DISCLAIMER: Tom Riddle, Thomas Riddle Sr., and many concepts are not mine, they are J. K. Rowling's. Eva Meredith and family are, so don't copy, please. The Reminisce is sole property of Magic Gerbil, who gave me permission to use it. Oh yes, and I'm well aware that Tom Riddle Sr. is a creepy, arrogant jerk. I think that's it.











"Qureshi's fair, though," Tom told her.

"You," Becca growled, "Are not the one cleaning frog guts off of the floor. So don't bother telling me that ANYONE is fair."

Tom sat on one of the desks, swinging his legs over the edge cheerfully as he watched Becca. She was on her knees on the floor, scrubbing hard at the ground with a steel-bristled brush. Frog innards, enhanced by the potion Becca had inadvertently tipped over, had several distinct magic abilities, and one of them was the amazing power to adhere to almost any surface. At the moment, they were clinging determinedly to the floor.

Becca had three days of detention as punishment for Tiny Tim's mishap, three days of doing various odd jobs for Professor Qureshi after school. The little woman would look up at her student, stone-faced, and give minute instructions on how Becca was to spend her hour.

Today, it was frog's guts. Tom had opted to keep her company, an ostentatious show of solidarity. Really, he was doing it because he thought it was funny to needle Becca a bit. She understood his sense of humor, though, and took it in kind.

"Look, Tom, can't you bother Braden? I'm kind of," scrub, scrub, "busy."

"Braden's no fun to bother," Tom whined, "He just ignores me. Besides, it's like kicking a puppy."

"So you bother me instead," Becca said. It was not a question.

"Exactly!"

"Thank you SO much, Lord Voldemort," she said sarcastically.

"Eh," Tom said, "It's weird when /you/ call me that.... I take it back. Just stick with Tom, okay?"

"Will do," Becca replied, and sighed. "This is taking forever.... You could help, you know."

"I know," Tom said cheerfully.

"But you're not going to, are you?" Scrub, scrub.

"Nope. It's more fun watching."

"Then leave?"

"We've been through this already, Becca."

"Yes, but it's almost like you're gloating that it wasn't /you/ Qureshi's punishing."

"Would I do something like that?" Tom asked, his face the perfect picture of angelic innocence.

"Yes," Becca said, with conviction.

"Well, maybe I would," Tom said blithely. "But you'll just have to put up with me."

"I could find a new set of friends," she challenged, still scrubbing.

He snickered. "Yeah, like Trahaearn and Decker? Somehow I don't think they're your types. You're stuck with Brad'n me."

"My future is bleak," Becca said morosely, "Scrubbing floors eternally while Tom Marvolo Riddle is ironic to me."

"It could be worse," he said, with a bad attempt at consolation, "You could be Malfoy's little sister."

Becca shuddered, accidentally splashing cleaning fluid mixed with frog intestines upward, "Now that's too morbid, even for you."

Tom made a face. "Aren't you done yet?"

"No, I am not," Becca said, "And I will not be done if you continue talking to me."

"Okay, okay, if it means that much to you, I'll shut up," Tom said, the look on his face showing clearly that he was making a sacrifice, and that Becca should feel special because of it.

She rolled her eyes and went back to work, yet again.

Bored, Tom pulled the necklace from the pocket of his trousers. He had discovered that the deceptively delicate looking silver cage around the central circle was impossible to bend or break. Now he could put it in his pockets without worrying about the jewelry being ruined. It was a comforting weight. Something about the tiny ball tickled his memory, but he still couldn't figure out /what/. Infuriating, frustrating, but Tom was unable to do anything about it.

Until Saturday changed things forever.

*

The Slytherin Common room was, despite its somewhat gloomy appearance, a hub of social activity. Scott Seeley and his Beater girlfriend, Tab Kingsley, were as usual the center of attention; the crowd of older kids swirling around them repelled the antisocial trio of Tom, Becca, and Braden. It was difficult to find a place that wasn't shoved full of students, but eventually Braden had an idea: the boy's dormitory.

"I shouldn't really," Becca said uncertainly.

"Oh, come on," Tom said, "It's not as though we run around naked in there."

"And everyone's in the Commons," Braden pointed out.

"No one will know," Tom said cajolingly.

"Well...."

"There's a nice comfy chair," Braden said, "It's better than the ones in the girl's dormitory."

"How could /you/ know?" Becca said, raising an eyebrow.

"Umm.... Lucky guess?" he hazarded.

"Right," she replied, "You've convinced me. Let's go."

They made their escape silently, down the stairs, unnoticed. No one was going to bother with a bunch of stupid first-formers, anyway. None of them felt like talking, but it was a comfortable silence. Becca sat on the chair, forced to admit that it was indeed very comfortable. Braden flopped on his stomach across his bed, the curtains pulled away so that he could see out. Tom leaned against the wall, looking at the violin.

"Play something for us," Braden suggested.

"Sure," Tom shrugged. He reached out and picked up the violin case, lifting the clasps carefully. He tuned it, but there wasn't really any need. Resting the instrument on his shoulder, Tom decided to try playing "Greensleeves." He'd just learned it recently, and the rendition was a hesitant and unsure.

Becca's eyes lit up as she heard the opening notes, and grinned. "I have been ready at your hand / to grant whatever thou would'st crave," she sang. It was not a technically proficient voice, but wasn't unpleasant to listen to, either. "I have waged both life and land / your love and goodwill for to have—" She stopped as Tom abruptly dropped the bow onto the floor. "What happened?"

"It—the necklace!" he exclaimed, fishing in his pocket and putting the violin one-handed into its case. Becca leaned forward to see as he drew the chain from his pocket, something falling out as he did. It was the golden ball that normally rested inside the silver cage – the cage had popped open on secret hinges.

Becca didn't know what to say. "Is it.... Broken?"

"No, I don't think so," said Tom, holding the ball in trembling fingers. "There are tiny buttons on it."

"Oh!" Braden said suddenly. "May I see it?"

Tom handed over the golden sphere. "Yeah."

"I know what it is," Braden said, with the comfortable knowledge of one who came from a pureblood wizard family, "It's a Reminisce."

"A Remi-what?" Becca asked.

"A Reminisce," Braden said again, handing it back to Tom. "They're cutting edge wizard technology. This's a really expensive looking one, too, they're more money if they're smaller."

"But what /is/ it?" Tom wanted to know.

"They record thoughts, and you can listen to the thoughts later on...."

Tom blinked. "So.... If this was my mother's, I could.... I could hear her voice?"

"Yes," Braden said. "Look, I'm going to leave. Wouldn't want to intrude."

Becca nodded agreement, but she reached out an arm to touch Tom's hand. "If you want to talk to us, you can," she said, unusually empathetic.

"Yeah," Tom said, barely hearing them, "Yeah, all right."

*

It took Tom several minutes to figure out how to use the Reminisce. There were four buttons, one that turned it on, one that turned it off, and two to direct through the different 'entries.' There weren't all that many of them recorded. He pressed the first button, and a low hum emanated from inside of the ball. Next Tom flicked back to the beginning of the memories, and then pressed the 'on' button again.

A soft voice filled his head, high pitched and almost girlish. "Mum," he whispered. And he listened.

*

Mother bought this thing for me. It's almost ludicrously ornate, very fancy. It practically screams, "I cost a lot of money and the Merediths can afford it." It's almost as though she wants me to remember: you are Meredith. You are the Heir of Slytherin. As if I don't deal with that every single day without her reminding me.... It's a trap being a Meredith, a cage, albeit one with golden bars. You and your destiny, inseparable.

I don't think she understands me very well. To her, I'll always be the Odd Child, the one who shouldn't have been born at all. The replacement for her beautiful dead son who was supposed to be the /real/ Meredith heir, the one who was to be the greatest wizard of all time. Greater than Salazar himself. But instead she got me, pale, thin, Eva, a disappointment and a dreamer.

It's a strange situation competing with a dead sibling. There's the guilt, of course, and the strange sense of the surreal that you're striving for parental affection with someone who is now no more than a picture enshrined on the wall and mortal remains encased in a coffin.

My. How morbid, and on my sixteenth birthday, too.

*

There was a pause in the Reminisce, as though it were waiting for Tom to digest this information. He listened to the first entry again. The bitterness in his mother's voice surprised him – Tom always saw her in his mind's eye as a smiling presence with a ready hug and kind word. He knew nothing of her family except that they were rich. But – Heir of Slytherin?

It was heady stuff for a boy with no family in contact. He dove into the memories again, and that lilting musical, cynical voice.

*

The last day of Hogwarts. They're crying, almost all of them, the tears streaming down their faces in sentimental lines. Not me. The only joy that Hogwarts holds for me is the fact that now I'm leaving. And the fact that I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams, beyond anyone's wildest dreams. First a prefect, then Head Girl. Top of the class. Ice-queen Eva Meredith, brilliant and cold.

I can see Mother in the crowd of parents watching us go up for our diplomas and wizarding licenses. Even now she doesn't look proud of me, her only child, and when I've worked so hard for her approval. Marvolo is asleep in the chair next to her. He hasn't even bothered to look up the whole time. She's watching me, though,

There's nothing for me in the magical world now, is there?

No school. No friends. No lover. No mother.

I'm faceless.

*

11th June, 1924. Dear Diary.

I've never started any of my thoughts that way, but it almost seems as if today I should. After all, isn't that what giggling teenaged girls write/think when they've met a lovely bloke?

It's strange, how I met him. 'Him' is Thomas Riddle, an utterly charming and utterly chilly young man. Only I, the black sheep, would even think of being in such a place – a Muggle dance hall, doing the Charleston and the Jitterbug and other imported dances from the Colonies. It's a scandal for the family either way you look, especially since it's a /Muggle/ establishment.

Perhaps I should recount the night? It's an utter blur of dances, lights and alcohol, but a pleasant one. Certainly preferable to the traps at home. In the Colonies women like me are termed flappers, half in disdain and half in admiration; a generation of young women who couldn't give a damn what other people think of them. Some of us do it out of a perverse sense of mischief, and others, like me, do it to thumb our noses at our families.

This is my revenge for being the unwanted child – now my mother can't even brag about me at parties. What /can/ she say to Lady Ashton when she brags about her son's accomplishments in the ministry? She certainly can't say, "Well /my/ daughter is smoking, dancing, and perhaps even drinking cheap gin." It wouldn't sound /right/.

Oh yes. Revenge is sweet.

But – a return to the topic at hand. Thomas Riddle.

I had been taking a break from the dance, seated at the bar – with a small glass of gin in hand, of course, and an affected look of disinterest in the proceedings around me. Twenty-one and unmarried, it's old, I know. And then, I saw a man approaching – and I'd never seen anyone like him.

Pale, almost ivory toned skin contrasted sharply with inky blue-black hair. Unlike many of the men there it was not slicked or oiled, just fell smoothly along his skull. His face was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. The most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Dark, soulless eyes, somewhere between brown and black, straight nose and sardonic mouth.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, in an almost absurdly courtly manner. And I did. And we danced.

I can tell he's not a /good/ man. Something about the eyes and the arrogant set of his lips, the callous disregard he has for anyone's feelings. Just from that small conversation I can tell. But by the end of the night, I'm sucked under that spell, I can't do anything about it, and I find myself agreeing to see him again.

More scandals for Mother to hide from her friends.

I think I'm falling in love with Thomas Riddle.

*

Tom blinked as the memories paused again. His father sounded almost exactly like him in looks, although from his mother's description, Thomas Sr. seemed an absolute pillock. It was hard to picture Eva Riddle as a flapper, but Tom could understand her feelings of being penned in, and her need to escape from the prison. He sighed, chewed absently on his lip, and pressed the 'forward' button.

Memories flicker by. Dances. Gin. Thomas Riddle's face, as he courted her relentlessly. And then—

*

Mummy, I've been a bad girl.

I'm lying here on the bed beside Thomas, and he's sleeping. He looks so innocent when he's asleep – cliché but true. None of that nasty contempt for the world is visible, the hard lines on his face have smoothed out.... He looks so /young/.

He says he wants to marry me. He says he loves me.

I don't know whether either is true. Somehow.... I don't know if it's possible for Thomas to love anyone except for himself. All his life, people have fallen for him, fallen hard, men and women, not even in a romantic sense – there's a cold charisma in his face, in the way he holds himself. There's an uncomfortable feeling when he watches, like he's looking through you. You don't matter.

I know it won't work. He despises anything that isn't normal. I'm not normal, though it's easy to forget sometimes. I'm a witch, remember? If Thomas finds out.... Well. I wouldn't be surprised if he killed me. I'm in another trap, but this one I don't mind.

I've been in love since the day I met him. Me. The ice-queen. It seems so long ago. And it scares me.

I clutch the Reminisce (how I hated it at first – now I confide in it shamelessly) in one hand, and the other arm is thrown over his bare torso. Thomas stirs and smiles at me. Warm – the first time I've seen warmth in his face. "Put that trinket down," he orders, rolling over onto me, voice breathier now, "And I'll show you how much I love you."

*

It occurs to me that Thomas and I are very much alike. He's told me about his parents, yes, with the ice-hate in his eyes. How they belittle him constantly, don't believe that he'll ever amount to anything. His father the worst, taunting his son, calling him horrible, horrible things. We whisper to each other in the dark, letting our hatred bleed out and into each other.

He knows how I feel about /my/ parents. I haven't told him the magic-secret yet, all he knows is that the Merediths are a very old family, and that I've got a legacy to live to. He can relate perfectly, the Riddles are their own twisted form of aristocracy in the town of Little Hangleton, vampires ruling over cowed villagers. At least, that is how Thomas portrays them – if he knew what vampires were actually like he'd probably lose control of his bladder.

But no.... Knowing Thomas, he'd probably just grab a stake and coolly dispatch of it.

He tells me he's never confided in any one before, not like he has with me. Am I that special?

Does he actually love me?

Careful. Take care, Eva, that's the danger, the uncertainty of knowing or not. Safer just to believe that he doesn't actually love you at all.

That way your soul is still your own.

Who am I fooling? I lost mine long ago.

*

I can't believe I'm doing this. I must be, I must be insane.

But no, it's happening, unusually brisk March and I'm standing before a somber little man in a too-large black suit, one that hangs off of his chicken limbs comically. A minister, he calls himself, but a shady one at that: an expert at performing weddings for brides who are already pregnant and keeping it quiet, for a reasonable price, of course. Thomas has already given him the 'insurance,' as it's so blithely called.

There are no friends here, because neither of us have friends.

There are no family, because mine cut me off when they found out I was marrying Muggle, and his because they just can't be bothered to leave their village.

We only have each other, Thomas said, although I know that we also have the tiny boy quickening in my stomach. Soon he will kick me.

I'm wearing a dowdy dress and clutching a bouquet of wilted flowers, the Reminisce beneath my fingers. It's not how I imagined my wedding would be, but it will do. Thomas is mine now, and he mine, forever and always, for richer or poorer, or whatever the trite words which the chicken-man stumbles over are.

"You may kiss the bride," he stammers, and Thomas leans over and pulls me to him, hands digging into my arms as though he's angry or afraid I'll escape. A brutal kiss, one of possession, not at all the usual wedding fare. Behind us the minister coughs uncomfortably and looks away, but I can't see, can't see anything; the only things filling my vision are Thomas' eyes, looming large before me.

*

Oh. God.

Oh.

God.

Jesus.

Mother Mary, help me.

....God.

....someone.

My life is in tatters, in ruins, because of a stupid mistake. I thought I'd thrown away the wand, I thought I could be normal, I thought that Thomas and I could be happy, but oh I was stupid, oh how utterly stupid to tie myself to a man like Thomas Riddle, a man like....

I'm running, I don't know where to, all I have are the clothes on my back, the violin, and the Reminisce in my hand. How could it have happened? How could I have let it? (Thomas, Thomas, no, I love you, please no—/please/) Not only is my life in tatters, but my mind is too. How could I have let myself turn into this sniveling ball of jelly? Think, think how it happened.

A ladder – no, stepladder, to reach a glass in the cupboard which I was not tall enough to grasp. It slipped on the waxed floor as Thomas walked in – I could hear his pained shout – "NO!" – but it was too late. I think, now, that it would have been better if I'd really fallen and broken my neck. But there is still, inside of me, that odd quality that makes me a witch.

I floated.

In the air, suspended as if on an invisible cushion, unharmed but sobbing wildly. I stood and rushed towards Thomas, my arms outstretched for comfort, and—

"Get away from me," he said coldly. "Now. Step back, you bitch."

I couldn't—wouldn't—couldn't believe. "Thomas?" Quavering voice. So unlike mine, tinny and faraway.

"You filthy lying bitch," he repeated, biting on the words, carnivore speaker. "You filthy lying /witch/."

"I—" But I can't explain. I could never explain.

"I can't believe it," he says, as I stand there stricken. "You've been /hiding/ this the entire time—the entire time?!"

"But Thomas—I—I love you! /Please/!" Ragged voice rips from my throat.

"Get out. Get out now. I don't ever want to see you again."

I can feel the baby in my stomach, squirming, as if he knows what's going on. "Thomas, the, the baby, what—"

"I don't care what happens to him. As far as I'm concerned, he's just as much of a freak as you. OUT! GET OUT!" he shrieks, handsome face contorted with rage, mottled purple and red and unpleasant.

And here I am, running, running. To where, I have no idea. But away. Away from that life. Away from Thomas.

/Thomas/.

*

Tom paused the Reminisce as soon as his mother's thought-voice stopped. He was shaking, his hands vibrating with fury. He wasn't crying, but the raw emotion of Eva's loss resonated in his chest. Thomas Riddle – what a complete /bastard/. Words could not express the—the anger he felt. Rage. How could she have named him after that slimy /dog/? It boggled the mind, and Tom was, for the first time, ashamed of his name. It was, with effort, that he forced himself back to the Reminisce.

It would be painful.

*

The first happiness since the....accident.

I hold my tiny son, blue-black fuzz already beginning on his head, and whisper softly to him. "I will never leave you—" hold him tighter; "Never leave you."

He burbles and coos at me, and the nurse at the hospice smiles down at us. "And what will you be naming him, miss? I wouldn't ask so soon, only it's rules. Is he.... going to have the father's name?"

"Yes," I say with sudden vehemence, "He is a Riddle. My son is Tom Marvolo Riddle." Not Thomas – too painful. But maybe with Tom, he won't embody the smugness of his father. I can call him Tommy. Tommy darling. A good name.

"As you wish, miss."

Tommy tugs on my hair, soft cries demanding. I place him to my breast, and he drinks his first meal. His eyes are so blue – like mine, but his face is a tiny copy of Thomas', at once a pain and pleasure. He will grow up to be a handsome one, will my Tommy.

Where to go from here, where to get my money – that does not matter.

Not as long as I have Tommy.

*

I didn't think much of it.

Just a small cold, a tiny virus. I could sweat it out.

No need to pay money for a doctor.

I need to save all of that for my son, for when he grows older.

I know that won't happen, for I'm dying. I can feel the life seeping through my nostrils and mouth as I breathe, warmth siphoning from my body. Dying, dying. It would have been a relief, except for my Tommy, left alone in the world. Poor Tommy. He never really knew me. But the time we had together, he will always have that. I smile, a happy thought in the gloom.

Tommy, this is my last will and testament. I've made arrangements with a wizard named Sawyer, whose mother owns an orphanage. He will take care of you, Tommy, and he will make sure you get the Reminisce and the key, in the violin and Greensleeves. I'm proud of that spell.

When I'm gone, I'm sure you will figure out how to open the locket and read my memories. The last years of my life recorded for you to see – isn't it funny, my life is ending at twenty-three. I'm only twenty-three. Still a child, in many ways.

I know I'm rambling, but I can't help that. I'll always love you, Tommy, and I'll always love your father. Don't.... be too angry at him when you're older.

It was just his way. Nothing....personal. I wish I could see him again. Kiss him again. Have him love me again.

My branch of the Meredith family is directly descended from Salazar Slytherin, the founder of Slytherin House. You will understand this when you are older. It enables you to do many things. You will be able to talk to snakes, and control the monster in the Chamber of Secrets. You must find the way yourself, but once there you will instinctively know what to do.

You are from a proud lineage, Tommy, and I want you to be always proud of who you are.

And remember, please, that I love you. It's not my fault that I'm dying.

Love.... you....

*

The Reminisce was motionless and silent, and so was Tom Marvolo Riddle.