PROLOGUE

Summer 1935

It was too dark to see, but he was certain his feet were bleeding.

As Tom ran through the dark forest, he wished that he had enough time to grab his shoes, or even a pair of socks, but his time had already run out by the time his mother's screams had awoken him.

When he had left his room to investigate, Sally, a maid loyal to his mother, had grabbed him and told him to run. "It's too late for Merope," she had said, "but she would want you safe, little one."

Tom wished he could say that he had protested, that he had fought against the idea of leaving his mother behind, but he had run as soon as he understood that he was in danger as well.

Sally led him towards the servants' quarters though to the kitchen. She packed him a quick bag of bread and fruit while his mother's screams and pleas for mercy were still echoing through the Riddle House. Before Sally could even finish, someone grabbed her by the back of her hair and wrenched her around.

"What do you think you're doing, girl?" Mrs. Coulter ground out. "Think you can steal from the kitchens coz the master is occupied?"

"Occupied?" Sally scoffed, the pain audible in her voice. "Is that what you call it?"

"I call it finally coming to his senses." Mrs. Coulter said smugly. "Now, where's the boy? He wasn't in his room."

Tom didn't hear if Sally gave him away or not, as he had already turned and fled the second that he had glimpsed her sneaking up behind the young maid. He had always hated their housekeeper as she had gone out of her way to pinch and smack him at every opportunity when he had been too young to communicate the reasons behind his tears.

It had been a long time ago, but he remembered.

Tom made his way around the servants' quarters a little unsurely. His father had warned him about exploring and he had always been too afraid to go against his commands, especially when his mother didn't speak up for him. Finally finding the back door, Tom opened it quietly and ran out into the night.

Making his way around the house towards the road that would take him into the village at the bottom of the hill, Tom was forced to come to an abrupt stop when he glimpsed the orange glow of flames in the distance. He was about to turn and find a longer way to the village when he heard his mother's shrill scream. Ashamed of his earlier lack of valour, Tom gathered up his courage and started to run again, this time following the group of men that had attacked his home rather than running away from them.

After five minutes, the pain emanating from the soft soles of his feet repeatedly pounding the twig and rock-strewn ground was making his eyes sting, so he felt oddly grateful when his family's attackers stopped their incessant march when they arrived in a wooded clearing.

He was less grateful when he saw why.

He stared at the sight before him in horror, unable to tear his eyes away. Tonight was meant to have been a momentous, if a little sad, family occasion. His father had arranged to send him to Edgewater, his alma mater, and he was due to depart the very next day, leaving before the sun's earliest light.

Which was why he had found it so upsetting when his father had sent him to his room before dinner had even been served, but he had gone without argument, eager to avoid confrontation with the master of the house.

His mother had been less than pleased when she learned of Tom's new school. She had argued and protested but much to her surprise, and to everyone else who had been eavesdropping, Tom Riddle Sr. held his ground with his wife. Tom remembered the defeated look on his mother's face then and thought that it was the saddest sight in the world.

Watching as she was hanged from the giant yew tree, Tom wished he could still say that.

He slapped a hand over his mouth, but he was unable to stop the cry of anguish that came up from his chest. It had arrived muffled, but it still carried over the clear summer night air. A man near the back of the group turned at the sound and caught sight of Tom, yelling for his companion's attention.

Tears streaming from his eyes, he turned and ran as quickly as he could, even though he didn't know where he could go. He had seen the faces of the five men who had killed his mother and they were all people he recognised from the village.

They had arrived a week ago and had taken up temporary residence at the local inn. When his father had taken Tom with him into the village on his usual business, he made the time to meet with the new arrivals, even treating them to lunch. While Tom had been forced to sit quietly at his own table, he noticed the men's eyes flicker towards him, as though wary of his presence.

Wiping his eyes in order to clear his vision, Tom changed course heading for a new goal. He had grown up in this forest and even in the dark he knew it better than the men who had only just arrived in town.

If he reached his destination, he would be safe. They would protect him. He was sure of it.

However, just as he was within sight of it, he felt a large hand grab him by the scruff of his nightshirt, lifting him into the air. This had happened to him enough times that he knew the sensation by memory.

"Father!" He cried in relief. "I thought they had captured you as well!"

Thomas Riddle Senior looked down at his only child with a peculiar expression, certainly one Tom had never seen on his father's face before. He wasn't able to comprehend it before the sounds of running footsteps came to an abrupt stop.

"It's alright," his father told the men, "I have him."

Tom felt lightheaded and the edges of his vision turned dark, as though he was observing the scene from the end of a tunnel. "Father, I don't understand." His voice sounded strange, as though he were speaking underwater.

Thomas flinched at the word "father" and looked at Tom with that same peculiar expression, only he recognised what it was now.

Disgust.

"Your mother was a witch, boy." His father said with forced bluntness. "A servant of the Devil. She murdered my parents, bewitched me into marrying her with demonic powers and held me captive for years."

Tom had remembered the Sunday sermons as vaguely as any boy of eight did and had been terrified of his own abnormalities until his mother had explained that they were a gift. She had also warned him to never tell anyone else, even his father, as they would not understand. As such, he now acted as though he had been ignorant all along.

"I don't understand." Tom tried to look and sound as convincing as possible. "Witches aren't real."

"I wanted to test you at a later date, but your mother forced my hand." His father continued as though Tom had not spoken. "She understood that I was sending you a way in order to deal with her without you needing to play witness. It was only good fortune that my hired hands insisted on spending the night."

Tom glanced around the small clearing and saw that the five men had spread out covering his possible escape routes. One of them carried a sword, another an axe, but the other three carried shotguns like the local farmers.

"You invited them?" The tears were flowing freely now, hot, heavy droplets running down his face. "You hired them to kill mother."

"She was a witch." His father said, coldly.

"She was your wife!" Tom didn't know what came over him, but he hurried forward with his arms swinging, trying to punch his father.

"Control yourself, boy!" Thomas snapped, backhanding his son away. Tom fell to the ground, his head ringing.

"It's better if he doesn't." One of the men spoke up. "When he loses control, we'll be able to see if he's a witch too." He looked at Thomas carefully. "We need to test him, you understand?"

Thomas paused. "What do these tests entail?"

"Pain." Another man grunted. "Lots of it."

Thomas sighed, before nodding. "Of course. Do what you must. I only ask you leave him undamaged if he is untainted."

"Of course." The first man spoke again, the clear leader of the group. "We protect children from witchcraft, we do not harm them."

"Help!" Tom screamed out desperately. He knew what these men, these Witch-Hunters would find if they were to test him, and even if he somehow passed their tests without revealing himself, he knew that only an excruciating amount of pain awaited him if he was left to their mercy. His mother had not minded the gruesome details when warning him of the Witch-Hunting Guild. "HELP ME!"

"What's that?" Thomas demanded. Tom couldn't see his face, but he could hear the panic in his voice. "What's that he's saying?" His words were drowned out by the rising voices of the Witch-Hunters.

"Parseltongue!" One of the lurking Hunters cried. "He's actually speaking it!"

The first Hunter, who was directly in front of the still laying Tom, looked triumphant. "Slytherin!" He spat, before turning to Thomas. "It seems that a test won't be necessary. We'll be taking the demon spawn with us to our leaders. They'll want to examine him-" His next words were cut of by a scream. Confused, the Hunters lurking by the escape routes hurried forward, illuminating the ground with the light from their lanterns.

Adders. Dozens of them.

Tom had first spoken to a snake three years ago, when he met an Adder in this very forest. Eager for companionship, he had brought them the dead mice the staff caught around the kitchens. In time, the local serpents began to see him as a figure of respect, worthy of protection. He had thought it was a nice gesture at the time, but not one he would ever use.

He was extremely glad of it now.

Fleeing through one of the previously blocked pathways, Tom left the Witch Hunters to be bitten to death by a hundred snakes. It the blood loss didn't kill them the venom would. He ran and ran until the sounds of their screams and erratically firing shotgun blasts were distant enough for him to feel safe.

Collapsing on the ground in exhaustion, he trembled in both fear and grief. His feet were numb at this point, but he knew that the pain would come back with a vengeance later. Before he could steel himself and examine the damage on his soles, he heard heavy running footsteps hurrying towards him.

Tom scrambled onto his bleeding feet and ran in the direction of the village, uncaring now if the Witch-Hunters had allies lying in wait. He had gotten close enough that the village's lights illuminated his purser in an orange glow, right before he grabbed him and pulled him back into the darkness.

Tom took a deep breath, ready to scream louder than he ever had before, when he felt the cool steel slip in between his ribs. His eyes widened, as even after the night's events he could believe that his own father would ever stab him.

Looking up into the face that was so much like his own, Tom gave up on despair. He felt only rage now, and a burning need to share his agony. Aside from conversing with snakes, Tom had never been able to tap into his abilities the way his mother had, but now he didn't give the idea of failure a single thought.

Slapping his palms on either side of his father's face, he screamed, "BURN!"

Thomas Riddle Senior let go of his son and began to scream as the flames overtook his entire body. He dropped to the ground and tried to put himself out by rolling on it, but all that did was set the dry grass ablaze as well.

Tom watched from where he had been dropped on to the ground, awash with savage satisfaction as his father burned to death before his eyes. If this was not justice, he did not know what was.

As his father's tortured screams grew raspy and eventually came to a stop, Tom slowly felt his body begin to grow cold. The blood that was seeping from his wound was hot and he found the sensation of it dripping from his skin oddly soothing as his vision darkened.

He gave a weak, sad, little chuckle as he found the idea of his entire family dying on the same night, within the same hour even, grimly amusing.

Just as he was coming to terms that he was taking his last breath on the wild grass beside a lonely country road, there was several cracks! that broke the quiet night air. Under the flicker of his father's burning corpse, he saw a group of five individuals appear from thin air. They were all wearing black cloaks with a large, round, silver clasps.

Despite not knowing if they were friends or foe, Tom somehow found the strength to lift his arm ever so slightly. As one of the new arrivals hurried towards him, Tom allowed himself to succumb to unconsciousness.

Despite the many questions that were asked of him in the years that followed, he never spoke of that night's events.