Laughter could be heard in a room nearby, and the clink of silverware against dishes. Tom steadied his breathing and tried to be as quiet as he could as he walked through the living room. He slowly crossed the Oriental rug, stopping only for a moment when it creaked in the middle, then continuing.

There was a fire burning in the fireplace, and across from it, a couch beside a coffee table. Some newspapers lay on a large, comfy chair positioned in the corner, next to a radio. Portraits littered the mantelpiece. Tom stopped for just a moment, to stare briefly into an old, black-and-white photograph. There were three people, all of them dressed formally. A broad-shouldered, balding man stood proudly with an arm around his wife clad in extravagant jewelry. Tom's eyes fixed on the small boy in front of the couple, with a mop of dark hair, a small smile, and grey-blue eyes... So that's my father. As a boy, with his family. How sweet, he thought, his lip curling. Rotten, muggle pigs. Yet he continued to stare at the picture intently for another very long moment, until finally he tore his gaze away, letting his eyes drop instead to the crackling fire. The dancing flames were reflected in his glassy eyes, and they seemed to burn.

After what seemed like ages, Tom reached the kitchen. The three people sitting there looked up suddenly from their food and stared first at the spidery white hand that appeared against the doorpost, then at the wet, bedraggled young man that emerged a moment later, framed in their doorway. The white-haired woman at the table shrieked, dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter and clutched at her husband beside her. The third person at the table rose from his seat and yelled, "What the hell are you doing in my house?!"

Tom made no answer except to toss his head back, flinging his wet hair out of his eyes. Sweat and rain mingled on his resolute face as he took a slow, threatening step forward, rolling back the sleeves of his robes.

"Get out or I'll call the police!" cried the man.

"No you won't," said Tom calmly.

"To hell I won't," muttered the man, rushing to the phone.

"Imperius!" shouted Tom, holding out his wand. The man stopped in his tracks, unable to move under his own will. "That's better," Tom smirked, releasing him again. The older couple made a sudden sound, as if they were trying to get to their feet. "Sit!" yelled Tom, and they obeyed.

"Who are you?" hissed the man, fists clenched, after a moment of taught silence.

"What, don't recognize me... Father?" asked Tom silkily, arching an elegant, black eyebrow. "Surprised to see me?" he continued, seeing the bafflement and horror spreading over his father's face. "Bet you never thought you'd see me again. Bet you thought you had gotten good and rid of me." Tom walked in closer, his voice falling to a whisper. "But I guess it's like they say... What goes around, comes around."

Tom Riddle Senior looked shocked, as his mind placed the pieces together. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying desperately to think of something to say. "What's that?" taunted the young man. "What were you going to say? You'd best speak up, Father!" He turned his piercing gaze upon his father's dark eyes and whispered eerily, "You're not... afraid, are you?"

He was afraid, and alarmed and confused a well. There was something in the way this dripping-wet boy looked at him that made him shiver. Yet, if he truly was his son, he shouldn't have anything to fear. Should he? "Well... Why...? What are you doing here, boy?" he managed at last, attempting to maintain some authority in the situation.

"Why are you here, Father?" Tom shot back. "Didn't you have a wife to look after? And, oh yes--didn't she have a son? Why was it you left her again?" Tom asked innocently, as if genuinely curious. The man made no reply. "Hmm? Could you explain that to me, Father?"

"It's... It's complicated."

"Enlighten me."

"It didn't have anything to do with you and... and... You wouldn't understand. There's... It's..." A thin, dark eyebrow rose on the boy's face and the man began to cough. He made several attempts to get words out before finally stammering, "I--I was afraid. She... What was I supposed to do?! She was a witch! She lied to me! How could I trust her? She had no right to deceive me like that! I-"

"So you abandoned her because she was a witch." Tom interjected, his voice emotionless.

"Maybe the only reason I married her at all was because she was a witch!" he shouted. "She surely must have had me under a spell or something! I mean... Don't you see? The things she was involved in! Devil-worship and the like! Sacrificing cats to make spells! She was probably plotting to kill me and use my bones for some potion!"

"Liar!" shouted Tom, dropping his expressionless mask in an instant. "Fool! Don't speak of what you do not know, you ignorant bastard!" He paused for a moment, the expressionless mask falling back into place, as the man fell silent and compliant. Tom was outraged at the stupidity and brashness of this man who had supposedly sired him. "You will sit, Father."

"I wish you'd stop calling me that," the tired man muttered under his breath.

"What--father?" asked Tom with a hint of disgust. "Why shouldn't I call you it? It's what you are. Or are you just afraid of that too... Afraid to be called father? Ashamed?" He snorted, and smirked at the man before him, before continuing, his voice a venemous whisper. "Be afraid, muggle. Be ashamed." Tom inhaled deeply, then spoke again, his voice louder. "You will sit." The man stumbled nervously to his chair.

A tense silence followed as he sat nervously at the dining room table and watched the pale, slender boy standing before him. He had never expected to ever hear from this boy again, this reminder of another life long past. It was like seeing a ghost. "You... You look just like her, you know," he said. "It's uncanny." The boy just stared at him at first, eyes widening in disblief at his impertinence.

"How dare you talk about her so casually!" the boy bellowed. "As if none of it ever happened! As if you hadn't killed her!" Tom was screaming now, and he paused, swallowing as he bit back the tears. "And don't try and tell me you didn't kill her -- she would have lived if you had stayed with her, I know it! You weakened her! ...And then she died. Because of you, I have no mother." He paused for a second to catch his breath. "And now, it's your turn."

He held out his wand and whirled to the left, pointing it at his grandmother. "Avada Kedavra!"

Thomas closed his eyes to block out the sudden flash of blinding green light filling the room. Slowly, he opened his eyes to stare at his mother's limp form being weakly supported by his father. What had just happened? What was that light? The tall, blue-eyed boy--his son--was talking to him again.

"I didn't have a father either, you know. You might as well have been dead."

"No!" cried Thomas and his father at once, comprehending now what was happening, but the boy would not be stopped. A second green flash followed and the eldest Riddle froze, dropped his wife onto his lap and fell forward, smashing his head onto the fine linen tablecloth.

"What did you do to them?!" cried Tom's father.

"Nothing that should concern you too much," said Tom casually.

Inside though, he was trembling. He had just murdered his grandparents. It had been so fast, so impulsive, he had barely even felt it. The job's not done yet! So he continued, not even a hint of his inner turmoil apparent to his father.

"I didn't think you were the kind of person who cared much about people dying. It didn't much matter when my mother died, now did it? Wouldn't have mattered if I had died. In fact, I'm sure you hoped I did die," said Tom, speaking rapidly, encouraged by his own words, moving closer as the man backed nervously away. "I was after all, just a pebble in your shoe, a taint to your memory, a smudge on your name. Oh, the humiliation!--a wizard for a son, good God!--what to do?!" he mocked. "Well," he continued, resuming his own tone. "I'm afraid that doesn't go one-way. You're the smudge on my name, you filthy muggle!" he spat. "You're the stain of my heritage which must be wiped clean and obliviated. I'll not be called a hypocrit. And we both know it's not as if you don't deserve it. You had it coming to you, and you know it. Them too," he added, gesturing to the recently dead Senior Riddles at the table. "Seeing as they raised you..."

The man just stared in horror at his long-forgotten son, not knowing what to do or say. The boy wasn't making sense, but his intent was quite clear. The fullness of his situation was finally sinking in, as he leaned his back against the wall, beaten, cornered, flustered. He glanced at the lifeless bodies of his parents nearby, then back to the strange, wild-eyed boy advancing, and terror ran through him. This was it, this is how it woud all end...

"I'm... I'm sorry," he whispered desperately, trembling, and tears began to run down his bloodless face. "My son... Please... I'm so sorry."

"So am I," said Tom whispered, almost without thought. His voice hardened. "But regret doesn't change a thing I'm afraid, and it's far too late to change anything now. It's gone too far now, there is no turning back. Don't you see that?"

This was it. He was really going to do it. He had to. Tom inhaled deeply, attempting to stop his body from trembling. Whether it was from uncertainty and fear or from the thrill of his own power was impossible to say. "Goodbye Father. Say hello to Mother for me." The man's eyes widened but before he could say or do a thing, Tom had lifted his wand loftily and uttered in barely above a whisper, "Avada kedavra."