She seems surprised. Then her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
"We're not buying anything, young man." Her voice though not sharp has a scolding quality to it. I'm a little surprised, but not much. It never occurred to me that they would think me a common peddler. But the cook can wax philosophical on the rigors of being in the Riddles' employ. So I am prepared.
"That's convenient, ma'am. I'm not selling." I'm still looking into her eyes, which are still red-orange from the sky behind me.
"What is your business?" The wind gusts again, blowing her hair back and rippling my shirtsleeves uncomfortably.
I smile. "Family business."
She cocks an eyebrow at me, not entirely hostile, yet shrewd. Even…challenging.
"What is your name?"
"L—" I look into her eyes and revise my strategy. Something tells me that dropping the name "Lord Voldemort" here will do me no good. "Tom."
The eyebrow inches higher. I'm beginning to consider pulling out my wand again. More wind, another once-over from eyes that now change from red-orange to deep brown with their movement.
"Come in."
I blink, not quite believing how easily I have gained entry.
"Do you wish to stay in the cold, Tom? Come in." And she steps back, motioning me inside. I follow, vaguely suspicious but unworried. These are only Muggles, after all; they cannot pose any real threat. Still, I cannot believe an obviously wealthy family like the Riddles would take in any stranger off the street. The woman, who I know must be my father's mother, offers no explanation. She merely looks me over, purses her lips, and leads the way further into the house. I offer no facial expression in return. I owe her nothing.
As we walk along the hallway, I try not to let my eyes wander. Wealth. Yes, this family has money; the décor here is no more impressive than the décor at Hogwarts, though. But somehow the money needed, the money hoarded, to furnish this house hits home to me now.
Anger. But I keep it in check. Soon. So soon, and I tremble (but not really)…
As my father's mother walks ahead of me I realize she has a slight limp. She favors her left side. But she walks forward, erect; I'm beginning to find her slight swaying unsettling. She pauses outside a frosted glass door and pushes it open by a silver handle. Whoever heard of a door this ornate inside? It serves no purpose. I would not waste wealth on such trinkets.
The door opens and I am admitted. Now there are two new people to occupy my attention, and with some relief I focus my eyes away from the old woman (she did, after all, think me a common peddler). There is a peculiar tense, thick and cold feeling in my mouth—like the after-effects of nausea. Two men. The one on my right is silver-haired and silver-bearded, plump, wearing an expression of old-money snobbery as he looks me over. He sits on a plush and expensive chair. I look into his eyes, unblinking, until he drops his gaze to his empty lap. And then…I taste bitterness as slowly so slowly I turn to look at the man on my left.
"Tom, state your business," says the woman brusquely from my right shoulder. I look back at her.
"My business is with Tom Riddle." I point to my left, hoping my finger is somewhat accurate.
"Who the devil are you? I've never seen him before in my life!" I sense that the last was for his parents' benefit, not mine.
"This is a private residence, young man. We can't have the whole county come gallivanting in at all hours!" I regard the old man coolly, letting him finish his rant. He looks into my eyes, then down again at his lap (the eyes of Lord Voldemort are cold and indomitable). "Ashley," he says, and shoots a nasty glance at his wife, "why'd you let him in?"
The old woman's face doesn't change, but there is a touch of impatience in her voice which I'm not sure is directed at me. "You haven't stated your business, Tom."
"Hang on a moment," says Tom Riddle. "What's his surname?"
"You've been asked a question."
Her voice is like her face, too rounded off to be sharp and yet hard as stone.
"I haven't."
"You're not here to play games, young man. Answer the question."
I feel my mouth turn up in a smile.
"Riddle."
"Hang on," cries Tom Riddle.
"What is he on about? Ashley, please escort Master…ah…him to the door." This whole family has the annoying habit of addressing each other instead of me.
"You say your name is…Tom Riddle?" says Tom Riddle, and finally and slowly I turn my head to see him, and the bitterness in my mouth redoubles.
He's redheaded. I note this with some surprise; I have never before imagined my father with red hair. His face is red too, and he has…freckles. I almost laugh, but my inner gauge warns of a ruined moment. His eyes are large and green and narrowed at me, his nose long and straight and wrinkled in thought. He is thoroughly detestable. I wonder if my mother ever danced with him. I bite my lip and will myself to remain on task. It occurs to me that Ashley Riddle hasn't yet escorted me to the door. Or attempted to, at least. She moves forward now, nearer the two men.
"Tom," she says suddenly, and both I and my father snap to. I grit my teeth. "Young man," she says, pointing at me, and I note with annoyance that her voice has taken on an imperious tone. "Turn around for me." I blink and she does not, still sticking me with her deep brown eyes.
Whatever this Muggle woman's game is, I'm not going to play. I'm here for a purpose, and I'm not going to follow along like a child obeying Mummy.
"Turn around in a circle, now." The childish part of my mind shouts a challenge, but I clamp down on it—she's a Muggle, and of no consequence. She is my father's mother. She's not blinking.
I begin to wonder whether or not I appear childish now. Her eyes flash brown fire, and I wonder how long we have been deadlocked like this; I note without moving my eyes from hers that the red sunlight on the far wall has mostly disappeared. This serves no purpose. I assume a mocking smile.
"As you wish, Mrs. Riddle," I say, and raise my hands in a placating gesture.
"You'd do well to treat my wife with more respect, boy," pipes the old man, red-faced by this point. I note that his protestations are growing louder with each turn.
I smile again, and slowly turn on the spot, the room spinning full-circle around me; old woman, old man, young man (his youth surprises me), wall, window with blinding view of sun, wall, door. Old woman, rounded features flattened; biting her lip, left middle finger resting lightly on her temple. She looks at me with…resignation?
"Tom," she whispers, looking almost weak. She shakes her head, lowers her hand, deep eyes hard again. Her voice is strong again. "Tom—you said nothing—nothing about a pregnancy." I want to blink, but I restrain myself as I meet her gaze. The old woman's figured it out.
"What is this?" the old man shouts in my ear, and I can tell he's standing up by this point. "Boy, I want you OUT of my house—now!"
A sharp intake of breath from behind me, from my father. I turn to look at him, no longer smiling. There's a look in his eyes like a trapped animal. Surprised, yes, surprised to see me (surprised I'm still alive?). Yes…but he knew. A dagger of ice hits my stomach as I look into his eyes, and I know—he abandoned my mother in full knowledge of her pregnancy. Of my existence.
He knew. I'd always suspected—always been nearly sure—now it's fact.
I'm going to kill him tonight. And I'm going to laugh (I wonder with what feeling he regards my mother and me?).
"Who?" I hear my father's mother ask.
"Julia," says my father. Julia. Yes. That was her name.
"That tramp?" interrupts the old man. "This boy is the son of—"
"John, don't speak ill of her in front of her son," says my father's mother, the sharpest I've heard her voice yet.
"Julia…" says my father in a whisper. I look at him. His eyes are still afraid, but there's a wonder in his eyes. "Julia…she named you 'Tom'?" He looks at me now, looks right at me for the first time. His eyes meet mine. Those cold green eyes. I wonder what my mother saw in him.
"Tramp—running around town—causing problems—poor little beggar—and now HE shows up on our doorstep—"
"John!"
"She wanted his money, you see. All she wanted. Get herself pregnant, make him owe her something—stupid boy fell right into—"
There is a minor fight going on behind me. Though I continue to watch my father, I listen. His eyes are focused on the combatants.
"Good for nothing—poor girls—prostitutes—"
I grit my teeth and nearly reach for my wand. But no—not quite yet. My father jumps back as though slapped, but says nothing. Interesting. I wonder if he saw my reaction.
"John, her son—"
"Son of a bitch!" ("John!") "Just standing there—back to us—no respect—turn around and look at me, boy—this is what happens, Ashley; this is what happens—"
She takes in a sharp breath, cutting him off momentarily. I see my father lean forward with interest, and I wonder why.
"John," she says, quite firmly and loudly, "John—you will sit down."
"I will do no such—"
"John! Sit down!"
"I WILL NOT TAKE ORDERS FROM—"
"YES, YOU WILL!" she thunders suddenly behind me, and despite myself I take half a step forward and away from her. I turn to watch her, interested.
"JOHN. You will sit down NOW. I will NOT stand for more of this insulting talk about our grandson's mother." All smoothness is now gone from her face; all that remains is the hard marble I saw before. And for it all I cannot help but think that now, in the height of her passion, she is unaccountably beautiful. I glance behind me and see my father standing up now, his face shining with something that looks like triumph. Interesting.
"I will NOT let you throw him out of our house," continues my grandmother in her terrible voice, and I turn back around to look at her. By now she has my grandfather completely cowed. He is sitting in the chair again, looking at her with an expression of amazement. And fear. "We will LISTEN to him. Now, Tom, how is dear Julia these days?" Her voice is suddenly so very caring.
I blink, nearly shake my head but catch myself in time (Lord Voldemort is never caught unawares). Out of the corner of my eye I see my father sit back down again, eyes on the floor. I ignore him. I look into her eyes, deep brown now, and laugh wryly.
"Dead," comes my short response, and I watch with amusement as she recoils.
"Dear," she whispers, finger to her temple again. "My dear…when is the funeral?"
The silence behind me is earsplitting.
"Seventeen years ago," I say, and without warning I feel the bitterness welling up, the same bitterness I taste when I look at him, the same bitterness I've held back for ten years. "She died seventeen years ago, when I was born. She died in childbirth."
The bitterness is in my voice now, and I can see it impacting her, as if it were a physical thing. As if she could be borne backwards on a wave of my anger. My chest heaves, and I breathe in harder. I feel my jaw borne upwards on a wave of sudden, freeing hatred; my chin snaps up and my eyes blaze.
"She's dead. I never knew her. I've grown up in an orphanage; I've lived there seventeen years. All I ever knew about my mother the nuns told me. She lived just long enough to name me. Marvolo after my grandfather. And Tom—" my jaw clenches—"Tom, after him." I practically spit the word as I gesture violently at my father. "Riddle—after him."
"Tom—" That was from my father. I whirl around—is he trying to address me?
"Tom Marvolo Riddle."
"That's my name, yes," I say savagely. He looks at me, really looks at me for the second time. Then he looks down at the floor, and my throat unaccountably seizes up. How dare he not look at me? And how dare he look (after what he put me and my mother through)?
I feel my grandmother's hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off violently and step back to look at her.
She seems almost hurt. Tentatively, she steps forward, looks as if she's going to put a hand to my face. Fortunately for her, she does not. I'm vibrating with rage by now (I can feel the magic surging within me).
"You—"
The wall behind her is painted in a deeper red, now. Authentically the color of blood.
"Tom—I can tell you're Julia's son."
My father looks at her with interest. My grandfather buries his face, shaking his head.
"You have her eyes."
I look up at her now, her face bathed in the sun's unnatural glow. She's lying, and as I meet her gaze she smiles apologetically.
I don't have my mother's eyes. I have her eyes. I take another step back.
"I can tell you're Julia's son," says my grandfather, looking up again suddenly. His eyes are beady with hate. "By pure genetics. You're both—"
"Hush," says my grandmother simply, and he falls silent again, though grudgingly so.
I have my grandmother's eyes. My father's build. But thank god I don't have anything from my grandfather.
This is all so unreal, so utterly unlike anything I had imagined. Those long nights when I stayed awake in my dormitory, plotting the moment when I would kill Tom Riddle; those nights in the past few weeks when I lay in my orphanage bed, the increasing proximity of my seventeenth birthday filling me with a restlessness I could not sleep through. Unrest, and energy, building up to a climax necessarily world-changing. It will be. But here…tonight…I have not lost my anger, and it is for this that I remain sane.
"Tom…" my grandmother begins again, and trails off, watched in every miniscule movement by her son. I glance at him now, and he meets my gaze quickly before shifting his eyes to the window. The old woman looks at the floor, and at the old man, before she finally gets around to looking at me again. And I understand.
She will ask me to live with them. She must. Everything in her family consciousness is leading her to ask me, whether her husband wants it (I've come in the past few minutes, however, to doubt his importance in family decision-making), whether her son wants it (so the order of things is giving him the run-around too, in the end), whether she wants it.
She must ask me. And the Rules of Family record that I must say "yes."
"Tom…"
If I don't meet her gaze, I've found she hasn't the strength to finish the sentence. I'm looking at my father now, at the red-headed brute tracing a seam with his finger.
"Young man…"
Ah, so I'm "young man" again and not Tom Riddle. Her voice is gaining back some of its hardness. Its cold stone strength.
According to the rules, I must say "yes." But Lord Voldemort has his own set of rules.
I will not answer. I will simply kill her.
A hand on my shoulder. Again? My father looks up, and in the light I can't tell if he's looking at his mother or at me. The blood-red sunlight is giving way to a dull orange glow, and it is this glow which hits half my father's face, leaving the rest in shadow. I shrug off my grandmother's hand. A more engulfing blackness fills the bottom half of my father's face, and I stop still, watching, heart pounding.
"Tom—" ah, but he has only opened his mouth. "Son."
Were I not Lord Voldemort, I would be seriously tempted to retch in the middle of the drawing room. By what authority does he draw the right to call me "son?" To even address me? I've spent four years looking for this bastard, and here I am being interrogated by his snobbish family, being made to look the fool in the middle of their ornate drawing room, interrupting their tea—or whatever it is that rich snobbish people are up to after dinners—enduring terms of endearment from the man I most hate, as if it were a sentimental moment from the cinema—
"Tom, will you stay with us?"
"Ha!" I choke out a laugh, my first reaction, my only possible reaction. The bastard asks me himself? It's hilarious! After all this time spent searching for him, planning to find him, to kill him, plotting revenges until I cried myself to sleep at night from the sheer righteous anger, he asks me to live with him!
"He spits on our hospitality!" cries my father's father, and suddenly he's found something he's allowed to yell about. I feel the concussion as he leaps to his feet. "This bastard son of a bitch is laughing at our kindness! He's trash! Ashley, throw him out now, I will not tolerate his like on our premises!"
My grandmother's hand is absent from my shoulder, and I feel the cold of the room in its place. The light is gone. My father's face is in darkness, so I cannot see his reaction. The bitter taste in my mouth is back. It's spreading down my throat and to the tips of my fingers.
"Young man, you'd better leave," says my grandmother simply, and that, that, is the breaking point. How she dares—
I am Lord Voldemort now, and so suddenly my movements change. They're surer now, confident, practiced. I take a large step toward the window and spin around, so as to frame all of these Muggles in my line of vision. My wand is out of my pocket before I quite know it and in my hand, vibrating gently to the rhythm of the magic within me (though of course no such rhythm exists).
Her voice has regained its hardness, the matter-of-fact manner with which she dismissed me as a common peddler. "Young man—if you're going to be childish—"
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
A rush of green light, a sudden strobe flash of the room. My grandmother, frozen in mid-reproof, eyes just glassing over; my father, eyes wide in horror (he knows); my grandfather, seemingly just confused.
She never finished her sentence.
I pause, taking in a deep breath as the magic replenishes. So silent, so still, this scene I have created.
My grandfather cuts and runs for the door. He is down in a flash of green light before his hand even grasps the silver knob. Lying dead as if he were a runner too exhausted to finish his race.
And now my father. Tom Riddle.
The silence lapses into long seconds, broken only by the sounds of breathing. Strained, shallow breaths from him. Deep, even and measured from me. We gaze at each other (though the darkness is nearly complete).
"Well," he says, in a tone at once resigned and accusatory, "what are you waiting for?"
"Your last words."
I hear a low, mirthless chuckle. He's laughing at me!
"Who exactly do you think you are?"
"I am Lord Voldemort," I tell him without thinking, and the anger flares throughout my body, from my heart to my arms and my legs.
He chuckles again. I draw myself up. He's going to say something else; he's drawing in a breath. Perhaps a curse against my mother, against me, a plea for mercy—
"Yes, Tom—you're from my family alright."
I draw in a deep breath, his laughter ringing in my ears. Laughter! He's mad; he's insane! What kind of lunatic laughs at his own death? The sound grates on me, brings the anger within me up in a crescendo until it is nearly unbearable.
I don't remember actually killing him.
When the green light fades he is dead, on the carpet, and my wand is hot with use. I take another deep breath, calming my shaking hand (amazing I could even aim my wand. But then fate is kind to Lord Voldemort).
I leave the room, tripping over both my grandmother and my grandfather as I make my way to the ornate glass door. In the hall I pause, closing the drawing room door behind me, closing in the scene that will greet whichever servant comes in tomorrow morning to tidy up. The front door is to my right.
I turn to look around me, to look at the wealth hoarded by this family of Muggles. Tapestries on the walls. Mirrors with ivory and gold trim. A glass-and-silver door indoors, for god's sake. Various pricey ornaments on the walls. I step closer to a rack of the knick-knacks, and pick one up in my hand. It's a gaudy little elf figurine, complete with a plump face and green trousers. I look around at the others on the shelf: all ugly, kitschy little baubles like this one. My grandmother's collection, most likely. I replace the elf and step back, folding my arms around myself to keep out the cold. The sun has gone down, and I can hear the wind outside whistling, bringing ever closer that bank of clouds in the west. I turn left and begin walking down the hall, taking note of all the things I pass.
Further down the hall I encounter the kitchen, the abode of the darling cook. My stomach rumbles, and it occurs to me that I have not eaten since morning. With my wand I quickly make myself a sandwich. I select a place at their small, shabby kitchen table (the servants, apparently, are the only ones around here who have to settle for less than perfect). Then I remember the shelf of knick-knacks and I remain still for a few minutes, eating until I have finished my sandwich.
I get up and leave out the hall door. I walk down the hall, toward the front door, passing with only a brief glance the glass-and-silver passage into the drawing room. I open the front door with my wand and close and lock it behind me. The Muggle police investigators will have fun with this one.
It's raining now.
It's dark, and that cloud bank from the west has apparently set in, though earlier than I'd expected. I'm not wearing my robes, in my attempt to blend into Muggle society for a time. I pocket my wand and move out from under the porch awning, folding my arms in front of me to get a little protection from the cold and wet. My legs are too light. My arms too. Despite the cold, I move with so little resistance.
The rain falls around me with a slight pattering sound.
I turn around and look back at the house from the front yard, finding it barely visible in the darkness. I wonder if my mother ever stood here and looked up at my father's house the way I am now. I feel a slight twinge in one hip, as though it were beginning to be arthritic. Then I turn for the backyard and a few minutes later I melt away into the forest, hearing the murmuring of graveyard spirits in the moving trees.