were extremely strange. The shack was indeed old, dirty and broken, but at least they had a place to live in.
Tom Riddle smiled, approaching the shack with a glow around his handsome figure. This could've been an ethereal scene, but because of those blood-red eyes, he looked like the Grim Reaper who just arrived from hell.
"Come out." Tom Riddle stood at the door, the cold and hoarse language of Parseltongue slithering from his lips. Slytherin's bloodline had generously given him the privilege to use this ability.
"Why are you here again, bastard?" His worthless and ugly uncle opened the door; nostrils flaring, he angrily picked up the rusted axe by the door and viciously hurled it. " You're just a dirty hybrid, what right do you have to speak Parseltongue?"
"Your mother, that idiot, was supposed to become my wife. We would've had the perfect descendants, instead of a bastard like you!"
His bloodline generously gave him abilities, but not a title. They were connected by blood, but the people who should've been the closest to him excluded him; treating him as an outsider. He should've belonged to both wizarding and muggle worlds, but instead, he was isolated; abandoned by both.
How funny. His mother didn't want to survive for her newborn-child, his father would rather the child not exist, both his father and uncle called him a bastard, and the one who raised him was a time-traveller who left...
The sunset sank beneath the horizon; behind him was the occupied town of Little Hangleton. Tom couldn't help but laugh as hard as he could, his hands under his brows.
See, he was just like a rat who survived. But he was Tom Riddle, the descendant of Slytherin.
Innate pride and defiance didn't allow him to grieve; instead, it made him hide any fragile emotions and immediately directed him to strategise with murderous, crazy vengeance.
The Slytherin who had abandoned all humanity would not lose his way, would not hesitate, and would not get frustrated. The attendant of hell happily opened his mouth, waving his wand like death's sickle; but he couldn't let him die. He wanted him to bear the boundless despair and fears brought by the Dementors.
His stupid and fragile uncle didn't even need much magic to be subdued. Tom stepped on Uncle Morfin's hand, his eyes set on the stubby, dirty fingers where a glittering ruby ring was prominently placed.
"Don't even think about it, you motherfucker!"
"This is Slytherin's, right...?" The light had been completely extinguished, but the boy's dark eyes were glittering like gems - what should've looked bright and beautiful were obtrusively horrifying and scary.
"Then that means it belongs to me; the bastard."
"No! It belongs to me!" Morfin cried out vindictively, staring dead-set at the boy, his words cold and cunning. He spat out like a curse, "Your shameless mother already took the Slytherin locket, and now you want this too? Don't even think about it!"
Haha. Guard your pureblood Slytherin lineage against the Dementors in Azkaban instead, my... Beloved uncle.
There could only be one heir to Slytherin.
Tom raised his hands to knock Morffin down and ripped the ring off from his finger, accidentally taking a piece of flesh with it. He threw it away in disgust. Picking up the wand from the ground, he began to incant the False Memory Charm.
"My beloved uncle, repeat after me: I killed the Riddle family."
"I killed the Riddle family. "
Tom played with Morfin's wand and skilfully proceeded with his plan. Wasn't he already an expert at framing others?
The Riddle House, which was only two or three miles away from the old Gaunt Shack, was brightly lit, the rooms within as bright as day. But the light emitted from the bulbs were weak and hollow, and couldn't resist the darkness that had fallen upon the earth.
"Today was a good day. I picked out three pieces of jewellery." The make-up covered Lady Riddle shook her arms, showing off her beautiful and expensive jewellery.
Old Tom coldly snorted, roughly cutting into the steak on his plate. "If it wasn't for that bastard, I would've also had a good day."
And then Death came.
The three different-looking but equally snobbish individuals looked at the boy who suddenly appeared in their living room, looking as if they'd seen a ghost.
"Piss off!" Old Tom shouted. Every time he saw that face, so similar to his, he'd remember how he got fooled by that lowly Gaunt woman. He was a squire, whilst she was just the daughter of a madman.
"Why'd you come again? For money? I won't leave even a single cent for you!"
Hah, even if he gave up all his possessions Tom wouldn't offer a shred of mercy.
He didn't need a father, didn't need an uncle, didn't need anyone related by blood. Just Harry was enough.
"Go to hell." The gentlest yet most cursed smile spread across Tom's lips. He lifted his arm, the tip of his crimson wand flashing green - such a strange phenomenon made the three Riddles suddenly feel an ominous sense of death. "Avada Kedavra."
"No, no!"
Although Morfin's wand didn't belong to him, he still used it with great skill. Even so, this was the first time he'd used this Curse. He killed countless people but was never the one to lead them directly to their deaths - the men who sank to the bottom of the cave were killed by the Inferi, Mylene was killed by Karkaroff, whilst he, at best, was just a murderer.
Old Tom died under his son's first Killing Curse. How ironic; he gave him life, yet he also became the first skeleton under his wand.
Tom watched Old Tom's panicked expression solidify, and the smile on the corner of his lips grew; his strange expression and widened grin almost made the two remaining individuals in the room collapse.
Tom approached them step-by-step, watching with extreme pleasure as the two people shrunk in the corner as they screamed and trembled; giving them time and time again, the most horrifying shock.
The Slytherin's reason was filled with the sense of killing; his intense sorrow could only disappear with their lives.
From now on, there would be no second Tom Riddle.
From now on, Tom Riddle would only have his adoptive father.
Say, Nagini. What if he doesn't come back?
Would he still choose to come back?
2001
"Harry, have you decided?" Hermione looked into Harry's green eyes. "He's already made the Horcrux, and his hands are already dirtied with blood. Even if you go back, it won't help. Do you... Still want to go back?"
Harry tried to refute, but sadly discovered he couldn't find the evidence to. After a long silence, Harry scratched his messy hair. "I must finish what I've started; I've already taken care of him for over a decade. Besides, he's almost twenty. We still have a mission to complete, haven't we?"
"This is the last jump after all." Harry rubbed the silver hourglass, eyes glimmering.
After such dignified words, he couldn't let the truth escape - his reluctance.
He watched Tom grow from a half-meter tall child that could only clumsily hold his wand, to a teenager that could skillfully wave it; and he was there for him when he was feeling sad, angry, happy and joyful... Before time-travelling, he might've been able to indignantly swing his fists and yell 'I hate Voldemort!' for he was just a symbol; a symbol of evil. But once this symbol becomes flesh and blood, with tears and smiles, and stays with you for more than a decade, would you still be able to eliminate him with indifference?
Tom was just a sixteen-year-old boy.
Just like any parent to their child, he'd become angry and want to leave; however, once that anger passes, he'd still cheerfully embrace that child.
Harry flipped the hourglass.
When he appeared in Godric's Hollow, night had already fallen completely; every house was brightly lit within, looking a bit like **.
Harry looked for the familiar path and followed it to his house.
The lights weren't on; from the courtyard to the rooms, everything was dark and silent except for the abruptly flashing lights in the background. Harry stood by the door and knocked.
But when his fingers touched it with just a little push, the door squeaked open. It was unlocked.
Harry stood there for quite a while before he adapted to the darkness; the room was almost completely buried in it.
"There's no one home?" The young man murmured. Light shone on his figure from behind, not missing even a single strand of hair, and fell into the gaze of another person in the room.
Tom was sitting behind the couch, surrounded by darkness, staring at the young man bent over his slippers; his eyes suddenly burst with resentment.
He's back.
Every cell within him urging him to step forward.
So he obeyed it and stood up from the couch; he strode away, stepping out of the darkness, and embraced his true father with hands that had only just cast the Killing Curse.
"Tom?! You scared me." Harry looked at the child, whose head was on his shoulder, and couldn't help but reach out to rub Tom's silky hair.
His mother didn't want to live for him, his father didn't accept his existence, and his uncle called him a bastard; but someone was willing to jump through time and space for him, no matter his purpose.
Tom wouldn't tell Harry how wronged and sad he was, for in a sense he simply didn't think he possessed such cowardice - he just held Harry, his arms around the young man's waist, and buried his head into his shoulders, breathing greedily.
There was a saying.
I would always meet the most beautiful surprises in my deepest despair.
When nobody else accepted him, there was always someone there who'd open his arms for him.
It was a pity the Devil couldn't be reformed.
A Saint would repay those kind to him, a human would remember, and the Devil would imprison.
