A/N: Back again. Work won't stop interfering with the creative process. Sheesh.
Sorry about the wait! Here's another one for you.
Chapter 9
August 15, 1943
Tom opened his eyes to darkness. There was a bulky shape on the floor across from him, and it took him a moment to realise it was a person; he could make out the polished shoes reflecting the orange light from the lamps outside. He felt nauseous and disoriented, but the sensations diminished as the memories slowly came back.
He swept his gaze around the room trying to figure out where he was, and his breath hitched when nothing looked familiar.
Where am I?
There was a fireplace, and cabinets, plush furniture, and a grandfather clock -it was well past midnight. One of the walls was covered in… muggle weapons?
Then it clicked. Riddle House, he was still in Riddle House. He laughed humorlessly. This was where he should have been raised. And the man responsible for the fact that he hadn't been was lying on the floor across from him, or what remained of him anyway.
Tom rolled onto his back and stared into the dark, panelled ceiling. The anger was gone, allowing rational thought to flow again.
Half-blood.
He was a half-blood.
He should be relieved that he finally had the answer to his parentage; he'd been searching since the first day he set foot in Hogwarts, and now he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt. But he wasn't.
The last descendant of Salazar Slytherin was a half-blood.
He laughed again.
Circe, it was so… tragically ironic.
Tom didn't know whether to curse his father or his mother for his predicament. He had walked out of their lives, and she had up and died, leaving Tom to an uncertain future.
As for his extended family? His muggle grandfather had known about him and swept his existence under the rug, for being an inconvenience.
Morfin was much too unstable to figure out they were related, but surely he would burn him off the Gaunt family tree if he had enough presence of mind to do so, like the Blacks did to their own.
He truly was alone.
Hope was a very dangerous thing, indeed.
Not that Tom had any to begin with. Maybe he was born cursed, but very little seemed to go right for him. He had his brain, his magic, and even his looks, yes. The one useful thing he'd gotten from his… muggle side. He shuddered involuntarily. It was like he'd used up his luck supply on those three things, and there was nothing leftover for actually living his life.
Ever since he could remember, Tom had used all three to rise above the rest, muggle or wizard, it didn't matter. He'd started at the very bottom, and he'd claw his way to the top if he had to. He was not no one, he wouldn't die and disappear from memory, like he'd seen countless others do.
Which brought him back to his current situation.
It took him two tries, but Tom gradually pushed himself into a sitting position and rubbed his face with his hands, letting out a pained groan. He must have hit his head at some point because he found a bump over his left ear. Everything hurt.
He stood up slowly, on shaky legs, almost collapsing again as he tried to regain his footing. He stumbled towards the fireplace and clung to the mantlepiece to remain standing despite the violent tremors running through his body, every nerve ablaze, and caught his reflection on the mirror.
Fuck!
The shock nearly sent him tumbling back to the floor. He steadied himself, and approached the mirror slowly, peering at his own eyes.
The iris had turned a vibrant scarlet.
"Well, this is a problem," he muttered, examining the unusual hue.
Nowhere in Secrets of the Darkest Art had he found a note on Horcruxes affecting the caster's appearance. As a matter of fact, the equations in the book only factored how to make one, not any consequences beyond the obvious one of not having a whole soul anymore. Books on the Dark Arts had a proclivity of downplaying or ignoring consequences to the caster, which was the real reason why they were so dangerous.
Going back to Hogwarts like this without attracting unwanted attention, namely Dumbledore's, would be impossible. Just as he was beginning to think of all the ways he could make a glamour charm more permanent, purple, and then blue began to bleed back into the red, giving his eyes an eerie appearance. It took a few minutes, but eventually his eyes went back to looking as icy as they had ever been. He sighed in relief. Crisis averted.
The tremors were also starting to diminish, replaced by bone deep exhaustion. He sagged and leaned on the mantelpiece, trying to recover his bearings.
Unfortunately, sleep would have to wait. The night wasn't over yet, he still needed to cover his tracks and leave town. With a sigh, Tom pushed himself upright and went back for the ring, picking it up to examine it now that he didn't feel like he was about to collapse; it was a little warm to the touch, but it didn't look any different. Nothing about it betrayed what a monumental bit of magic he had just accomplished.
As long as no one figured out what it was, he was safe. He couldn't die.
Tom looked at the ring in astonishment, almost giddy with excitement. He'd done what no one else had been able to do since Herpo invented the spell. He'd split his soul in two.
He was two steps away from death.
Tom closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to bask in the accomplishment. He could have laughed with relief, if it didn't hurt so much to do so.
The chime from the grandfather clock nearly made him jump out of his skin. It struck one in the morning. He had five hours left before the first train left Great Hangleton, so he had to hurry and celebrate later.
Morfin's wand was still lying close to his father's body when Tom went looking for it. It had served its purpose well. He slipped the ring on his right hand, and swept his eyes across the drawing room to make sure there was nothing that could tie him to the scene, even if he'd barely left the threshold.
Even in the dark, he could tell where the bodies were, slumped next to each other on the carpeted floor. There was unfinished tea in cups minutely placed on the coffee table, a tray of shortbread biscuits, and an open bottle of expensive whisky on a little cart next to it; it was easier to pick up on the little details now that he wasn't focusing on the muggles.
He saw shields, lances, artefacts that were definitely foreign, paintings. It was a grand room, designed to showcase everything that previous generations of Riddles had accomplished before him, which was a lot by the looks of it. The irony was not lost on him.
Tom scowled at how pretentious it all was, and shot his grandfather's body a light glare. Some good his trophies did him. His glare softened when it landed on his grandmother, and he finally took his leave, not wanting to spend another moment grappling with the first whispers of doubt.
He picked up the lamp on the way out, and locked the main doors behind him. Let the muggles try to figure that one out. In his haste to stride away from the house under the cover of darkness, he failed to notice the lights were on in the gardener's cottage.
Halfway through the valley, the tremors and the lightheadedness returned with a vengeance, and Tom's body nearly shut down again. Perhaps he'd used more blood than he thought? Bullock should have at least added a footnote about avoiding strenuous activity right after splitting the soul, the bastard. One more note to add to his private research.
It took him a few minutes to recover, and several more breaks on the road, but at last he was standing, once again, in front of the Gaunt shack. It was dark at this time of night, and even more pitiful after standing in the middle of the Riddles' drawing room.
How the mighty have fallen.
Tom pushed the door open easily and stepped inside, slightly disturbed by the lack of magical protection on the house. The smell hit him first, bringing forth the nausea he'd been fighting off since waking up. At least the weak light coming from his lamp was too dim for him to see the state of the shack again.
At some point in the night Morfin must have come to his senses, because he'd found the way back to his ratty armchair and fallen asleep.
Tom approached slowly, grimacing slightly when the floorboards creaked, but his uncle merely grunted. It would be so easy to cast another Killing Curse. This vagrant did not deserve the title of Heir of Slytherin.
Alas, he still needed the man.
"Enervate."
Morfin's eyes shot open, as if he'd been doused with cold water. Tom didn't even give him time to focus his gaze before hitting him again.
"Confundo."
The man blinked owlishly and blabbered nonsense under his breath. Tom needed him calm and pliable for what he had to do next.
He took a deep breath to quiet his mind, and pointed his wand at Morfin again.
"Legilimens!"
The mind was tricky, to say the least. Each person's mind functioned differently, so finding what you needed as a Legilimens was extremely difficult. Conversely, it was frighteningly easy to turn minds into sludge. All he had to do was mess with a few memories, attach an image to the fear centre of the brain, and the person would break.
He'd done it once, years before he even knew what he was doing, in a cave by the sea.
His technique had become a lot more refined since then, courtesy of a few mudbloods that were none the wiser, as they made excellent test subjects. Their second-class citizen status ensured that anything that happened to them was not closely examined.
Even so, Morfin's mind was a cesspool, a reflection of the hovel he inhabited. Half-formed thoughts tumbled to the forefront, mostly to do with alcohol and women.
Tom nearly gagged and lost his concentration. Morfin's semi-aware face swam into focus, and Tom scowled. He couldn't believe this lout was the current head of House Slytherin. He would have to remedy that the moment his uncle outlived his usefulness.
"Fucking hell," he muttered darkly, steeling himself for a second try. "Legilimens!"
Planting false memories was extremely delicate work. The best way to do it was to unearth real memories, similar to what he wanted to fabricate, and just add a few tweaks. The subject would not be able to tell the difference, and lies would become truth.
But where to find them? Morfin had mistaken Tom for the muggle just a few hours earlier, which meant the men knew each other personally: projecting an image of his father into Morfin's mind could kickstart a thought process.
He got far more than he expected.
Through all the vitriol that filled Morfin's mind, Tom was able to tell that the Gaunt men had been terrorizing the Riddles for decades. His father hadn't exactly been an innocent bystander either. There was a particular memory of Tom Sr mocking the Gaunt shack and getting attacked by Morfin that was just perfect.
He would need to plant details of his own memory in Morfin. He was the only wizard for miles, he would be questioned at the very least. It was a wonder the hovel hadn't been swamped by the Ministry yet.
Tom pulled the memory and set to work, entwining Morfin's emotions with Tom's own memories of walking to the house, up the stairs, and into the drawing room. He left out most of the conversation, and focused only on the Killing Curses. Morfin's mind would fill in the blanks, fusing the two memories together. It would take a remarkable witch or wizard to distil them into their original shapes.
Lastly, he would have to cut out Morfin's memory of meeting him earlier that day. If his uncle believed that it was his father, and not himself, who had stumbled into the Gaunt shack, that would give his uncle a perfect motive to go hunting for the Riddles. Everything from the moment Tom had revealed himself to be a Parselmouth until he'd revived him had to go.
"Obliviate!"
Morfin's eyes rolled to the back of his head, and Tom was sucked out of the man's mind.
The sudden change made his vision swim, and he had to hold on to the table to remain standing, the sudden movement making plates and cutlery jingle. The smell was making his eyes water. Merlin, what a wretched way to live.
His body screamed in protest when he let go of the table's support. Just a little longer, he just needed to apply the finishing touches.
Tom scrubbed Morfin's wand, just in case, and left it close to the armchair, as if his uncle had dropped it in his sleep. His head was pounding from the effort of navigating the sewer that was his uncle's mind, but he had done the best he possibly could, and now he was about to drop from exhaustion. The whole ordeal had taken almost three hours.
Finally, finally, he could walk to the train station.
Of course, walking back to Great Hangleton was torture. He was so done with walking. If only he could Apparate! First chance he got, he'd stay in bed for at least two days. His legs shook, his vision swam, and the ground dipped. Just like he had after leaving the Riddle House, he had to stop several times to hold on to trees for a few minutes just to gather himself.
Note to self: next time, the ritual should be done in a controlled environment. No more of this on-a-whim hippogriffshit. Not that there would be a next time, certainly not without Herpo's grimoire, if he ever got his hands on it; as far as anyone knew, it was not even possible.
The shabby train station came into view just as the sky lightened to grey, nothing more than a small brick building and a platform. It had the look of a picturesque building left to fend for itself against the elements for years. A small trickle of female factory workers had joined him on the road the closer he got to it, chatting animatedly amongst themselves despite the ungodly hour.
The station was already open, and Tom's shoulders sagged with relief as he got closer to the entrance. Small mercies.
"Rough night, lad?" asked the elderly guard brightly.
Tom blinked at the man's question, not expecting to be addressed. "You could say so," he replied evenly, walking by as if he did every morning. He made a beeline for the platform, weaving through the sparse crowd of women and a couple of men that continued to park themselves in front of him to greet each other. Bloody annoyances.
Small holes on the platform floor hinted that benches and pillars had once been bolted to the pavers, but had either been stolen or scrapped. Reminders that the war had touched even the idyllic towns in the countryside; this was mostly vexing because the few wooden benches that had been installed in their place had been taken up by the muggle women, and Tom had nowhere left to sit.
Usually it would not be a problem but he felt sick, sicker than he had in a very long time. Was this normal? It wasn't like he could compare his experience to someone else's, and he must look awful enough that a few of the women had turned to look at him critically as he swayed on his feet… which was bad. The last thing he wanted was for someone to remember him. Were they commenting on his condition, or were they suspicious of the young man that had shaken up their routine?
The best way to blend in was to pretend you were supposed to be where you were, and to avoid any suspicious movements that could stand out, so he passed off his sickness as sleepiness. Leaning on one of the brick walls gave off the idea that he was trying to catch a wink, and the muggles left him alone, occasionally shooting pitying looks at the tired teenager in their midst.
Idle chatter became white noise as he descended into his thoughts. He was not so concerned about the muggles in the platform being able to connect him to the murders -no one could actually place him at the house, and they wouldn't even be able to find him. However, the Ministry would know that three Killing curses were performed that night.
Framing the half-breed for the mudblood's death a month before had been simple: it'd been a well-liked prefect's word against an outlandish, lonely boy with an extremely dangerous pet. While he was confident that his memory charms were excellent, this would be the first time they would be put to the test. Whoever questioned Morfin might poke and prod around his memory, and he really, really hoped nothing came loose.
The train's loud whistle startled him as it slid into the station, its squealing brakes piercing his eardrums. The sparse crowd had surged forward and stood waiting at the edge of the platform, no longer paying him any mind. Tom pushed himself away from the wall and cursed his knees for groaning in protest, but still stepped into the train after the muggles, moving as if he were in perfect health.
Newspapers rustled and the chatter quieted down as everyone took a seat. It was, after all, just another morning. They lurched out of the station as Hangleton stirred awake, hours before the Riddles were even found.
Tom arrived in London just a few hours later looking worse for wear, trudged home, and thanked the gods that it was still early enough that he didn't run into anyone. He was in no state to hold a conversation, particularly with his handsy neighbour Vera.
His clean bed felt like Heaven. He couldn't remember his head hitting the pillow, he hadn't even changed his clothes, and he slept off the effects of making the Horcrux for almost eighteen hours straight. Truly, he only awoke to change into something more comfortable, before drifting off again.
A full day since the events in Riddle House had passed before Tom managed to remain awake for more than a few minutes. Sleeping had not eased the effects of the ritual, which worried him, but he wasn't feeling worse either, so at least he had that going for him. He still felt nauseous and weak. The ring throbbed, which was strange. On the plus side, he was so tired that the nightmares had stopped.
He'd woken up sometime in the middle of the day, so it was during lunch that Tom pulled out his journal and finally began writing down his findings: how it had felt to perform the ritual itself, how long he'd blacked out, the changes to his eyes, the after effects. It was impressive that he had already accumulated more knowledge on Horcrux creation than Secrets of the Darkest Art contained.
That was when he realised that Owle Bullock might have copied the process for the Horcrux into the book but he was a lousy researcher. It struck him how miraculous it was that the ritual had worked at all. It certainly cast the rest of the book's rituals and curses into question, which was a disquieting thought.
Tom glanced at the window, wondering if Morfin had been caught yet. No owls had tried to break into his flat while he was asleep, so it appeared he might have come out of the whole ordeal unscathed. Again.
Either he was very good at what he did, or the DMLE was really shitty at its job.
He brushed off his nerves, convinced about the former, and hoping for the latter.
Tom stared down at the little black book in his hands, filled with forbidden knowledge in his own handwriting. The same applied to his head, and Dumbledore's shiny blue eyes came to mind.
Legilimency was not subtle: he'd felt the push of it in his mind whenever Dumbledore questioned him, which happened with more frequency if a mudblood ended up in the Hospital Wing after a freak accident.
Mr. Jinks seems to have broken his foot while walking to class. What are your theories on how that might have happened, Mr. Riddle?
To be fair, more often than not one of his idiot friends was usually behind it, as Tom never left any evidence of his involvement. Still, Dumbledore always suspected Tom before any other Slytherin, even the times when he didn't have anything to do with it. Mulciber had paid dearly for that one.
While pushing mudbloods around in school could get him detention or maybe suspension, Warren's untimely death and what he'd done in Hangleton would land him in Azkaban for life. Circe, even that muggle he'd killed in self-defence could land him in hot water.
Seeing as his plans did not include a stint in wizard prison, he'd been meaning to invest in a book on mind arts that specialised in Occlumency. He finally had the money to do it, and it would save him a world of trouble the faster he learned to perform it.
But first a shower, and probably another day in bed. He really, really hoped to Merlin that this perpetually tired state did not become his new normal.
History Trivia
Rail system: Trains were the main mode of travel for any distance during WWII in the UK. Petrol was rationed, and the men who knew how to drive had gone to war, so cars were not an option. War workers had priority over any other kind of traveller, and trains were mainly reserved for them. Even so, the funds for maintenance ran low and many trains and stations suffered for it, to the point many had to be replaced after the war.
Female factory workers: With the men gone to war, women filled in their spots as factory workers in the home front. Women in work clothes became a common sight in Britain, at least until the war ended. This kickstarted the involvement of women in the workplace for the next decades, as well as the fight for equal opportunities and equal pay.
Additional Notes
The status of Muggleborns: I've always held this belief that Voldemort's goal was not so much blood purity, as it was to amass power. It just so happened that the families that held the most power in his lifetime hated muggleborns, and if he wanted their support he would have to align himself to their views. In this time period I can see muggleborns having some rights like equal access to education, but still blocked from having representation in government, or from reaching high positions in the Ministry. Tom's harassment of muggleborns would then have less to do with blood purity, and a lot more with taking advantage of a broken system. The only one who seems to care is Dumbledore, whose political influence is the greatest threat to Tom's rise. So yes, he's still an arse, even without the blood purity angle.