CW for everything Merope did to Tom Senior, and for the way people have always reacted to victims of SA

.

There isn't disgust in the eyes of Tom Riddle Senior. Nor disappointment nor remorse. There is nothing that indicates he is angry to see him.

There is, however, fear.

Tom is used to fear. He's gotten plenty of it in the orphanage and tidbits of it from his retinue. He's never expected to receive it from his father, of all people. Looking at him like he's a ghost, like he'll snap at any second and bite him. Consume him like some great beast.

His father's eyes are brown.

It takes everything in Tom not to strike the man down where he stands. Demand explanations. Reparations. Closure. His magic bathes him in killing intent and he knows Ximena feels it. The bellicose cloud that surrounds him. That reminds him of his mother, so young and angry in the memory of his uncle.

It's only the man's raw anxiety that keeps him from attacking.

The smile Tom forces on his face is tense. More like a grimace. His father is sandwiched between Mary Riddle and an older man, who is looking at Tom in a much less enthused way than she.

Thomas Riddle shakes his hand, brisk. Detached from the situation. His introduction is brief, and he tells no stories about his family lineage or of all the things he expects out of Tom. He does, however, appear to be strong-arming his son into being here: his grip on Tom Riddle Senior's sleeve is tight.

When Tom's father speaks, it's without eye contact. It's with discomfort. Disbelief. Confusion. He's being held together by the thinnest of threads and is only barely managing to keep from scurrying off to hide in a dark crevice.

Rather than look concerned, the Riddle parents look disappointed.

"You're…Here…" His father swallows. "You…You're…"

"I am your son." Tom manages not to seethe. Not to tremble or stutter. His chin juts out. All it does is make his father deflate. Look defeated.

Mary Riddle whispers, "He looks just like you, doesn't he?" into her son's ear, but this doesn't seem to affect him. All he does in response is flinch.

Thomas Riddle scrutinizes his grandson. "Mary tells me you're at a private preparatory school, boy. You're a prefect?"

Tom doesn't give a shit about upholding his perfect, good boy persona right now, but he bites his lip and nods through the condescension. Firm and subdued. Thomas Riddle looks mildly impressed. Perhaps he thought Tom illiterate? Or mad?

They try talking like this. One big family, in the sitting room together. But it doesn't work. It's not even a parody of a happy family, it's a mockery. Thomas and Mary Riddle try to push their son to talk and engage, but nothing works. He looks completely detached from the moment. Somewhere else. Thinking.

Mary Riddle changes tactics, placing her hand on her husband's and clearing her throat, "Why don't we allow you two to get to know each other?" She looks at Ximena expectantly. Ximena doesn't move.

Tom speaks pointedly, "I'd like for her to stay."

He ignores the look of conflicted relief on his father's face.

"Ah…Very well." Mary Riddle smiles, though it doesn't reach her eyes as she and Thomas Riddle move towards the door.

Silence pilfers the room.

Tom Riddle Senior is trying desperately to appear normal. Like all is well and there's nothing to be upset about, but he is a failed actor. The man cannot stop shaking from nerves and Tom can't stop shaking from anger. His only respite is the cushion of serene magic emanating from his companion. He wonders what his rage feels like to her.

"I don't want tea." Tom cuts in, watching his father clumsily attempt to serve and offer it to the two of them. "I want answers."

With a sharp intake of breath, the man spills the tea in his cup on the tray, on the floor. His body language is closed and awkward and he looks nothing like the young boy within Morfin's memories. In the still photos on display on the mantle. There's no boyish charm, no confidence, no ego. Tom's father is a broken man. Did his mother do that?

"Answers…" His voice responds, low and whispered. "... Is… Is your… Is she…?"

"Dead." Tom cracks his jaw, patience thin. "She died giving birth to me."

Sincere shock. Bemusement. Disbelief. Tom can't say he doesn't disagree, until now, he didn't think something as ridiculous as childbirth could take out a strong, capable woman (much less a witch), and yet…

His father's shoulders relax, just the slightest. He lets out a slow breath. "Dead." Said like he doesn't believe it. Like he's processing being told of his terminal illness or an unavoidable meteor coming towards Earth.

He doesn't look back at Tom but rather stares at his feet. "Are you…like her?"

Tom's nostrils flare, "Like what."

Ximena's hand on his again. He relaxes his fist. Clears his throat. Presses his lips together. Answers. "Yes."

Fear again. He's so tired of it. He's imagined his father's face for so long and not once has it had fear on it. Not in his imagination. Was it so much to ask for pride? Want? Care?

Briefly, he wonders what he would have done if Ximena's reunion with her father had gone similar. Would he have tried to comfort her the only way he knows how?

"Did you know?" Tom demands, his emotions rising, "Did you know she was with child when you abandoned her?"

There's something he can't read on his father's face. It flickers between anger and regret. Confusion and disbelief. Tom hates it. He wants the security of a firm black and white answer. The knowledge that he's allowed to despise the cowering man before him.

"No."

His wand flicks out, and as if on instinct, his father recoils. He knows what it is, or at least what it can do. That it has power. That it's more potent than any fists or guns. Tom lifts his father's chin. Forces eye contact.

…His father's mind is so full of pain and hurt, that it makes Tom almost retch. It almost makes him want to snap right out of his head and curl up somewhere dark to hide. It is all of Tom's darkest days and all of Tom's grey days. All of his lonely days, all of his hopeless days. Every single one of those terrible, awful, no-good days rolled up into a single mass. Too heavy to lift. Too large to avoid. All this he finds within his father's head. His memories.

Tom Riddle met Merope one summer's day when he fell off his horse. He was six and already riding on his own–his own pony, rather, but Father promised to get him his own mare when he got just a little bigger. He was six years old and he fell off his horse and a snake was approaching him. Then it wasn't.

That girl. She's a little older than him. Terrifies him. She's too quiet, too skinny. A wraith in a fairytale. She spoke to that serpent, he swears it! He runs right home and tells Mother, but she doesn't believe him. Tells him to be kinder to the rabble because they are so much less fortunate than them, and it's their job as nobles to take care of those below them. Lesser than them.

In another memory, he is sixteen. Home from boarding school and enjoying an afternoon ride on his favorite horse, Cleopatra. She is there, suddenly, still older than him. Still terrifying. He knows her brother and father, the tramps, have been taken away. He's not sure if she has any form of income. If she's come asking, begging, for help. Money. A job. Mother's words echo in his head. But there's just something about her eyes. Too blue. Too cold. He can't look at them. He doesn't want to.

The next thing he remembers is invasion. The woman pulls out a rod and points it at him. Mutters a word in Latin, of all languages, and–

Merope Merope Merope. The memories are hazy, viewed through a fog. The only clear word in his head is her name. Over and over and over again, repeated like a prayer. Like he's begging. For what? For her. Merope Merope Merope. His body and soul are for her. His mind, his health, his sanity–

Tom rips himself from that memory. From all other memories after it with similar emotions. Similar visuals. Until–

He feels drunk. Recovering from being drunk. In the process of being drunk. He feels in all of these states and outside. In between. Body unstable, mind off-kilter. Merope… That woman is speaking to him…? She speaks English so strangely as if it wasn't her native language…No…No, she doesn't speak English often, she hisses. Low and long. To herself. To the air. To the ground.

That woman…his wife is speaking to him and Christ in heaven, his wife? There's a distant memory of exchanging vows and of words coming out of his mouth that weren't his and of a cold hand gripping the back of his neck–

"I am with child!" She's sobbing. Why is she crying? Whose child? "Our child! Our baby!"

His stomach drops and he clutches his head. Child? No, there's no child, she's lying. It's all she's done since coming into his life: lie. The wicked lie. He's broken from her grasp, whatever strange bewitchment she's used to keep him here: drugs or hypnotism or some sort of trick, it's run out and she's clutching at straws. She's unhealthy. Too unhealthy to bear a child. Why does he know this? Why does he know of her firstborn, dead before it came out of the womb? Why does he know of her fear of dying in childbirth the same way her mother did? Why does he have memories of embracing her? Of her reaching into his head and–

He stumbles in his steps, and he gasps. He whimpers. Screams. At her, at himself. At–

He's in front of his parents, back home. Finally back home where it's safe and he'll never have to suffer again, and they don't believe him. They scoff and roll their eyes and call him irresponsible. That it was only a matter of time before he came back to them crawling. Begging for forgiveness. They tell him he needs to grow up and that he's not a little boy anymore, he is a young man and needs to take responsibility for his recklessness. When he opens his mouth to tell them he wasn't partying, he wasn't gallivanting, he wasn't indulging in hedonism, they turn away. When he tells them he was bewitched, he was forced, they tell him that sort of thing doesn't happen to men. It didn't happen to him.

Tom almost falls to the ground as he tears himself from his father's head.

He's a monster. His mother was also a monster and unhinged and cared not for anything but her own satisfaction just as she was raised.

Merope was a disappointment to her family, outside of her choices to pursue a Muggle. Morfin's head was proof enough of that, he need not repeat many of the horrible things he's said to her (done to her) in the past, even if it was all strange revenge for the way she treated him as children. It's a cycle. Endless. This strange generational violence that lives on in his blood.

Would he have been a disappointment to her, had she lived? Would she have wanted for him to be just like his father in every way? Eyes and magic and stature? And what would she have done to him had he disobeyed her? Gone against her word?

His father's body lies unconscious from the process (surely exhausted, even Tom is feeling a bit fatigued), safe for now in this sitting room away from wandering eyes and the man's parents.

He understands now, why there was fear of him. Fear of Ximena.

Ximena doesn't ask what he saw. He doesn't think he'd be able to recount it, even if he wanted to. Even if he could. He regrets taking her here, almost. Regrets having her see him like this. On the edge. Almost undone.

The times he's seen her cry arise in his memories.

He clenches his fist. "...I cannot forgive them."

"Okay."

…

He releases a breath. "Let us go find my grandparents."

.

He signals to her to keep close as he casts a disillusionment charm, carefully walking into a study just a room over to listen in on his grandparents talking.

"They were married when he was born?"

"Yes, and I can have our lawyer confirm it." Mary Riddle hums, "You know when they told me that someone claiming to be Tom Riddle Senior's son was at the door, I thought it was some urchin claiming to be your bastard, Thomas, but I knew it, I knew it. The moment I saw him, I saw our son. I knew it! He was hiding something, Thomas. For a whole three months he wouldn't talk! Just that rambling about that woman… He knew about that child, he knew and he didn't tell us." Mary Riddle huffs, "The selfishness of him! At least we can raise that boy proper now. The way it should have been."

"A fine replacement." Bitterness tints Thomas Riddle's words, "Ours runs off without a word and comes back to us defective. Breaks off his engagements and refuses to see another woman." A scoff, "Who's to say this isn't the same? Irresponsible, hooligan behavior, mingling with lower classes and bohemians… How much of the mother is there, Mary? How much of his blood is good blood?"

And something happens to Tom. Consumes him. As the words from his grandfather process in his head. As he realizes what sort of home his father grew up in. What kind of home Tom would have grown up in had things been a little different. That no matter what fate was handed to him, he would have ended up in the same place. Alone. With Hogwarts as his only home. His only refuge.

He feels a gentle touch on his shoulder. He removes his notice-me-not charm, lifting Morfin's wand wordlessly, as he allows his emotion to dictate his will.

Bright, horrifying green erupts from the tip of the wand. Like electric mist. Hissing mad. It pierces Thomas Riddle's chest and his body falls to the ground. Wordlessly. A ragdoll without a spirit. Tom sees his eyes and finds them glassy. Empty. He cannot stop shaking. Is he…Is he dead?

A shriek. Tom turns his head to see Mary Riddle screaming, her hands cupping the sides of her face–He moves quickly. On instinct. This time, there's no sudden shock of green light, but the same slicing hex that Ian tried to kill him with in his second year. Mary Riddle's blood spatters cleanly onto himself. As if the blood were magnetically attracted to him. She's dead. For sure. She's dead and gone and he won't have to come live with her and never ever hear her awful condescending voice and be her replacement son, her do-over child–

He remembers Ximena is right behind him. Right beside him. He freezes! Tense! What has he done? Shown his hand, revealed the feral anger buried deep within him. The same anger that turned Dumbledore against him when he was so young. That snapped so many bullies into shape. His persona, so cultivated. So meticulously carved and displayed–

He…He doesn't know what he expects now. For her to start screaming? To faint? To roll up her sleeves and begin the work of hiding the body? To ask him if he's okay, if he needs a moment, but all she does is look at him. Unblinking. Waiting for something. Perhaps for him to snap again. Lose his composure most uncouthly. Pathetic.

Perhaps, she is simply searching for something to say. Something comforting. Reassuring. Condoning[1].

"I'm sorry." That is…not what he was expecting to come out of her mouth. "That you had to do that. I'm sorry."

He had to. There was no other choice. Was there another choice? What would have happened if he kept his rage in? If he kept his mask on? Managed to charm Thomas and Mary Riddle, convincing them that he was the perfect heir. Better than their son. An ideal replacement. Second choice. He would have gone on pretending just as he does in the magical world. Forever hiding himself. Forever acting like another person.

"You look good." Ximena tilts her head, still looking down at him as he tries to regain his breathing, "When you're not pretending."

Tom's breath catches in his throat. He presses his lips together, presses his hands together. Brings them up to his mouth. Closes his eyes. Breathes. One. Two. Three…

"What do you want to do about your father?"

His father, who grew up without knowing of magic. Who was exposed to it in the worst of ways, the most cursed of ways. Never experienced wonder and excitement at the sight of a properly cast charm. Will never understand him. His magic. Why it's a part of him. Why it's wonderful. It's too tainted. Too far gone for him.

"...Take him out of his misery, I suppose."

He doesn't clean the blood off his hands or robe. He takes Ximena's when she offers it. The blood doesn't seem to bother her either. Even when it sticks to her skin.

.

Tom Riddle Senior is coming to when Tom and Ximena return to the main foyer. It's a wonder nobody's found him yet, he supposes Mary Riddle had dismissed any maids and servants wandering around looking to eavesdrop. It's a little upsetting how…vulnerable his own face looks, on the ground.

When his father's eyes open, he's on edge again. At seeing him. And when he sees the blood, he yelps. Tom lifts his chin with the wand in his hands.

"I know about what they did to you." He tries not to have sympathy for this man he's trying so hard to hate, "I know about what my mother did."

The man on the ground whimpers. Those things don't happen to men. It didn't happen. It didn't happen. It didn't happen. "You've thought about it too… Dealing with my grandparents."

It's an unfair accusation to make because his father had only thought about such violent thoughts amid wild anger and frustration. At the height of desperation, in the middle of the night, where his thoughts were his own. He never actually intended to do them any harm. Not really. He didn't have the guts for it.

Tom looks at his father, cowering. Simpering on the ground before him like a beggar. Lost. Broken. His mother did that. He did that. Invaded his head and allowed him to relive so much hurt.

He clears his throat, "...Would you wish to be free of her?"

Brown eyes look up towards blue.

Tom lifts his wand and erases his mother from Tom Riddle Senior's memory.

.

Ximena helps him remove the bodies with surprising detachment. He still expects her to chastise him. Tell him that what he did was wrong. But instead, she helps transfigure Mary Riddle's body into one that didn't have its throat and body slit open. She levitates her body into her shared bed with her husband, both looking like they could be sleeping peacefully. Passed away in their sleep, with their day clothes on.

She has not asked him about the spell that he shot out of his wand. The spell that instantly killed Thomas Riddle. He's not sure he can explain it, either.

The memory charm performed on his father was tricky. A test of his skill and proficiency in both legilimens and self-control. He could so easily break him like that. Leave him prepped for bedlam.

He wonders what the man will do, now that he's free.

"What about your wand?"

Ah. Yes, Ximena's always thinking ahead. Tom performed underage magic outside of school. Outside of any magical wards. Or approved locations.

"..." Morfin's wand is heavy in his pocket, "Surely the Ministry would have already appeared… The Trace is on wands, not us… Let me take care of it." Perhaps his uncle will be useful for something, after all.

Outside, the world is dark and quiet. There's no buzz of insects due to the cold, and it's begun to flurry. They've just exited through the kitchen door and walked down stone steps to a partially covered vehicle with an open toolbox and various wrenches lying nearby.

"Do you want to drive down?" Ximena asks, looking at the Rolls-Royce with curiosity.

"...You can drive?" It seems pointless, for a witch.

"Dad taught me."

Tom hums, fantasizing about driving the obnoxiously luxurious car into a ditch. The Riddles must have the only car for kilometers. And the only family with access to the petrol needed for it during wartime. "I'd rather fly."

Ximena nods, digs into her bottomless bag, presumably to look for brooms, then stops. Looks up at him. "...What was that spell you used?" Intrigue and curiosity. Something common to hear in her voice. But hardly ever directed at him and his magic, his projects. He straightens up. Then relaxes his shoulders. Because he doesn't know. He doesn't know what shot out of his wand at Thomas Riddle. Why it was so bright, so sudden, so green.

A distant memory skims the surface of his consciousness. Of being eleven again and dreaming about Ximena reaching out across the water towards a bright green light…

"I…I think it was just accidental magic."

Ximena nods once, "You're a bit old for it but, well, with your emotions so high." She tilts her head, "Your uncle's wand is very obedient too. I've noticed." He preens a little, "I think…Did you mean to kill him?"

He supposes so. A very deep part of him wanted the man dead. Gone from this world. From there, it was easy enough to take out his grandmother, and then… "Should I not have?"

Ximena shrugs, "It doesn't matter if you should have or not. You did and that's that."

He supposes that's a very adult way of looking at it. He doesn't feel regret or guilt, but perhaps he does feel a little embarrassment at giving into his passions. Looks like his will isn't at all stronger than his emotions. Balam would laugh if he knew about this…Well, if he knew everything minus the murder.

"...You'll keep this secret, yes?" He tries not to phrase it as a question, but truthfully, he never knows what she'll do.

"Of course." Her response is automatic, "You would have kept mine if I had done the same to my father."

He wonders what a strange world that would have been. One where Ximena was the one rejected, and he was the one accepted.

.

Things in Mexico are normal. For the most part.

Since their return, he can't shake off the feeling of something being off. Being wrong. A tingle on his shoulder or a feeling in the air. A weight in his chest. Something uncomfortable and unfamiliar. Not necessarily unpleasant but…

Ximena, for her part, has gone back into her normal routine of flittering about her home getting little projects done, and helping her family with chores and work. When she finds free time, she'll hang around and read a book while he practices his dueling or while he sorts herbs and ingredients in the greenhouse. When she's busy, when he doesn't see her, Merlin knows what she does. Tom asked Balam, once, and the man told him to mind his business.

(He has still yet to sneak into Balam's study. And now, with this fresh in his head, he thinks he'll have to put it off for the summer. When he's not at risk of being thrown into Azkaban.)

It doesn't sink in right away, what he did. What his magic did, on his behalf. It doesn't feel real. Even when he and Ximena left the house. Even when they altered Morfin Gaunt's memory (he says they because he's never altered a memory before). Obliviating is different. Ximena knows too much about how much memories can get twisted, perhaps he should have assumed that she was good with memory charms but…

She's in this now. With him. An accomplice. Strange to think that she was the first to do something morally wrong with him (alongside him) and not one of his Knights. He'd talk about it with the group if it wasn't…If it wasn't so personal. Maybe he could share his effortless killing of a random set of Muggles, but somehow they would figure it out. Their shared surname. Unfortunate.

He sits back in his seat, avoiding people at a party again (is it really a party? It's nowhere near as crowded or loud as the birthday celebration). The house is lively again, this time due to the approaching birth of a child. He sees one of Ximena's many aunts (or was it a cousin?) walking around happily and proudly with a large bump on her stomach. Husbandless. Ready to burst at any moment. Tom tries not to think about his mother on that birthing chair. His stillborn baby sister (older sister) in her hands. Small and pitiful. He tries not to think about the Parsel hissed from his mother's mouth in his father's memory. Her command to the snake about to take his life. Don't touch him.

"You're thinking about it." Ximena nudges him, skin not touching his. Since the trip to Little Hangleton, she has not grasped his hand. He has not grasped her hand. It's odd that he misses it. That he didn't feel repulsed at the action (the thought). Yes, she's different from his classmates. His Knights. But she's still just another person who isn't him. It doesn't make sense that he…would like to touch her hand again. It wasn't even that soft. Or warm. And his hands got sweaty so easily, making it entirely unpleasant–

"Thinking of what?"

Ximena frowns at him, his act of playing dumb wasted on her. "I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were." Absentminded, yes, and maybe incredibly frustrating. But not stupid. Never stupid. He could never have spent so much time around someone stupid.

"Do you want to dance?"

He blinks. Processes the words. Looks to his left at Ximena, her eyes expectant. Waiting. She's been looking at him a lot lately. Since the killings. With some emotion he can't pin down (he assumes it's concern, or perhaps curiosity). Whatever it is, it's not a look he's received from her before. Whatever it is, he likes it. And he hates that he likes it.

He gulps. "This isn't…My sort of dance." He's just barely mastered the silly little two-person dances that young purebloods are learning, and he is all about appearances. It wouldn't do good for him to embarrass himself like this, in a place he feels most comfortable.

"Mm." She pulls away from him, then, looks out at the dance floor. Bored. Perhaps disappointed.

The current song ends, some of the musicians take a break, and couples sit down to rest. One person stands still, though, looking at his ex-classmate: Carlos calls her name, Ximena, and it sounds so vile coming from his lips, that Tom wants to silence him. It's too casual in his mouth. Not filled with any sort of respect or reverence. It astounds him to think that he and Ximena are even friends.

Silence pilfers the room as Carlos holds out a hand to her, outstretched and expecting. Hopeful. Tom finds himself miffed surprised when Ximena takes Carlos' hand without so much as a protest. Not a single sign of embarrassment. Not even when his other hand places itself on her back and presses her so close to his chest, that it provokes a tightness in Tom's. They look comical. A tall witch and a short Muggle boy. The low humming of a guitar rises, and with it, they begin to dance.

The room is still.

Theirs is a strange duet. Passionate and distant all at once. Intimate like a secret, and cold like being forgotten. Ignored. Fundamentally different from the previous ones. It makes his fists tighten and his teeth set on edge. The two of them burn coldly, and he watches. Every step, every turn, every touch, he does not take his eyes off of them. He wonders what...What she is feeling. What he sees when they make eye contact. Do they remember the outside world? That Tom exists? What sort of words, what sort of feelings are being exchanged in their eyes?

Their bodies mesh together so closely, that he finds it absolutely absurd that no one is protesting it. No adults, especially: he had gotten the impression that his country was one of conservatism. The two look like they are trying to press together into one being. They move as they have already succeeded. Every dip and twirl is sharp and synchronized with the haunting singing and smooth instrumentals, their steps and motions picking up the pace alongside the music. As if it were them conducting the musicians rather than the other way around. His ears can barely make out the subject of the apparent melancholy song, 'translation spells aren't very good with things like that'...But he picks up enough. Return to me. Love me without light...Murder my heart in our blue room, my love. [2]

The dance feels eternal. It drags on in his mind, and he knows when he looks back on this moment as a memory, it will do the same. In reality, he knows, they are only in tango for a little over a minute. When they stop, people applaud them, give cheers and teases.

Another song begins, faster-paced, and Tom remains seated, heavy with the sudden knowledge that he, of all people, is jealous.

[1] "Love condones a lot of atrocities." -Yami, Chapter 21: Advance

[2] Alcoba Azul by Lila Downs

Let's all pretend I had this done in time for Ximena's birthday. Missed it by one day!

I'm so mad, I spent most of my time writing this chapter with 'Dark Red' by Steve Lacy stuck in my head.

I'm not saying what Tom did to (for?) his father was the right thing to do, let's get that clear. It was just something he did. He considers it mercy, so think about his character and whether that's a step up or down from murdering him I guess.

I've had the final dance scene written for literal years. Funny how that works, huh. Again, Carlos isn't like…there to set up a love triangle. Not an official one, like Edward-Jacob or Peeta-Gale. He's just vibing.

Beyond this chapter, there might be longer update times. I want to make sure I have everything planned and that everything that needs to be revealed will be. Or at least hinted at.

GL to jac who's doing finals rn, and TY TO VIA FOR LOOKING OVER THIS CHAPTER ILY