When The Sun Goes Down
The sun was sinking over Little Hangleton, and the sky above the village was streaked with pink and orange. The ancient ring on Morfin Gaunt's finger gleamed like new as the light fell upon it, but its owner, unconscious and oblivious on the kitchen floor, couldn't see it, nor could he feel the warmth that lingered on his skin. In fact, Morfin Gaunt was one of perhaps four people in Little Hangleton who did not appreciate the fine summer's evening. Frank Bryce, an elderly gardener, was another. Hobbling into his kitchen, Frank cursed the weather, because he felt not the balmy breeze but the underlying chill. There was a dull ache deep in his leg, an ache foreboding pain. The heat would drop quickly out of the day, and the night would be cold. Frank's leg was never wrong.
Unbeknownst to Frank, another man, not so far away, also cursed the pretty summer's night. Tom Riddle, fastening his jacket in front of the mirror, found his fingers fumbling unconsciously over the buttons. He didn't see the sunlight that gilded the mirror, and ignored the amber light it cast as it shone through the crystal decanter on his dressing table. He simply stared, unseeing, at his reflection in the mirror, lost in memories of another pretty summer's night, sixteen years ago. Then, he had left the noise and fog of London behind him and come home to Little Hangleton, where everything took on the quality of a dream. Just a hazy, half-forgotten nightmare, he thought, pouring himself another glass of brandy.
Outside, a very real nightmare was moving closer. This nightmare was the last person unmoved by the fine weather. Tom Riddle Jr walked slowly, twirling a slim wooden baton idly between his fingers. To the casual observer, he seemed utterly calm. Just a teenage boy lost in contemplation, walking, perhaps, without a fixed destination in mind. Only the setting sun seemed to refute this. The bloody light lent his normally pale complexion an unusually flushed appearance, and his eyes gleamed oddly. But the casual observer would have dismissed this. They would never have suspected Tom Riddle's murderous intent, and would have put the oddity down to a trick of the light. An optical illusion, that's all, much like the one that made the windows of the big house gleam gold. This was the thought that ran through the mind of Frank Bryce - the only person to see the boy – as he filled his kettle and hunted for a hot water bottle to ease the stiffness in his knee. He never saw Tom enter the house and Tom, lost in thought, didn't see him either.
Sarah Parks, maid at the Riddle House, paused briefly as she set out the fine silver for dinner. Had the door just opened? No, she decided at last. It was the wind, nothing more. Upstairs, white-haired Mary Riddle stopped suddenly in the act of fastening a necklace. Her husband, sneaking a glass of brandy behind her back, frowned at her. "Problem, darling?" he asked lightly, nudging the bottle out of view. His wife shook her head. "No, not really," she said faintly. "Just . . . a shiver, that's all. Someone walking over my grave . . . . ."
In the shadowy hallway, Tom pulled slowly away from the room. There was no need to kill the old people, or at least, no need to kill them yet. No. He could wait. First of all he had to see their son, Tom Riddle, the filthy Muggle who had marred the noble bloodline of Salazar Slytherin. "That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to . . . . he come back, see. . . ." Tom swallowed, willing away the words of Morfin Gaunt. His hands, inexplicibly, were shaking. Ridiculous. Why should he be nervous? After all, it would hardly be the first time he'd killed. Not when you looked at it rationally. Surely that Myrtle girl's death was murder. Yes. The Basilisk had killed on his orders, therefore he had murdered. The thought cheered him slightly. Yes. Murder was nothing new, and the identity of his chosen victims was irrelevent. He had chosen them only for the perverse yet pleasant symmetry they provided. Today, if all went according to plan, he would close one chapter of his life forever, and another would begin. Tom Riddle would be dead, in every manner of speaking, and Slytherin's heir would become Lord Voldemort, immortal and invulnerable and greater than any wizard living.
Quietly and carefully, he stepped into the room he'd purposefully left till last. Inside was a man – just a man. Middle-aged now, or thereabouts, but still handsome, with dark hair and high, sharp cheekbones. He was clad in dinner things, his tie hanging slack and shirt tails half tucked in. There were worry lines around his eyes and oddly enough, his fingernails were peeling. But these were the only chinks in an otherwise immaculate facade. Looking at him, Tom realized with a jolt, was like looking into a slightly skewed mirror – little differences, here and there, but other than that . . . . They were identical. Every feature Tom had ever liked in himself was stamped indelibly on this man's face, and it was sickening. Tom had honestly never hated himself as much as he did in that moment. He wanted to lash out in anger, to punch and pummell and jinx and hex until every inch of that face was broken and battered and bent out of shape.
Riddle spun round at the sound of the door opening, a half-empty glass in his hand. Who could that that be? After all, even his parents wouldn't enter his private rooms without knocking. The blood drained from his face as his eyes met those of the boy edging towards him.
"You are Tom Riddle?" the boy asked. He had a strange, rigid way of speaking, too formal for one so young. Riddle nodded. His head was spinning, but he felt oddly calm.
"I knew you'd come," he said hoarsely. "I always knew you'd find me."
His words had a profound effect on the boy, who reeled from them as though Riddle had physically struck him.
"You . . . you knew?" he managed at last. "You knew when you left that she was . . .that I was . . ." He trailed off, staring blindly into the distance. His hands were shaking. After a moment, with obvious effort, he pulled himself together. "It doesn't matter," he said coldly, raising his wand. "It doesn't make any difference . . .whether or not you wanted me . . .I mean, the idea . . .that I would . . . .care-" He laughed in a manner that seemed decidedly insane.
As Tom composed himself, Riddle's eyes dropped to the wand aimed at his chest, and he gave a strange, hollow laugh.
"Oh," he said. "I see now. You're just like her, aren't you?" When Tom simply stared at him, his handsome features marred by an expression of intense hatred, Riddle continued, answering his own question. "Of course you are," he said unhappily. "I mean, how could you not be? All that . . weirdness . . .and unnaturalness – and no-one believed me. They all thought I was mad, when I told them . . .so after a while, I stopped trying to tell them. Some days, I even wondered myself – I thought I was going mad. My parents," he went on, "thought that she'd come here. For the money, you know? But I always knew she'd look after her own . . ."
"She didn't," Tom said harshly, his fingers tightening abruptly on his wand. "She died."
Riddle frowned. "No," he said slowly. "That's . . .that's impossible. She can't be dead. I mean . . .she had . . .magic." He grimaced at the word.
Tom scowled. "She's dead," he snapped. He opened his mouth, about to say something else, but then a knock sounded, and he froze. Pointing the wand at himself, he vanished from view. Riddle crossed to the door, but just as his fingers wrapped around the handle he felt something hard press into the small of his back. "Open it," a quiet voice hissed in his ear. "Send her away." Shaking now, he opened the door.
The maid, Sarah, stood in the hall. She blushed scarlet at the sight of him and bobbed an unneccessary curtsey. "H-hello, Mr. Riddle, sir," she said, stumbling over her words. "Dinner's ready, if you want it. The master and the missus are waiting for you downstairs." She hesitated. "Er . . are you alright sir? Pardon me for mentioning it, but you seem a bit out of sorts." It was true. The handsome young master was unnaturally pale, and his forehead was shining with a layer of cold sweat.
Struck with a sudden inspiration, Riddle plastered on a smile. "Just a headache," he said quickly. "I'm fine. As a matter of fact, I was just thinking . . . .you should have the rest of the day off."
The girl frowned, perplexed. "But sir," she said awkwardly, "I still have work to do . . ."
Riddle felt his smile freeze in place. He forced himself to laugh, ignoring the sweat that was dripping onto his collar. "I insist," he said forcefully. "Here – I'll walk you to the door."
"Really? I mean, you don't have to . . ." The girl still looked dubious as he steered her down the stairs. And the boy was still there . . . Silent and invisible, his footsteps made no noise as he followed them down the stairs but the pressure of his wand digging into the older man's back never faltered. Finally, pulling the front door open, Riddle saw his chance. The boy was forced to take a step back . Slamming the front door behind the maid, Riddle sprinted into the dining room.
"Tom? What on earth are you – Tom!" The old woman screamed as her son fell to the floor with a cry of shock. Her husband got to his feet with an inarticulate shout of rage.
"Who are you?" he shouted as a pale, dark-haired teenage boy entered the room, a cruel smile on his face and some sort of stick in his hand. "What the devil do you mean by this?"
The boy only gave a high, cold laugh. "Where are my manners?" he said, smiling maliciously. "I suppose I should have mentioned it earlier – I'm here to kill you all. By the way," he added, kicking the man on the ground as he tried to get up, "that was very noble of you, I'm sure. Saving the girl. I'm sure she appreciates it." He gave that odd, manical laugh again. "Avada Kedavra!"
Mrs Riddle screamed as a jet of vivid green light hit her son square in the chest, right over his heart.
"Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!"
Tom laughed as his wand slashed through the air and blinding green light filled the room thrice over, like distress flares, like unseen, flaming fireworks.
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Some hours later, an inky darkness fell, and a full moon rose over Little Hangleton. It was huge and perfectly round, like a large silver coin, and everything its rays fell upon was gilded silver too. The Riddle family, lying dead in their dinner things, looked like a set of silver-haired statues, their open eyes gleaming blankly. Frank Bryce, safe in his little cottage in the grounds, was snoring softly, glad of the respite from pain sleep offered him. Morfin Gaunt, spread-eagled on the floor of the shack he called home, groaned as the hard silver light fell upon his face. Suddenly aware of the cold, his eyelids flickered in response and he sat up groggily, clutching his head and trying to unravel the strange flood of memories filling his mind.
Far away in London, the moon was partly veiled in fog. Its light here was dim and misty, but still the molten silver poured down upon the city and the light streamed in through the window of Mrs Cole's orphanage, to shine upon the pale-faced boy lying on the bare wooden boards. Tom Riddle Jr's skin glowed deathly white in it, and his eyes shone in perfect imitation of the moon overhead.
Tom's hand was curled on his chest, and his breathing was ragged, because his heart ached. It was an awful, deep-set pain, and he doubted it would ever truly fade. Marvolo Gaunt's ring lay on the floor beside him, the stone in it an empty, fathomless black.
Alone in the room, drenched in silverly light, Lord Voldemortlaughed and laughed.