A Deathly Kiss

Chapter 3 - The Ring

Florence Shaw had been working since she was thirteen.

She was thirty-three now and she barely even showed it. Sure, her hands were calloused and cracked from hours scrubbing away at dishes and clothes. Her arms had small burns from back when she was an inexperienced§ cook just getting a hold of the reins. But she still had that fresh-faced, childish air about her and a naivete that would never truly leave her.

Her mother had been weak from the moment she'd given birth and could barely leave her bed at times. Florence herself was a bastard born of an affair between a noble-man and a seamstress. The man had denied ever having touched her and because her mother couldn't work there was never enough money to get by in their household. Many nights were spent starving and cold in their small room with no hope of a better future.

When she turned ten, Florence had been given away by her mother to an old woman who ran an orphanage for young girls, the girls there were taught to clean, cook and sew so that one day they could go find work in the outside world.

However, their education there left many of the girls lacking.

Florence, for one, was never taught how to write. She could make a six-course meal perfectly well but when it came to putting pen to paper her skills were wholly inadequate. She could read simple instructions but nothing beyond concise sentences in block lettering, her speech was good enough to seem mildly literate and to hold a short conversation but she'd never really ventured past that.

She was almost completely uneducated and yet that didn't really seem to matter for someone of her stature. At the age of thirteen, she'd been taken on by a nice upper-class family, who lived in a manor just outside a small village in Yorkshire. They had one son who was around twenty and was the typical handsome man about town and the parents were an older couple who'd inherited their money from their entrepreneur families in the industry business. They'd asked for somebody young, like her, to be able to do the cooking and cleaning about the home in exchange for food, bed and a small amount of money once a month that she could use to buy fabric and other luxuries from the market. It was a very nice deal and she'd agreed immediately.

Yes, life with the Riddle family seemed quite good.

It was a Saturday presently and Florence had just finished prepping the dessert and the vegetable's for Sunday Lunch the next day when she heard the doorbell ring distantly. She put down her knife and washed her hands quickly before leaving the kitchen for the small entry hall.

She opened the door outside and was instantly met by the blowing winds of the uncharacteristically stormy summer night. The rain was lashing down outside and the dusk was concealed by looming clouds. On the doorstep stood a drenched young man in a long trench-coat with the hood pulled over his head. When he looked up she was met with the sight of the most dazzling emerald eyes.

"Excuse me", he started. His voice was neither high nor low but it held a rich smooth quality like rich coffee. It was British but held a quality of something undeniably foreign that she couldn't quite pick up on, but, being the simple girl that she was, didn't think to question at all. He had a dark tan, like someone who'd spent hours bathing in the sun, and long black hair that fell just below his chin and seemed mussed by the heavy winds and the fabric of his coat rubbing against it. He was dressed in similar clothes to her Master's, finely woven from a high-quality thread. His coat was long and black, brushing just above his knees, and he was wearing pressed black slacks, a clean white shirt, and an emerald green tie.

"My car broke down further up the road I was wondering if I could use your telephone".

Now Florence had never been romantically given. Her life, as it was, had left no room for her to ever become so and the spoils of love seemed to have bypassed her completely. However, in the presence of this young man, she couldn't help but blush a startling red. "O-Of c-course sir". She opened the door wide and scurried off to find Mr. Riddle and inform him of the guest.

The man had left his parlor immediately and come to assess the intruder.

"Who might you be?" the man asked in a low suspicious voice.

"Chester Lawrence", the guest introduced himself quietly as he offered a hand to be shaken and the man obliged reluctantly. "My car seems to have broken down. I fear it's much to stormy for me to reach the village so I wondered if I could perhaps use your telephone."

Mr. Riddle looked him up and down, taking in his fine clothing and seemed to come the opinion that he was up to standard. His smile was genuine as he asked, "Would you like to come into the parlor? There's no need to rush yourself there's always a spare room to stay the night here."

Florence watched quietly as the two left towards the parlor and headed back towards the kitchen in order to finish her evening's work so that she could prepare her bed. It was just as she was placing her unused ingredients back in the pantry that she heard the back door, the one only ever used by her or some of the other staff, creak open slowly. She hummed as she continued to float around without a care. When she turned back towards the tap she was met by the spitting image of her Master's son, Tom Riddle, except marginally taller and with dark hazel eyes.

The man stared down at him with his head tilted and a curious expression marring his features.

"Florence?" the voice of Mrs. Riddle sounded through the house and she heard the door open on the other side of the room and clip-clop of heels approaching.

When her eyes met those of the man in front of her once again he simply grinned sadistically and brandished some kind of long blade.

Then the world snapped to black and the seemingly insignificant life of Florence Shaw came to an end."

"Your room is delightful".

Heleus took a seat in the corner on an aged wooden chair and flicked a speck of dust off his immaculately tailored clothes. Then he took a moment to look around. The peeling wallpaper on the walls and the damp ceiling that was dripping into a metal bucket in the corner. There was a large wardrobe in the corner of the room filled with clothes and various trinkets and the bed was a small twin bed and despite its fraying covers, it was made perfectly. There was another metal in the bed in the room that was conspicuously empty without covers or a mattress on it.

"There are nicer rooms", Tom spoke softly as he fluffed up the pillow on his bed. "But I didn't get the privilege. The matron isn't very fond of me".

He snorted at that, "You have all of the teachers wrapped around your little finger. One muggle couldn't be more knowledgable than them."

"I made a few small mistakes in my first meeting with Dumbledore and he hasn't taken his eyes off me since. The matron? She's seen much worse." At the questioning look he received he elaborated, "I traumatized a few children. Hung a rabbit from the rafters. Things no child would do. They called me the devil, tried to exorcize me". He hissed at the image but realized it was a topic neither was willing to broach.

"Are you going to tell me why I'm here?" he encouraged.

"It's been so long since I last saw you. The people here, they just aren't the same..." he explained with such an expression of profound loss that for a second a small feeble part of his mind thought it to be true.

"Bullshit", he disputed. The other man glared at him in something that could be considered as petulance, "How could you tell?"

"Don't get me wrong, Tom, you're a great liar". The man smiled smugly and he leaned back in his chair, "But you can't feel jack shit".

"I can feel some things", he clarified. "Just not quite in the same way as others."

There was a brief silence in which they just stared at each other, "Are you going to answer my question?"

Tom quirked his lip and stood up so that he was standing above him, "I have come up with an idea of sorts. And I need the help of another".

"Idea?" he asked skeptically.

"I've managed to track down the rest of my family", he grimaced at the title before a grin came over his face. "Wouldn't it be so terrible if something were to...happen...to them".

"It hasn't been long since you last killed someone and you're already trying to get back in the game", Heleus replied with disgust on his face as he stood up and began walking to the door.

"My mother died in childbirth. You know? She stumbled through the steps of the orphanage on a dark December night. She barely had enough time to name me before she died of blood loss and infection. Do you think that would've happened if she'd had a rich family to support her, to care for her and her child? If that man had even cared for one second then she wouldn't have died that day. He let her die, and he will pay with his own life in return".

Heleus' hand still stayed on the door but his grip lessened.

"I'm not asking you to cast the spell", he urged. "Just help make sure that I don't get caught. I need you to do this for me."

His hand slipped fully away and his feet somehow found their way back into the center of the room, "Do you have a plan?"

The other man's hand slipped into his hair gently, "Well..."

And so, a few days later, they found themselves in Little Hangleton on a stormy evening with their plan almost ready to put into motion. They only needed one more ingredient.

"Get what you need and get out", Heleus reminded him harshly whilst handing him a short silver blade with foreign engravings upon it. "It's a Goblin-made ritual knife, if you touch the engravings the runes will activate and it'll heal wounds as soon as they're made. Use this and only this, if you even try and touch that man with your wand your magical signature will be over the place. That's exactly what we're trying to avoid. Meet me at the manor in half an hour, do you remember the signal?"

"I have a near enough eidetic memory", Tom sniffed. "I couldn't forget if I tried." He received one last pensive look before Heleus drew his hood up and headed out from underneath the bus shelter and towards the large manor upon the hill.

He turned in the opposite direction and started his way down a country road lined with hedgerows. As he got closer to the shack the flowers on the bushes seemed to wilt and the bushes turned more thorny until they were nothing more than twisted dead wood full of barbs. The grass was either dead or dying and there were burnt patches in random places like the remnants of misplaced spellfire. The shack itself was nearly falling apart, probably being held together by weak magic. Everything was rusting and rotting, a tree had collapsed in the corner of the yard and the windows looked to have been smashed by hand or stone. There dead animals dotting the ground, mostly snakes, and they all seemed to be torn apart by dark magic. There was another snake, seemingly a python, pinned to the door by an iron nail and its eyes were carved out leaving holes of dried blood and flesh in their stead.

He pushed the door open slowly, careful not to make too much of a noise, and slipped into the hallway. It was short and ran the length of the shack, there was an open doorway to his left and a few broken doors to his right. He heard snoring from his left and headed straight to that direction where he found a small 'living room'. There was a squat table in the corner and a few wooden chairs. The kitchen area had some cauldrons set up and a few cupboards but other than that the room was practically bare. He was revolted by what was left of the once noble House of Gaunt.

It's Lord (if he could be considered as such) lay was asleep on a wooden chair snoring loudly. Tom looked him over and was glad, for once, that he'd received the majority of his genetics from his father. This man looked disgusting, his body and features were disfigured from generations of inbreeding and held nothing of the handsome features of his Slytherin ancestors. His skin was waxy and almost yellow in pallor, the dirt and grime covering made it clear he hadn't bathed properly in years if ever. He was thin and starving and some of his bones weren't formed correctly giving him a hunched figure with twisted limbs.

He sneered at the man and pulled the knife from his pocket. The request for flesh was an odd one given to him by his lover but it had been made quite clear to him just how necessary it was.

And so he obliged.

He made a deep cut into his forearm and began to saw through the skin until he had a long thick strip that he pulled from the man. He wrapped it quickly in the fabric he'd been given and watched in fascination as the muscles and flesh began to knit itself back together as if it had never been gone.

Just as he was about to leave his eye caught on something glinting on the man's body. A lone jewel in a kingdom full of rubbish. He lifted Morfin's finger and stared down at the ring. It was made from polished silver, kept clean by the magic imbued within it. The rough cut jewel was black onyx engraved with a small white symbol. A triangle with a circle within it and bisected by a line. He'd seen the symbol for the Gaunt family and this certainly wasn't it.

He could tell this wasn't an Heir or Lordship ring by the writings on it but it certainly was an heirloom of a noble house, one he didn't seem to recognize. The Slytherin family had branched off into many different lines, including the Gaunt's, and the only way his Uncle could've gotten his hand on such a gem would be a claim by blood. After all, nobody respectable would ever bequeath anything to Morfin Gaunt.

He wrapped his hand around it and tugged until it slipped gently off and into his hand. That's when he felt it.

The magic poured off it in dark and seductive waves.

The sort he'd only felt in the chamber of secrets. Or when scouring the darkest depths of the Malfoy family library, the places where even the Lord of the house didn't dare go. Or sometimes, even, in the throes of passion. When his and his lover's magic combined and mutated into something darker and more malevolent than either of them could ever even dream to possess in their own veins.

This wasn't any magic though, no. This was the oldest of them all, something defied the very laws of magic itself.

Necromancy.

He knew that he needed this. He knew that as soon as his hands rested upon this object that he would do whatever it took to keep it in his possession.

What better way to do so than to imbue it with his own soul?

It wasn't the first time he'd traversed such plains. His diary, his most precious prize, was a Horcrux. An experiment he'd made when he'd ordered the murder of Myrtle Warren, the bullied Ravenclaw who'd died at the hands of his beloved basilisk. The spells and enchantments he'd placed on it made sure that if it ever fell into the hands of another it would leach away at their soul until his Horcrux became corporeal again. It was an idea that had been inspired by his very own Heleus, the ability to take away someone's magic had fascinated from the moment he'd learned of it. By preying on the writer's weaknesses and fears, he'd be brought back to life.

It was ingenious if he could say so himself.

But it was only part of his goal, he had a long way to go till his soul was split to seven.

It was something that had been drilled into the third years' minds as soon as they started arithmancy. There were some numbers in the world that were magically stronger than others. 3, 7, 13 and even 666 were so powerful when applied to the magical theory that they were used as the basis of all runic chains and spell creation. Without those fundamentals to rely on they would become completely unstable.

He wanted to gather objects that were valuable. That meant something. The Diary was only there as a facade, who would think twice about writing their thoughts in a harmless old notebook?

The other 5 Horcruxes would be something of legend.

Heleus looked up from the glass of whiskey he'd been given to the man sitting across from him.

Mr. Riddle was relaxing on his green leather armchair with a similar glass of whiskey which he was rolling casually in his hand and observing with a keen eye. "So, Mr. Lawrence, where do you come from?"

"My family home is in Harrogate. My aunt owns a country home not far away from here, I was on my way back when my car broke down", he spoke slowly so as not to mispronounce his words. The accent was something he'd been practicing for the last few days, trying to imitate others tones of voice and writing words phonetically in order to make sense of things. Luckily the man before him seemed to believe him.

"And your business?" he inquired politely.

"My great-grandfather made his money in factories sir. The industrial revolution paid well".

"As it does", Riddle nodded in return.

The door opened behind them and he turned to see Tom Riddle Jr. in the doorway looking worn and wet as he pulled off his jacket. "Take a seat, son. We have a guest".

The man collapsed on one of the other chairs and poured himself a large glass of whiskey. He shook himself before offering a hand to Heleus in greeting. He then turned back to his father, "I just came back from dinner with the Bennetts. Apparently, they've moved the firm to Oxford and they'll be selling their house within the month".

Mr. Riddle nodded sadly, "A great loss to the community I'm sure".

He turned to see his guest staring intently at his son and raised his eyebrows in confusion. "Is everything ok Mr. Lawrence".

"You look just like him", Heleus murmured in shock as he looks him up and town with a furrowed brow.

"Like who?" he was starting to get worried and his eyes drifted subtly to the telephone on the other side of the room.

"Would you really forget?" he laughed humourlessly. His voice, this time, had changed almost completely from the perfect British into something unfamiliar wholly European in sound. "Your own son?"

And with one word the heat disappeared from the room until it was cold as ice. They both lost what little color they had in their face and the glass tumbler almost slipped from the elder Riddle's hand, "You have no clue of what you speak".

"Really?" he mocked. "So you don't remember Merope Gaunt?"

"That woman was a heathen. The spawn of the devil himself, she tricked me", he seethed angrily as he downed the rest of the bottle of whiskey. Nobody seemed to care.

"So you threw her out? Let a pregnant young woman roam the streets with no food and nowhere to go for shelter. She may have wronged you but her child was innocent, he was of your own blood and you cast him away without second thought. What kind of person does that make you?"

Suddenly an ear piercing scream shook the house and he had to fight the shiver that surged up his spine. "That would be your wife," He stated blankly. "We're willing to make a deal. There's no question of whether or not the two of you will die today. Mrs. Riddle, however, had no knowledge of these events and certainly doesn't deserve to die for them. If you can apologize, from the depths of your shallow little heart, she'll walk out of this building alive. It's your decision".

"That woman deserved everything she got. The boy was no child of mine", Tom Riddle stated with conviction even as the familiar glint of fear crept into his eyes. He knew he was going to die within the hour and he wished his last words to be meaningful.

"Now hold on a minute son", Mr. Riddle growled angrily but it was already too late.

Heleus took the last swig of his whiskey and let the glass slip soundly from his hand, it seemed to almost fall in slow motion before them. The ice cubes reached the ground first with a clinking noise and as the glass hit it shattered into tiny crystalline pieces that should've been impossible without the inhuman strength he'd exerted upon it. The sound of the break echoed throughout the house and another scream was released. This one wrought with pain and the anguish of a woman breathing her last breath.

You could've heard a pin drop in the silence.

The door swung open and in walked in a young and fresh looking Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was holding the Goblin-made blade in his hand and crimson streaks were running from the tips of his forearm to his elbow. The smell of coppery blood permeated the air and it took all of his strength to stop him from vomiting on the wooden floor. Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a white kitchen rag, using it to slowly wipe the blood off his skin and cleanse the knife as best as possible. "The maid got in the way. She had to be taken care of".

"Edith", Mr. Riddle whispered in shock as a hand came to cover his gaping mouth and a lone tear dripped down his face. For a moment, Heleus felt bad for him.

But no. He couldn't. Because if this man and his son had tried to care for Merope Gaunt and her child then this monster would never be created. His wife would still be alive. Their own actions had condemned them to this fate and of that he was certain.

"Did you use your wand?" he inquired.

"Not at all, as per your request. Besides, I found the hands-on experience to be". He paused with an odd look on his face, "enlightening". His eyes snapped to the last remaining members of his muggle family and he brandished the knife once again. Then without any hesitation at all he slashed it through the air, cutting through the flesh of his father's neck. Blood sprayed everywhere from the open wound and splashed at his face and his clothes. He flinched back from it, standing as his chair flew to the other side of the room. He turned to the other man in shock as Tom simply stood there, knife clutched in hand, watching his own father die by his hand.

Then he turned to him, a smirk on his face, and held the handle out. "Your turn".

"I didn't sign up for this".

His lover stepped toward him, pressing the handle in his hand and grasping his wrist gently. He turned him towards Mr. Riddle with the knife blade still out and bought his mouth down to bite his lover's ear earning him a loud moan. "Come on. Once you get the hang of it it'll be easy as Lumos". He slowly eased the knife forward and they both watched as their entwined arms pushed the blade into Riddle's stomach and he let out a weak cry. Blood seeped out slowly, dripping only slightly onto his fingers as they pulled the knife away again.

His whole body froze as he stared down at the knife in his hands, it slipped away with a loud clatter to the floor and he stumbled down beside it. Strong arms came around him and cradled him to their chest as his breaths came raggedly and he began to hyperventilate. He was soothed slowly back to coherency and when he turned around to meet hazel eyes he found them to be cold and harsh. The hands that caressed him instead grabbed his chin in a bruising grip that wouldn't cease. "I didn't agree to this for you to turn into a blubbering girl. You're a wizard, act like one. This won't be the first time you'll be asked to kill and if you ever wish to stand by my side you'll have to learn to do it on your own without breaking down every time you say a spell. These emotions? They're weak. Cast them aside before I do the same to you". He was shoved harshly aside and stumbled quickly to his feet.

"Ready?"

He nodded sharply and was lead back into the kitchen where he was met with the sight of two freshly dead bodies, hacked into pieces.

"You said you had a plan?" Tom prodded.

"The knife?" he gestured with his hand and the Goblin blade was slipped between his fingers. The inscriptions no longer glowed as the runes had been de-activated, enabling it to function as a normal knife and to make wounds as usual.

A piece of wrapped up fabric was passed towards him and he unfolded it carefully to reveal the hunk of bloody flesh inside. He let it slip tot he floor with a grimace and went about the kitchen gathering what he needed. "There's an ancient Trojan ritual that they used to do. Groups of magical warriors would each cut off a piece of their own flesh and perform a sacred rite that would allow them to release the power from within it. Supposedly this combined power would be sacrificed to the God's in return for good fortune during their next battle." He began pouring herbs and salt over the flesh and then in a circle around it. He grabbed a bottle of fortified wine and downed half the bottle before pouring the rest on the floor and drawing crude letters in greek. "It's a bit impromptu but we're not trying to tempt the God's. All we really need to do is get enough magical essence out of this thing that the Aurors can easily trace the crime back to Morfin Gaunt."

"His signature will be over everything", Tom murmured in realization.

"And ours will not", he clarified in return before kneeling on the ground and planting his hands firmly on both sides of the ritual circle and began to chant quietly in Greek.

"Apó ti sárka sto aíma kai tin psychí Afíste aftí ti dýnami na sas réei me epithymía thysía Étsi óste i Magic na evimerísei gia álli mia forá", he continued onwards and the patterns on the floor began to glow a sickly green. Then from within the center of the circle particles began to swirl and form together, dancing in unison. They both lifted their hands to cover their faces as the particles exploded outwards in a clouded mass before drifting away into nothingness. The floor was left spotless.

Heleus hurried back into the other room where he dropped the knife haphazardly on the floor and tried to rearrange things in the room to make it appear as if there was more of a convincing struggle. When he stepped back once again the crime scene was complete and he could feel the thrum of weak almost squib-like magic floating through the air and dispersing throughout the house.

He stared down blankly at the dead body of Mr. Riddle and a hand closed forcefully around his upper arm. "Time to go". And then he was dragged out of the house by brute force. They walked a long way down country roads before it was deemed that they were far enough away to apparate. They parted without a goodbye and without the promise of further meetings, they both had much to contemplate.

He barely paid attention as the Daily Prophet hit the kitchen table with a plop in front of him and continued to munch away at his bagel.

The Black family was seated around the table for breakfast. Arcturus was perusing the finance section of the daily prophet and muttering quietly every once in a while about some kind of Norweigan clothes company that he didn't understand. His wife, Melania, was elegantly nibbling on a salmon cracker whilst reading the letters from her various pureblood friends. Orion, as of yet, had not been seen and it was presumed he was either still in bed or with his head in some tome in the library. Lucretia had just stormed into the kitchen and presented him nicely with a copy of the newspaper.

She stood expectantly with her hands on her hips, waiting for him to read. With a sigh, he lifted up the paper and began to read.

The image was one he recognized instantly. The Riddle manor in its prestigious glory was pictured in the typical black and white of wizarding pictures. You could see the wind gust by and the occasional rustle of trees.

THE LAST GAUNT TO BE SENTENCED TO AZKABAN

He didn't dare read the rest, for he knew exactly what the words would be and it was an experience he'd rather forget.

"I'm not sure whether you're aware of this", Lucretia said slowly as she took a seat opposite him. "But in Britain, the ministry has ways to detect magical frequencies. It's supposed to only pick up on underage magic but its general purpose is to detect anomalies. Magic appearing in areas where it shouldn't do. Which is why underage magic usually goes undetected in wizarding homes or places like Diagon Alley."

He lifted his eyes carefully to look at her from across the table. "We have a similar scheme in Greece", he allowed a small smirk to come over his face. "Ours is far more effective".

Lucretia's face didn't move a single muscle as she retained her perfectly honed pureblood masks. "There was little to no magic detected in Little Hangleton for years. Nothing larger than weak spells. Then one day, part of the village lights up like a Christmas tree and when the Aurors come knocking they find that". She flipped the page over to a picture of a bloody living room and two dead bodies with wide, glazed eyes. "Their name was Riddle".

He said nothing, remained completely silent but he could see from the corner of his eye that the topic of conversation had drawn Melania and Arcturus' attention towards them. When his eyes met Lucretia's her brows were drawn with a look fo stress and concentration on her face.

"You were talking to him on the last day of school. I saw it. You've talked to him before but...I could tell this was different", her eyes by now were completely steely. "If you know anything about this, Heleus. You must tell me now. I won't let you and Cygnus be involved in such affairs any longer if it is so."

"Lucretia", her mother spoke softly as she placed her food back on her plate gently. "You wouldn't be accusing your cousin of such unsavory things. You ought to know better".

"No", she growled. "He ought to understand the difference between polite company and a psychopath. I've tried to talk to Cygnus and he won't listen and it seems neither will Heleus so it's up to me, up to the family, to right these wrongs. You must understand me mother, this is of the utmost importance!"

"That is enough", Arcturus stated as he placed his paper down at the table with an air of finality. "I put full trust in the Lords of the Wizengamot. If this man is to be sentenced to Azkaban then he must be guilty and your accusations unfounded. Lucretia, you would do best to not paint your family in such a bad light. Both Cygnus and Heleus are old enough to make their own decisions and intelligent enough to know what is right. Don't question that".

Lucretia's pale face blossomed bright red at the cheeks and she stood abruptly, storming out the kitchen and slamming the door behind her.

Arcturus turned to him with a forceful expression, "It would do you well not to try and prove me wrong".

"Of course not sir", he replied solemnly and returned his gaze back to his food. The image on the paper not quite leaving his mind.