Hey ho, I have returned, and just in time for Nanowrimo.
Apologies, the last couple of months were terrible. I own a business and we just had so much work to do.
To make up for that, here is this monster of a chapter that was very difficult to write, not just because of the increased workload, but also because of the subject matter. You will recognize some dialogue from HBP, obviously, it doesn't belong to me.
Without any further ado...

WARNING: We are in Hangleton in this chapter. You know where this is going. Also, some offensive and racist language in this one.

August 13, 1943

The next morning Tom swept into One-Eye Joe's den like a stormcloud, razor-sharp focus on a single goal.

He'd been unable to sleep. Nightmares had plagued him whenever he managed to close his eyes for a few minutes, jerking him awake again; the infernal gurgle crept into his dreams as soon as he drifted off, and he cursed himself for letting it affect him so much. Warren's death hadn't shaken him like this. Then again, she was dead before he could fully grasp what had happened, unlike the muggle, who had struggled to breathe while he fled.

The whole night had been a rollercoaster of anger, hatred and exhaustion that culminated in a decision: he had to find out who was behind the attack, and he needed to make them pay, or he would never rest easy again.

The muggles noticed the dark aura surrounding him and gave him a wide berth. Tom made a sweep of the room, trying to figure out if he had managed to kill one of them last night, but all the usual faces were present. However, they looked shocked to see him, especially Crowe, who was pale as a sheet.

That's right, bastards, I'm still here.

Tom marched up to the boss' desk and threw the dagger on the surface with a loud clatter. The muggles froze at his audacity, and One-Eye stared at him coldly.

"What is the meaning of this?" he whispered calmly.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "I was attacked last night."

"By whom?"

"I don't know," he snapped. "It was blackout."

One-Eye appeared mildly annoyed at the outburst. "Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

It didn't even cross Tom's mind to lie. He was surrounded by crooks and murderers that wanted him dead. They had to know he would not go down easily.

One-Eye nodded, and his shoulders relaxed, satisfied by his answer. "Good."

The muggle swept his hand over the table and picked up the dagger, ran his fingers over the wooden handle, the hilt, and the dried blood burrowed in the grooves on the blade. "This is Italian," he grunted with a pensieve frown. "Military issue, probably a former soldier."

Tom frowned. The Italians would not go after him, they had no reason to. He knew from listening to the chatter in headquarters that Joe's superior and the Italians were constantly disputing territory, but Tom was too low on the food chain to warrant an attack like last night's.

"Keep it," said One-Eye, handing him back the dagger. "As a trophy."

Tom stared at the blade, and finally took it back. A souvenir of sorts.

One-Eye stood up to address the room, the occupants still in shock.

"Listen, all of you," he thundered, drawing all pairs of eyes to him. "Those macaroni bastards think they can mess with our lad, but we protect each other. We're gonna teach them a lesson."

Tom nearly rolled his eyes; there he went again with his bloody lessons. The knife might be Italian, but Tom was certain his coworkers were behind it, somehow, and their leader was none the wiser. Maybe One-Eye didn't have as strong a grip as he thought. Maybe his control was beginning to slip, if shooting someone had such an effect on him.

"Tom, ye get out of town for a few days, ye hear? I don't want ye around for this. They're gonna be looking for ye, for killin' one of their dogs."

"I shall make myself scarce," said Tom with a barely disguised scowl. He already had his destination; he'd purchased the ticket first thing in the morning.

Unexpectedly, the muggle turned around and tossed him a few pounds, along with a fresh pack of cigarettes. He'd been planning to steal one for Vera, but this saved him the trouble.

"Buy yerself a ticket, soon as ye can. Scram."

Tom raised an eyebrow at the money. There was enough to afford an inn for a week. Whoever said crime never pays was an idiot.

He made a sweep of the room as One-Eye waved at the others to move out. As he left the building, he crossed paths with Crowe and smirked. Crowe's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. The short visit had confirmed Tom's suspicions.

If in fact the attacker had belonged to the Italian gang, he would have had no motive to go after Tom. Who sent a hitman after an unknown bookkeeper? No, the truth had been written on Crowe's face. They hadn't expected Tom to turn up that morning, they had known something was going to happen the night before, they must have come to an agreement with their rivals to throw attention off themselves. Now One-Eye was going to start a fight with a dangerous gang over nothing.

Down the road, Tom paused to think. If he played his cards right, he could use this blunder as an opportunity to take down two birds with one stone. The police wouldn't raid headquarters; according to Whalley, they were in Spot's pocket, but the Italians were another matter entirely. They were already embroiled in a turf war, all they needed was a little push. The Italians could be the answer to his problem.

They had the manpower to land a devastating blow to One-Eye's gang. They could take out Crowe and the others, and Tom wouldn't have to lift a finger. All he had to do was tip them off about the location of their den. A cleancut revenge.

He smirked. This plan could work.

But first, he would take a short holiday. He'd be going back to Hogwarts soon, and this was the first time he felt he could relax a little. No rest for the wicked, and all that.

The train would leave the next morning, so Tom returned to Knockturn Alley to pack a small bag, and plan his little trip. He took a different route on the way back, as he was not ready to walk by Blackfriars again and see what became of the body. Someone must have found it by now, and Scotland Yard would be on it. Would the Ministry be fruitlessly looking for someone to Obliviate?

Surely the muggles would not be able to pin the murder on him? There was a possible witness but it had been too dark to identify anyone. He'd taken the dagger with him, but if it was military issued then there must be dozens of them floating around the Black Market. Besides, if he'd learned anything from the Chamber incident, it was that law enforcement was always overloaded with cases, so they would look for the fastest solution; they would point to gang violence and call it a day. He'd probably be fine.

For once, it was Tom leaning on the railing later that evening, waiting for nightfall. Part of him had expected to find the Dutch girl there, waiting for him as usual, but that was an arrogant thought, even for him.

His list of tasks to accomplish before summer's end kept getting more and more complicated. All he had wanted was money to survive for a couple of months, and to find whatever relatives he might have left. It was a distant possibility, but a possibility nonetheless.

Now he was plotting the demise of a gang that had tried to kill him.

He sighed. Maybe Stubbs was right and his mere presence did stir up all sorts of trouble.

Whalley had turned to crime. A man had been killed as collateral in his scheme. The gang he worked for had sent a hitman after him as revenge; a rival hitman, probably trying to cover their tracks. Criminal masterminds, they were not. Now the hitman was dead by his own hand, and that had sparked a fight between rival gangs that would not have happened otherwise.

If he was lucky, they would take each other out while he was in Hangleton. But when had he ever relied on luck?

Alas, he would track down the Italians when he got back and give them One-Eye's location. Then he would call it even. Quit while he was ahead, so to speak. Maybe he would even give Whalley a heads up, for old time's sake. This would be so much easier if he could just curse them into oblivion.

Social mores dictated that he should feel… something. Guilt, horror, anxiousness… but there was nothing. Those people had made their choices, just like him. The difference was that his choices were better, and he would outlive them. He would not feel guilt over that.

Tom heard the click of a door, and turned. Whatever it was that Vera did all day, she left her room just as the sun went down, and paused when she spotted him. She looked surprised, but glad.

At least someone was happy to see him.

"Hallo there," she said as she approached. "Fancy seeing you here."

Tom smirked, his thoughts not vanished but put on hold. He reached into his jacket and retrieved the little box that One-Eye had given him that morning.

"Free, as promised," he said as a greeting.

She reached for it with a smile. "And the good brand, too. Where did you get these?"

"I told you, I know people."

Vera took one and offered the box to him. He didn't want to develop a dependency on the things, but one more should be fine. Their conversation should last no longer than what it took to finish it.

"You're home early," she said, while she lit both cigarettes.

"I took the day off," he replied. "I'm going on a little trip tomorrow."

"Business or pleasure?"

"I'm visiting family, actually."

Now there was a sentence he never thought he'd say.

"That's nice. When will you be back?"

"So many questions. I don't even know you," he teased. Two can play this game, Miss Vera.

"Do you want to?"

She boldly leaned against him and ran a hand down his front, stopping at his belt.

Tom caught the wandering hand and twisted it away, not painfully, but firmly.

He wasn't exactly vain, but Tom knew what he looked like. It wasn't uncommon for female students to hound him at school, but none of them were as straightforward as this one. He had to admit it was liberating to know he wouldn't cross paths with her at Hogwarts.

However, he could not be distracted right now. A clear mind was important when meeting long lost relatives.

"Not tonight."

She pouted at him, but relented, going back to puffing smoke with a little smile.

"What are you smiling at?" he asked, miffed.

"You didn't say no," she smirked.

He was used to rebuffing advances, but Vera's confidence was something else. It made him curious. He had to divert the situation before she managed to change his mind.

"As flattered as I would be, I doubt you spend your afternoons waiting for me."

She laughed. "Dear, no. The grouch downstairs needs his money. I'm an intern."

"You work at the Ministry?"

"If you could call it that. I sit in on Court hearings and take notes."

"You're a scribe."

Vera waved her cigarette around, ash scattered in the wind. "My quill is a scribe, I just listen in."

"What is that like?"

She sighed. "Mostly boring: people charming things they shouldn't, breeding restricted creatures, exposure to muggles… they won't let me in on any of the fun hearings because I'm foreign," she added bitterly.

Tom stood to attention. How very interesting; Vera was a potential goldmine of information. Perhaps he'd been too hasty to refuse her advances.

"What are you interested in?" he asked, turning his body towards her. He had to pretend to be interested if he wanted to ask questions without looking suspicious.

Her eyes sparkled, like there was another Vera hiding behind the flirty persona she presented. This was something she was passionate about. "I want to be a part of it, sentencing, defending, even passing laws. Just listening is not enough."

"I'm sure you must be learning a lot, though."

"Not as much as I'd like. I can tell you all sorts about minor crimes, but the other courtrooms…" she trailed off, the light in her eyes dimming. "I'm sorry, I'm sure I'm boring you. I haven't even asked about you," she said, forcing her voice back into a purr.

Tom frowned, almost imperceptibly. Why was she hiding?

"My summer has not been nearly as interesting, I assure you," he replied, dragging his voice as if he were bored. He did not want the conversation focusing on him. "I've been helping some friends with their business, very tedious."

Vera's smile flickered. They both knew he was lying. She'd seen the blood the night before, but she didn't press the issue.

So they were both liars.

No wonder they were getting along swimmingly.

"That's a shame," she said finally, flicking away some more ash and looking away from him.

"If you must know, I have been coming and going from muggle London. There isn't much to see unless you are fascinated by rubble."

"It is dangerous right now," she whispered, her voice becoming serious again. Vera turned to face him again, a hint of the spark returning to her eyes. "We have been overflowing with cases of wizards using magic out there, mostly for protection but some of them are just trying to be nice and repairing muggle houses and things, and it makes everything worse. We are stretched thin."

"How do you deal with all of them?"

"Honestly?" she asked, leaning forward and lowering her voice as if to convey a dark secret. "We don't. We're sending out warnings left and right for the minor ones, and only taking the big ones to court. There's a queue, but it could be months before we get through everything. We try to prioritise cases where muggles had to be obliviated."

That explained why Tom had only gotten one warning. He mulled over her words in silence, wondering how far he could push the boundaries without any real repercussions.

"Three days," he said suddenly. His cigarette was almost gone.

"What?"

Tom turned his focus back on Vera, to find she'd cocked her head to the side and was watching him with puzzlement.

"My trip. I'll be back in three days. Four at most," he elaborated.

Vera smiled, slipping back into her flirtatious persona, but without losing her spark. "I thought we were strangers?"

"I rather think we are acquaintances now."

"Are we?" she smiled. "I'll be waiting."

Tom flicked away the butt of his cigarette. "I'll see you then."

He said good night, so did she. She didn't try to make another pass at him, and he went to bed. Alone.

August 14, 1943

The air was crisp in Great Hangleton. There was none of the London smog that coated everything, and Tom enjoyed breathing in the clean air. Bloody muggles and their pollution. But there was something else in this town that he'd been craving for the past few weeks, and that added a little spring to his step: a sense of normalcy, or as normal as it could be under the circumstances of war, hung in the atmosphere. Stepping away from the strange routine of working alongside muggles was a relief. He'd become tired of the constant stress of looking over his shoulder, and of searching for the signs to the nearest bomb shelter each time he turned a corner.

He'd also managed to sleep on the train, after another fitful night of tossing and turning, fighting off dreams of bloody knives, but this time it was Marvolo holding the slippery handle, and Tom's throat making those awful rasping sounds. It was safe to say that he'd had better days.

Tom didn't know what to expect from Marvolo, but if the looks the residents gave him when he asked about the Gaunts were any indication, something was terribly wrong. They pointed him to the outskirts of town, towards Little Hangleton, but their eyes lingered a little too long after he thanked them, and he got the feeling that it had nothing to do with him being a stranger in their town.

How would the man react when he found out he had a grandson? Would he be able to tell Tom about his mother? Explain why he'd had to grow up in the Muggle world, when he was descended from one of the most powerful wizarding bloodlines? Would Marvolo kick him out of his house, like a stranger?

Did his grandfather even know he existed?

Hope was a dangerous thing. He'd heard people say that hope kept them going, but in Tom's experience it led to nothing but disappointment. It spread like a sweet poison, warm yet paralysing, so he knew better than to indulge in it. Still, it reared its ugly head from time to time.

His thoughts ground to a halt when he came across the overgrown hedges. Almost hidden amongst the trees was a squat house, if it could even be called that. It was so overgrown with nettles and brambles that he thought it impossible for anyone to live there.

In fact, the place looked abandoned, except for a flickering orange light on the grimy window. Tom approached cautiously, raising his lamp ahead of him like a shield. He squinted at a strange shape on the door: it wasn't until he was a few feet away from it that he realised it was a skeletal snake.

"And it's not even Halloween," he muttered, lifting his hand to knock.

The moment he touched it, the door swung in on its hinges. Unlocked? That did not bode well. He shifted the lamp, and pulled out his wand, just in case, before stepping inside.

If Wool's had made him recoil, this place would join his nightmares for weeks to come. As his eyes wandered around the hovel, taking in every disgusting detail, he felt the urge to spell something clean. The ceiling was covered in cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; rotting food lay across the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. And the smell. The only light came from a single guttering candle on the floor, at the feet of a vagrant with hair so overgrown Tom could barely make out the glint of a pair of eyes. He was so disconcerted, that he barely registered the wand and the knife in his hands. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, sending bottles crashing in all directions.

"YOU!" he bellowed, and he staggered drunkenly at Tom with his weapons held aloft.

"Stop."

A simple order in Parseltongue. A gamble, even, based on the dead snake on the door, but it worked.

The man skidded into the table and sent everything crashing to the floor. The noise grated on Tom's ears, but he remained firm, wand at the ready. There was a long silence while they contemplated each other. The man broke it.

"You speak it?"

"Yes, I speak it," he said, stepping into the room so that the door could shut behind him. They were left standing in the yellow light of Tom's lamp. His face remained impassive while his mind went into overdrive, the same way it had when he'd found the orphanage in ruins.

Who the hell was this? Was this the right address? Of course it was the right address, there was a snake on the door and the vagrant could understand him.

"Where is Marvolo?" he asked sharply.

"Dead. Died years ago, didn't he?"

Dead? Tom frowned and inwardly cursed. "Who are you, then?"

"I'm Morfin, ain't I?"

Tom did a double take. The heraldic book he'd found did mention that Marvolo had two children: his mother, and one other.

"Marvolo's son?"

"'Course I am, then…"

Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Tom. He had a ring on his right hand, the only item of any value that Tom managed to see in the room.

So his grandfather was dead. He didn't even have time to process it when Morfin hit him with another earth-shattering remark.

"I thought you was that Muggle. You look mighty like that Muggle."

Tom's heart skipped a beat.

"What Muggle?" he said sharply.

"That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way," said Morfin, and he spat on the floor between them. "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it…. He came back, see," he added.

Tom found he couldn't breathe. He'd forgotten how. Morfin looked dazed, like the drink had finally caught up with him, and he swayed on his feet. The glasses and plates remaining on the table tinkled, drawing Tom out of his trance. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Riddle was not a rare surname, but it wasn't so common either. He took a step forward.

"Riddle came back?"

"Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!" said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?"

Morfin was working himself into a rage again, brandishing his knife and shouting.

"Dishonoured us, she did, that little slut! And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit… it's over…"

The man, this pitiful creature who was his uncle, stumbled again. Tom had heard enough. He lifted his wand and silently stupefied him.

He hadn't been expecting much from the Gaunts, fallen from grace as they were, and they had still managed to disappoint him.

But…

Tom looked out the grimy window. A large house was visible on top of the hill on the other side of the valley. A bloody manor. That had to be the house Morfin meant.

The house his father lived in.

His Muggle father.

His filthy rich Muggle father.

Tom was filled with sudden rage. Here was this man, living his best life, while Tom rotted away in an orphanage. The muggle that had poisoned his bloodline. An unfinished plan tumbled to the forefront of his mind; he'd been meaning to carry it out, what better time than now? It was only fitting that the man who'd sired him would also give him access to immortal life. He made a split second decision then.

Perhaps this little trip would not be a waste after all.

Tom approached the unconscious Morfin. The ring was the only thing of value in the entire hovel, and it was just what he needed. He pulled it from his uncle's finger and examined it. It had a black stone set on gold. It looked ancient, so it must be an heirloom. He scrubbed the surface, polishing it and bringing out faint lines.

"What the…"

A triangle, a circle and a straight line reflected the light on the black stone.

What was Grindelwald's symbol doing on an ancient ring, in his uncle's hovel?

His little vacation just kept getting better and better.

He pocketed the ring, resolving to look into it later, before taking his uncle's wand, and the knife for good measure. He threw the knife away on the way across the valley. He wouldn't be needing it.

Whatever peace Tom could have drawn from the song of crickets and the sound of the wind blowing through the trees was shattered by the sight of Little Hangleton's yellow electrical lights in the distance. They made him anxious. He had become so used to blackouts at night that he felt terribly exposed.

Regardless of his feelings, he reassured himself that the small town remained sleepy and unaware of his presence. He hadn't seen a soul since leaving Great Hangleton, other than Morfin, of course.

The house itself appeared larger the closer he got to it, the expanse of impeccable green lawn around it immense. He could see smaller buildings behind it, a shed and stables, barely illuminated.

It was a handsome manor, four storeys tall, surrounded by cypress trees, with dark slate tiles on the roof, bold stone railings, and large floor-to-ceiling windows that must let the sunshine in during the day. Most of them were dark at the moment, but light spilled from one of them, utterly unafraid of attracting enemy aircraft. The driveway led him to a set of regal oak doors, twice the normal size. The contrast to the Gaunt hovel was staggering, like the world had turned upside down.

With Vera's reassurance in mind, Tom lifted Morfin's wand and unlocked the doors.

The large foyer -only the rich could afford so much empty space- was dimly illuminated by lamps on the walls; it was as grand as the outside, decorated by a large crystal chandelier hanging high above his head. Two curved staircases completed the space, the stone so polished that it reflected the light.

His heart hammered against his ribcage. He could still turn back, no one knew he was there. Determination had spurred him on during his walk across the valley, but now that he was finally here, inside the house, hidden by shadows, Tom paused.

He should just do it and be gone. The ritual was dangerous, but he was confident he could do it. Besides, he needed this. Hadn't he just survived an attempt on his life? He might not be so lucky next time. So why were his hands shaking?

Do it and be done. Anything you cannot sacrifice pins you.

Faint music, voices and laughter drew his attention to the first floor. The rich carpet muted his steady approach to a pair of open French doors at the end of a corridor. Tom had still been a little unsure that the family living on the hill was his father's -Morfin appeared anything but sane- but the moment he saw them, he saw himself.

The older man had broad shoulders, a salt and pepper beard, and deep-set, piercing grey eyes. The woman was blonde, her hair bordering on caramel, and had narrow, icy blue eyes like his own, still stunningly beautiful in her golden years. It was the younger man who gave him pause. He was a mix of both, jet black hair, narrow frame, icy blue eyes, sharp angles on his face: an older version of himself. There was no denying he was related to these three.

He took after the Riddles, rather than the Gaunts. After seeing his uncle, he had mixed feelings about that.

In the moment that it took the muggles to notice his presence at the door, Tom drank in the handsome wooden panels on the walls, the astounding amount of trophies, military medals, weaponry, animal skins, and glass cabinets filled with trinkets. Morfin's shack felt so far away. He snapped his attention back on the muggles when the woman screamed in fright, and both men leapt to their feet.

His grandfather approached, fury, rather than fear, written on his features.

"What do you want? How did you get in?" he demanded, reaching for an old rifle hanging on the wall as he did so.

Tom snapped out of his trance and pointed Morfin's wand at the older man, stopping him in his tracks. "I opened the door," he replied.

The younger man, his father, paled at the sight. "It's you," he breathed.

"Me? Whatever do you mean?" Tom asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. His eyes merely flickering towards the man before going back to his grandfather. The old man was still unarmed but he cut an intimidating figure nonetheless. His grey eyes were glued on Tom, a hunter's eyes.

Seeing that all Tom had for a weapon was a stick, his grandfather recovered his bravado, and reached for the rifle again. "Get out of my house, before I phone the police!"

"I'm not going anywhere, grandfather," Tom said, relishing the look of pure shock on his face. "Kindly step away from that wall," he added, gesturing with the wand. The man had stopped, his fingertips grazing the barrel of the gun. Intimidating as they were, the rifles were probably all unloaded, but Tom wasn't taking any chances after his most recent experience with a muggle gun.

"Grandfather?" echoed the woman in the armchair, still clutching her chest. "Thomas, what is he talking about?"

Tom narrowed his eyes. They didn't know? How very entertaining.

"You should ask him," said Tom, gesturing towards the younger man, frozen in place.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman rise slightly from her seat, while the old man slowly stepped away from his weapons, coming to stand in front of his wife instead.

"Tom… explain yourself!" she snapped, her stern eyes travelling from her son to her alleged grandson, peering at the boy, drinking in his features, horrified realisation filling her face.

The teenager bristled before realising his grandmother was not addressing him.

His father, the older Tom, closed his eyes, refusing to see one of his worst nightmares come to life. "I-I didn't tell you, I didn't see the point."

"I beg your pardon?" she shrieked, making her son flinch.

The old man clicked his tongue and waved his hand, dismissing his wife's outrage with aplomb. "Leave him be, Mary, I told him not to tell you."

"Thomas, you knew?"

"Who do you think he came to when he got away from that tramp? Spouting a load of nonsense about being bewitched, like a madman!"

Tom's head spun as the Riddles, his grandparents, argued over the fact that he existed. He'd heard it said that family reunions were unpleasant, but this was the first time he experienced it himself. The allegation that his mother had somehow bewitched his father was new to him, as well. The man himself was staring at Tom with a mix of horror and fascination.

Tom stared back and narrowed his eyes to slits. "You did abandon her, then," he said, his voice cutting through the elderly Riddles' voices. Morfin had been telling the truth.

"No! No, no, you don't understand, she tricked me!" he cried, raising his hands as a defensive gesture. "She gave me something, I didn't know where I was! I had to get away!"

A scowl found its way to Tom's face before he could stop it. Physically they were nearly identical, but personality wise they couldn't be more different. The realisation filled him with relief.

"What about me? You admit you knew, and you left anyway," Tom drawled as he trained the wand on his father. This was it, the last chance he was willing to give him to come clean and maybe save his own skin. He barely registered that his grandparents had ceased their bickering and were looking at them instead.

His father ran a hand through his hair, suddenly overcome by shame. "I thought it was a lie! Like everything else! How was I supposed to know?" he replied with a hint of desperation, unknowingly sealing his fate.

"You could have tracked her down to see if it was true." Tom kept his voice calm, dangerous, even though his blood was boiling. Anger was predictable, it promised a resolution, and he didn't want to tip them off to his intentions. "I always wondered if you knew."

"Please, I can explain," his father pleaded, glancing down at the wand in Tom's hand.

His grandmother, Mary, stepped around her husband. A big mistake. "Do sit down, all of you, I'm sure we can sort this out," she said, her hands fanning out in a placating gesture.

Tom looked at her. Her eyes were his own, passed on to him through her spineless son. Out of kindness, obligation or survival instinct, she was trying to make amends. She was the only one who hadn't known about him, she had not been given the chance to reject him like the men had. It was a shame she had to go, too. He was still capable of small mercies, though, he wouldn't put her through the pain of witnessing what he was about to do.

It was now or never.

"I'm sorry," he told her in his quiet voice.

And so, his grandmother went first.

Tom flicked the wand at her, and the first Killing Curse he'd ever cast hit her square on the chest.

Mary Riddle collapsed into her husband's arms, and the man went ballistic, frantically trying to wake her up.

"What did you do? What did you do?" the old man cried when she didn't respond, looking up at Tom's resolute face with fear in his eyes. At last, he was afraid.

Tom simply raised the wand again.

Both men retreated with their hands in the air.

"Wait, wait! We can talk!" pleaded the old man, eyeing the rifle display on the wall again. A gesture Tom didn't miss.

"I am done talking."

"Just listen!" he insisted. "There's something you don't know!"

Tom scoffed at the last-ditch attempt to distract him.

"Avada Kedavra."

His grandfather went down too, sprawled next to his wife.

Only one remained. Tom turned the wand on his father, who was looking at his own parents in horror.

In a tremulous voice, he whispered, "Oh God… you're the devil."

Tom smiled grimly. "So I've been told."

"What do you want from me?" his father demanded with a flash of bravery where before he'd only seen shock and shame.

That struck him, it did. What does a son want from his father? Guidance? Affirmation? Love? A home? Money? Honest to God, he had no idea. He wished it didn't sting so much that he didn't know. No matter, soon he wouldn't have to dwell on these things.

"There is nothing you can give me."

His father stood there, breathing harshly, defeated. His eyes, so much like Tom's own, shone with something he couldn't quite place. There was fear, he was acquainted with that, but also… guilt? Resignation? The Muggle knew he wouldn't get out of this alive.

"Don't worry, father. This won't hurt."

A green flash filled the drawing room for the third time that night, and, finally, it was quiet. Clean, reliable magic. No death rattle to haunt him at night.

Quiet enough that Tom could hear the music again.

You make me happy

When skies are grey

He groaned when he recognized the peppy tune, and fought the urge to find the radio and blast the bloody thing into smithereens. Surely, his newly deceased relatives would think it was poor form if he trashed their belongings as well.

You'll never know, dear

How much I love you

His father's glassy eyes stared at him, unseeing. Scared.

He felt a tug of what he supposed should be guilt, like a phantom limb aching after being amputated. He brushed it off.

Please don't take my sunshine away.

Now came the hard part.

Tom used the wand to slash his hand and crouched low to draw a circle of his own blood around him, large enough to fit himself and his father's corpse. He'd read that blood loss would encourage the soul to leave the host, tricking it into feeling like the body was dying, and the circle would contain the magic within it. It was ironic that he had to get so close to death to become immortal.

Next, positioning the body of the victim as an offering, as proof that the toll had been paid. Tom didn't want to touch the man, so he levitated and turned the body until it was facing upwards, like a grotesque puppet. He was certain this counted as gross misuse of a corpse.

Finally, the vessel. Tom knelt inside the circle and fished out the Gaunt ring with the black stone, then placed it at the centre of the circle, between himself and his father.

He looked at his uncle's stubby wand and hesitated. Such an important feat of magic should not be done with a wand that did not suit him. He couldn't risk botching such a dark spell. Circe knew what would happen to him if he did. As he pondered, the infernal radio crackled on.

I'll always love you

And make you happy

If you will only say the same

Tom contemplated the risk of using his trusted wand, an extension of himself, while in a muggle house, versus the risk of using a wand not attuned to his magic, and perhaps being crippled or maybe even accidentally killing himself. Could the trace pick up the use of magic around muggles, if said muggles were dead? The Ministry never did reprimand him for the Wiping Spell, and Vera said they were far too busy to prosecute cases without muggle witnesses.

It really was a no brainer.

But if you leave me

To love another

You'll regret it all some day

He set his uncle's wand outside the circle, and pointed the yew wand at his heart.

Ever since he'd found the spell, he'd practised the words like a mantra, to the point where he could recite them in his sleep. Tom took a deep breath to steady his racing heart, and began.

"Áfise afti ti sárka,

I ora tou teleiose,

Ménete tóra se aftó to skáfos,

Zíse!

Zíse!

Zíse!"

Nothing happened at first, but then discomfort, small like a grain of sand, began building in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and heard the words from that bloody muggle song become distorted and then die with a fizzle and a pop. Even through his eyelids, he could see the lights flicker as magic flooded the room. The grain of sand expanded until it became a burning ball of fire, and he felt his heart seize.

The pain was so sudden and so intense he almost lost his grip on his wand. He'd expected something like this from reading the book, but living through it was something else. He clenched his jaw, in too much agony to utter a sound, and felt something latch on to the tip of his wand. Tom willed himself to pull.

His soul fought back, tattered as it was. The combination of pain and blood loss didn't seem enough to convince it to leave his body.

But Tom's determination was second to none. At last he felt something begin to rip, like clothes coming apart at the seams. The fragment gave way, and he managed to pull his wand away from his chest, pulling along a bright white translucent substance that clung to the tip.

He heard blood rushing in his ears, black spots swam in his vision, and he swayed forward when the fragment finally separated from his body. He caught himself. He couldn't pass out, not now. He located the ring, and touched the tip of his wand to the black stone.

"Epizó," he gasped. "Epizó!"

The substance stood poised in midair, and then latched to the stone with a vengeance. The circle of blood around Tom began to glow a deep red and disintegrate, leaving the floorboards untouched. The piece of his soul forced itself inside the small heirloom, making the rock and metal glow white hot.

Then it was over. His soul settled inside the stone, the ring went back to looking harmless, and when nothing seemed to backfire for a few moments, Tom let out a triumphant sigh.

He blacked out before he hit the floor.

History Trivia

The Riddles: I have this headcanon that Thomas must have served in the military as a young man, like aristocrats usually did in Victorian society, hence all the weapons, trophies and medals on display in their Drawing Room. Most likely African campaigns during the late 19th century, and even during the Great War (WWI to us). Tom Sr doesn't seem to have inherited his father's militarism, judging by how he spent his afternoons riding with dear Cecilia, making fun of his neighbours, and the fact that he was home and not fighting on some front. Ironically, it seems to have skipped a generation all the way to Tom Jr.

You Are My Sunshine: The version in this chapter is the one by Harry Roy and his Band. It was originally written in 1939 by Jimmie Davies and Charles Mitchell, and Harry Roy's cover topped the charts in the UK in the early 1940s, particularly as GIs were stationed in Britain and brought their music with them, so it was rather common to hear it on the radio, and of course it would play just then, because Tom is an unlucky bastard. This particular version is rather… peppy. Which is odd, considering the lyrics. You can listen to it on YouTube, you'll see what I mean.

Troublesome Vocab

Macaroni: An offensive word for Italians used in the 40s. My Italian hubby found it hilarious, which is the only reason why I went ahead with it. Apologies to any Italians that might be reading this, I swear I love you, and it is not my intention to insult anyone, these characters are just awful people.

Additional Notes

Horcruxes: Oh boy. I gave this a lot of thought, because the diary is so iconic. I know it was supposed to be the first Horcrux, but the more I read about them, the less convinced I became that it met the criteria. The process for a Horcrux requires deliberate murder.

By Myrtle's own admission, she appeared to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, rather than being actively targeted by Tom. She walked out of the stall to yell at him and then… she died. Sure, she wouldn't have died if Tom hadn't released the basilisk, but the first time we know of that Tom actually set out to kill someone in cold blood, it was his own family in the summer of his sixteenth year; judging by the scene in the book, Tom had no idea that he would find his father on the night he set out to find Marvolo, so killing him must have been a spontaneous decision. It makes sense to me that this is when he checked all the boxes to create his first Horcrux.

As for the spell, it is Greek, as Herpo the Foul probably created it. I don't speak Greek so I had to rely on online translators, but if any of you do, it'd be lovely to know if it's written correctly.