You look mighty like that Muggle

Chapter 3: Tom Riddle

He'd looked at the timetable – there's only one train a day to Great Hangleton, it's a branch line - he'd known that he'd get there late in the day and it's a six mile walk to Little Hangleton, so he'd packed a lantern. Apparation is out of the question, the basic principles are simple enough, Destination, Determination, Deliberation, but he doesn't have a licence, he doesn't turn seventeen until December and this is only the second week of August. And he doesn't want to get an owl from the Office for the Improper Use of Magic, he doesn't want to blot his copybook, he doesn't want anyone to get the wrong idea about Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school Prefect, model student ...

And he doesn't want anyone getting their hands on his diary, either, not the precious diary to which he's entrusted the memories that prove that he's the true Heir of Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four. He'd almost gone too far, thank Merlin he'd written to Dippet about staying at Hogwarts over the summer holidays, or he might not have found out that the Ministry was so panicked that it was actually planning to close Hogwarts - but the Headmaster had been pathetically eager to hush it all up, pathetically eager to believe that Slytherin's monster was Hagrid's Acromantula, as if the great oaf had the brains, or the power to open the Chamber of Secrets! Dippet is an idiot, they're all idiots – Dippet, Slughorn, Merrythought – they're all idiots, except Dumbledore, who seems to watch him constantly.

Dippet had said special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances - and so just because a Mudblood had been killed he'd been stuck at the orphanage for yet another summer, unable to do magic! He'd been stuck at the orphanage, when he could have been at Hogwarts, free to explore the castle at his leisure - the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic, he's opened the Chamber of Secrets but there are still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap ...

But at least in the orphanage he can read, and he's not limited to the sort of books they have at Hogwarts, even in the Restricted Section. One of the books he'd bought in Knockturn Alley had mentioned Horcruxes, just a brief, tantalising reference, but he'd known in the very depths of his soul that this was powerful magic, the most powerful kind of magic, the kind of magic that can make you immortal. And when he's back at Hogwarts he'll find a way to coax the information out of Horace Slughorn, who has a weakness for crystallised pineapple - and for clever, handsome, charming teenage boys.

Yes, Slughorn has a weakness for him, and so does that doddery old fool Dippet – and then he'd remembered that Dippet had asked him if he was a Mudblood, everyone who knows about the orphanage thinks that he must be a Mudblood, the first Mudblood ever to be Sorted into Slytherin. As if he, a Parselmouth, the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen, could be a Mudblood!

He'd said, Half-blood, sir, Muggle father, witch mother, but he'd nearly choked on the words, because a half-blood is only one step up from a filthy Mudblood. And it was his mother who was the magic one, because he'd searched through the shields in the trophy room and the lists of prefects and even the old copies of the Daily Prophet in the library, and he'd found no Tom Riddle, no Riddles of any kind, until finally, in desperation, he'd searched Apollyon Pringle's detention records and that's where he'd found the name he wasn't looking for – Marvolo Gaunt.

He'd never heard of the Gaunts, they aren't one of the prominent, wealthy, pure-blood families who give generously to good causes like St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and are constantly mentioned in the pages of the Daily Prophet, but he'd looked them up in the old wizarding genealogies and he'd found out that the Gaunts have something far more valuable than a Gringotts vault full of fat yellow Galleons – the Gaunts are an ancient family, older even than the Malfoys or the Blacks, they can trace unbroken descent from Salazar Slytherin himself, who'd come to England a thousand years ago in the time of William the Conqueror.

So the mystery of his parentage was solved, but it only gave rise to another mystery - his mother was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, so why had she lowered herself to marry a Muggle, when she must have known that her name would be scorched from the family tapestry? And why had his mother allowed herself to die in that foul Muggle orphanage? She was a witch, but she'd died, and no one had even known her name – but his name will never be forgotten, his name will be a name that wizards everywhere will one day fear to speak. Not, of course, the name of the lowly, dirt-veined Muggle who'd fathered him, but his true name, known only to his most intimate friends.

Thinking about his intimate friends had made him frown, they're easy enough to control while they're in the Slytherin dormitory, constantly under his eye, but he needs a way to bind them to him that will hold even after they leave Hogwarts, a way to bind them to him in the way that house elves are bound to their family ... and then the train had pulled into York, he'd noticed the bomb damage and remembered the Blitz - the heavy bombing hadn't started until September, until after he'd left for Hogwarts, but the other half-bloods and the Mudbloods had talked of nothing else but the Muggle war, and how Grindelwald had set his Muggles on to fight with all the others. And they still talk of nothing else, even though it's clear that the war won't come to England now, the Allies have bombed Cologne and Hamburg and Dusseldorf, and Berlin will be next, but that won't end the war - Grindelwald will make the Muggles fight to the bitter end.

And he rather admires Grindelwald, he can't help but be impressed by how one wizard and a handful of devoted followers has set the whole Muggle world on fire. The scheme was ingenious in its simplicity, really, Grindelwald had barely needed to raise his wand to slaughter Muggles by the millions - the Muggles had been eager enough to do the job themselves, with a little encouragement. All Grindelwald needed to do was put a few of the more important Muggles under the Imperius Curse, and keep other wizards from meddling in his fun. And why does Dumbledore want to meddle in the Muggle war, anyway? Grindelwald will kill that Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore, if he interferes - and that was a pleasant thought. Then he'd forgotten about the Muggle war, because he had to change trains for Great Hangleton, but there was nothing great about the place when he got there, it was the kind of insignificant little town where milk churns are left on the siding.

He'd set off for Little Hangleton, but the Muggles had pulled down all the road signs and he'd taken a wrong turning at a cross-roads and ended up on the wrong side of the valley, at a big house with manicured lawns. He'd known that it couldn't be the house of Gaunt - a wizard house of that size would be Unplottable, and a man who was clearly a Muggle was engaged in some kind of gardening work – but he'd looked over the gate and considered asking for directions, and then he'd heard the snake whispering in the ditch ... and he'd never have found the place if it weren't for the snakes.

He'd been unpleasantly surprised by the small size and rundown condition of the house, and puzzled by the lack of magical protections - it wasn't warded at all - he'd wondered if the place was abandoned, so he'd knocked on the door and pushed it open without waiting for an answer. By the light of the lantern and the one guttering candle he'd seen that the house was in a disgusting state, and he'd thought for a moment that the man with overgrown hair and beard slumped in an armchair by the unlit fireplace and surrounded by a litter of bottles was a Muggle tramp, but when the man staggered upright, he had a wand in his hand - he must be a wizard.

"YOU!" the man had bellowed, and hurtled drunkenly at him, wand and knife in hand – and he'd spoken in his own language, in Parseltongue, and the man had skidded into the table, and stared at him in drunken bewilderment.

He'd stepped into the room, taking in the missing teeth, the small, dark, squinting eyes – and the filth – and he'd thought, this is a pure-blood wizard? This is a Gaunt?

He'd asked about his grandfather, Marvolo is dead, died years ago, and the man seemed to be telling the truth, though it was hard to tell – he couldn't see into the fellow's eyes, not with that curtain of matted hair hanging over his face - so who was this man? He'd asked who he was – Morfin, a son of Marvolo, and Morfin had pushed his hair out of his face, and he'd seen the gold ring with the black stone on Morfin's right hand – he'd been interested in that at once, but before he could ask about the ring, Morfin had whispered, "I thought you was that Muggle, you look mighty like that Muggle."

He forgotten the ring then, asked, "What Muggle?", and looked into Morfin's eyes - he can see what's passing through someone's mind without using his wand, he only needs the spell if he wants to rifle about in the subject's memories – he'd seen a glimpse of a girl in a ragged dress, staring yearningly out a window, and a handsome dark-haired young man on a chestnut horse. The man had his face, and he'd known that he was seeing his father, the fool of a Muggle, and his mother – and she'd been just as big a fool, she'd loved him. Loved him! She'd run after a Muggle for love!

Morfin had spoken again, "That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way." – and he'd known without asking that Morfin meant the big house with the manicured lawns – "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, i'n 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it ..."

He'd seen that Morfin was struggling to remember how many years it's been since he came back from Azkaban – and that was an interesting piece of information, Morfin is known to the Ministry, Morfin is a convicted Muggle-hater ...

"He come back, see," Morfin had added – and he'd moved a little closer, he hadn't given Riddle a thought since he discovered that his mother was a witch, he'd assumed that Riddle must be dead, too – and asked "Riddle came back?"

Morfin had said, "Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!" and spat on the floor. So Riddle had abandoned his mother, did he know what she was? Riddle had left his wife to die a pauper, did Riddle hate magic? Fear magic?

Morfin had spoken again, "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?" and he'd seen an image of a heavy gold locket bearing the mark of Slytherin, but there is another treasure, the ring, the gold ring with the black stone, engraved with the Peverell coat of arms - and then Morfin had brandished his knife and shouted, "Dishonoured us, she did, that little slut! And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit ... it's over ..."

He'd pulled out his wand, he'd heard enough of Morfin's ramblings, Morfin must be a mental defective if he can't make the connection between a boy who speaks Parseltongue and the sister who'd run off with a Muggle – and he'd already decided what he's going to do, because he doesn't need a family to become the greatest wizard, the most powerful sorcerer who has ever lived. No, Lord Voldemort doesn't need a family, and he certainly doesn't need a family that includes the Muggle Tom Riddle or the half-wit Morfin Gaunt.

And now he's in the drawing room of the Riddle House, the two men and the woman are looking shaken rather than outraged by the intrusion – they're not too stupid or too drunk to make the link between the boy with the Riddle good looks and the village witch, and they're afraid. He'll give them another reason to be afraid of magic before he kills them, so he points Morfin's wand at the piano in the corner of the room and causes it to burst into flames, enjoys the look of terror on their faces for a moment and then douses the flames, leaving the piano completely undamaged.

Then he points his uncle's wand at the younger of the two men, he's never used the curse before but he understands the theory - the Killing Curse is comparable to the Patronus Charm, the Patronus requires you to concentrate on a single, very happy memory, and conversely, the Avada Kedavra requires you to concentrate on a memory that inspires hate and anger, to focus such a memory, and he knows that to cast the spell, you must really mean it, you must really want to kill. He summons his most hated, humiliating memory, the memory of Dumbledore at the orphanage, forcing him to open the cardboard box full of trophies - he can feel a tremendous burst of magical energy surging through every particle of his body, and it's going to be easy to say the words that will stop his father's heart, it's going to be a pleasure to destroy the fool who gave him his name.