Disclaimer : I don't own Harry Potter or any of it's characters. All rights belong to JK Rowling.

The Ceremony

The Fall of the House of Riddle

Tom stared at Morfin Gaunt's stunned body. He gazed around the Gaunt shack with revulsion and disappointment. There were no vestiges of any Slytherin glory here. A wasteful, useless sputtering man who was filthy and deranged was all that was left. He had dwelled so long and so hard on the Gaunts, he had known that they were struggling and that they were forgotten but this filth and this waste was impossible for him to accept. His mind went over the conversation he shared with him. The single phrase kept ringing in his years…

"You look mighty like that old Muggle!"

His hand gripped his wand tight and his breathing became hard. He walked to the door and opened it and gazed distantly, that house which he had longed and admired was the house of his father. My father, a muggle. He walked to Morfin and collected his wand. It felt stiff in his hands as if it didn't belong there but he knew that it would be for the best if he kept his wand untainted by what was in store for the Riddles. At least for now, he thought to himself, when I use the other name…but before that. He walked the trail he had trudged with a single minded determination and purpose. His mind was clear and cool. His indifference was something of a surprise. He had read about the curse in books, he knew the score and yet it surprised (and pleased) him to find no weakness inside him, no resistance. It was part of his destiny. He realized that the hours, days and years he spent dwelling on his family, on Slytherin and the Gaunts were only a step in a finely designed plan.

Plan, he thought quizzically. No. A ceremony. A rite in a grand ceremony. And it was necessary to complete this rite to continue with the ceremony.

It mattered for him to know about them. To know of his mother and his father, of his forbears. He had to know about them if he had to shed them. He had to learn if he had to surpass them. He had to go beyond them. Marvolo Gaunt, the last patriarch of the family was dead. His son was a wastrel mutant. His daughter died disowned and dishonoured. And yet there are still remains to be cleansed away.

He had never done what he was about to do before. He had read about the most dangerous and forbidden curse in magical history and he knew the theory to perform it. He knew that it took nerve, it took power and yet as he began climbing the steep journey towards the large house that he now knew belonged to his family, he felt certain that it would not be difficult.

So dear Daddy's a Muggle after all. He had inherited his name and now…he's been alive all along, living here in this splendour while he was wasting away in an orphanage. He will pay hissed the cold voice within him.

The gates of the mansion were open and Tom sneaked in effortlessly. The garden surrounding the house was rich and well maintained. He looked around the area and his eyes stopped towards a gardener in the area. He was pruning flowers with a pair of hedge clippers. As if he felt his gaze he turned to face him. His eyes narrowed as he looked at him. Tom stood his ground as the gardener walked towards him.

"What business do you have with the Riddle House?" he asked gruffly.

His grey eyes stared into the gardener's face coolly, "I didn't know they called it that!"

The gardener screwed up his face and then added, "One of them students, aren't you? Interested in how big and old this is. Well Mr. and Mrs. Riddle won't have any visitors anytime soon." He paused and then added, "But their son Tom might show you stuff later."

"Son Tom?" he asked seriously.

"Well he's a bit old to be called that now, but then he's been living here with his parents ever since…" he trailed off.

Tom stared into the old gardener's eyes. He saw an old couple in outrage, he saw an ugly woman in revolting clothes embracing a handsome man in a luxury car. They looked like newlyweds. He didn't know what those images meant clearly but he understood what they implied. His father had caused a scandal marrying a poor tramp's daughter. Probably played with her for a joke and then took her in and then left her to die when she was pregnant with me, hissed the voice within him.

Tom nodded to the gardener and walked out of the gates. But he didn't go back to the village. He had enduring capacity for patience. He held Morfin's wand and cast a disillusionment charm on himself. He was invisible even to his own eyes. He walked through the gates, softly and silently as the gardener returned to his chores. He walked along the porch towards an entrance. This was a servant's entrance, he deduced. It was a bare room containing boxes, cleaning equipment, buckets and a mower. He walked through a door and found a stairway. He walked up and entered through an open door. His mind was full of chaos and anticipation. He entered the drawing room and looked around.

His mind was entirely objective. His eyes followed a staircase leading to a landing above. It then trailed to two entrances outside the room. He cast the revealing spell – the one that told you if anyone was in a place, hidden or not and where they were. Sure enough, he felt them through Morfin's wand – the presence of body heat from three containers coming from the entrance diagonal to where he was standing. He walked in that direction, softly and silently, his mind free of all angst and sense of righteous anger.

He entered into a dining room. There were three people seated closely at the end of a long table. He stared at them, scanning every detail. The old man had a finely combed hair style and was dressed in a well refined black suit; his wife's hair was elegantly bunched with jewels. His eyes reached the young man.

The same hair, though his is lighter, the same eyes, the same handsome face.

"So Tom, dearest, are you quite sure about going through with this?" asked the old woman, smiling indulgently on her son.

"Yes mother," nodded Tom Riddle Sr. This imbecile is my father! Still coddled by Mummy and Daddy. He sneered at the family. And this is what every precious boy and girl in that filthy bin daddy left me in wants.

The old man began, "You know, son, I think that this time you shall be rewarded with happiness."

"Yes, your father should know," the old woman said dryly. "He went through a divorce before he found me."

"Marianne will make a proud daughter-in-law!" supplied her husband with a smile. "And you can finally but that dreadful incident with that girl behind you."

"It is behind me," said Tom Riddle Sr. firmly.

"No it isn't!"

All three Riddles jumped and stared at the entrance of the dining room.

"Who is it?" asked the old man authoritatively.

Tom waved his wand and the disillusionment charm was lifted. The three muggles stared blankly at the young man before them, who seemed to have materialized out of nothing. Tom Riddle Sr. looked horrified. A look of recognition appeared on his face as he drank in the image of the man before him. The young man was dressed in a black shirt and trousers, coated by a grey coat. The father stared at the young man's appearance, his face so like that of his younger days. It can't be.

"Just who are you supposed to be, young man?" asked his father sternly. "This is private property; you are neither allowed here nor were you invited."

"What's your name, Muggle?" breathed Tom furiously.

"Muggle?" asked the father strangely.

"It means," staggered Riddle, Sr. "It means that he's a wizard and we are not."

Tom smiled coldly, "So Daddy remembers."

The older Riddles looked at each other shocked at the revelation. They looked at their son in search of answers. The two Tom Riddles stared at each other face to face; the father then turned forcefully towards his parents and said, "He's her son."

Their eyes widened. The old woman stared at the young man and then said, "How did you find us?"

Tom looked at the woman pitilessly. They expected him and his mother to disappear, to fade away into the past. He waved his wand once, casting a powerful silencing charm around the room. Wouldn't do good to draw attention. Best keep it quiet and private.

"Crucio" he hissed out. He watched in grim satisfaction as the old woman writhed on the floor in searing pain like an electrocuted animal, her screams were followed by screams from both her husband and her son. He stopped and then said angrily, "I'll ask the questions. What are your names, Muggle?"

Tom Riddle Sr. faced his son and said, "My parents are Thomas and Mary Riddle and my name is Tom Riddle."

"That's strange," hissed Tom coldly. "My name is Tom Riddle too. Tom Marvolo Riddle. My mother died giving birth to me and in her final moments she insisted that I be named Tom after you."

His father's face grimaced in pain but he gathered resolve and answered, "She tricked me. I didn't know what she did but she made me think I was in love with her. As if I'd want to marry a tramp like that…she told me what she was, she said she could do magic but that I was a muggle...I thought I was going crazy…she said she was pregnant and I didn't believe her, I ran." He paused staring at his son in fear, "Magic's real then, isn't it?"

Tom stared at him for a long moment before saying, "I'll show you."

He pointed his wand to the old Mr. Riddle who was tending to his unconscious wife and said, "Avada Kedavra."

It was something else to see it, he thought. To see that rushing, force of green light thrust into a body. To see the body fall on the ground, dead before the drop to the floor. He felt the power building inside him, he felt it deep inside him, and it flooded through the wand and lit the room in a blaze of deadly green.

On seeing the unmoving body of his father, Riddle Sr. went towards it and tried to make it move but to no avail. His mother was seated unconsciously on the floor, still reeling from the torture she recieved at the boy's hands.

"Don't bother, he's dead," breathed Tom pitilessly. He pointed his wand towards his unconscious grandmother and in another fury of green, she was dead as well. The power he had felt from releasing the curse was intoxicating, he thought. The pure pleasure of dictating death with six syllables, of a single cutting calibration of wand, achieved by a desire to kill, a hatred for the fellow man's life. Yet he noticed that his breathing had become drier, his sense of smell seemed obscure and his ears registered Tom Riddle Sr.'s shocked outrage with little sonic difference than the sound of the clock ticking in the corner, the sound of the curtains fluttering. So it does happen, he thought surprised. He had assumed that the magical belief of cold blooded killing tarnishing the human soul was a superstition for the gullible and the weak but the loss of sensual differentiation had shown otherwise.

It can wear off, he thought lazily.Best complete the job at hand however.

His thoughts were broken off when a hand grabbed at his feet. He stared below to see his father staring up at him, his eyes broken and pleading. "You didn't h—have to kill them. They didn't know she was p-p-pregnant. Please bring them back."

"Bring who back," asked Tom haughtily.

"Them…" shrieked his father in anguish, "Raise them from the dead."

Tom stared into his father's eyes, broken, defeated and impotent and then spoke out slowly, relishing the anguish of the wretched muggle, "Nothing can raise the dead, Muggle. Magic is for the living people. The dead are gone and they stay gone."

Riddle stared into his son's twisted face, the chaos in the grey eyes he had inherited from him. "You are going to kill me." Riddle didn't answer. "I'm your father, Tom," his son's eyes flashed angrily at the sound of his name. "Please don't kill me…s-she wouldn't have wanted it."

Riddle laughed. It was a high cold laugh that rang menacingly, "Does Daddy think I love Mummy? You think I cared for that deluded wretch who dishonoured the Slytherin name by polluting his final heir with your blood. You think I care for that, now. She was a fool. A fool deluded by fancies she claimed was love." His father winced. "No, Muggle, this is solely between you and me. You knew about me, didn't you? You knew that she was pregnant when you left her, didn't you?"

"I t-t-thought she was lying…"

"LIAR" yelled out Tom furiously, his eyes wild with rage and pain. His father cowered away like a needled rat. He had never seen nor felt hatred such as the one in his own son's face, the face so like his own.

He screamed and yelled in vain, no one would hear him. "Yes," he yelped desperately, "I knew that she was pregnant, she told me what she was…I didn't understand anything. I thought I had woken up from sleep…I found her near me and she told me that she was my wife. I never wanted to marry her, I never loved her. She said she was a witch and that she was pregnant. I saw her belly. She told me it would be mine. I ran away, came back here. I have never left this village since then."

Tom's cool composure cracked and the righteous fury and sense of abandonment that filled the young orphan burst out, "You never stopped to think how I was, did you Muggle? Never checked to see if I was alive. Probably hoped that she died somewhere with me inside. Hope she fell and drowned in a swamp." His eyes were wide and furious as he saw his father cowering to his feet. "I was living in that filthy bin all by myself while you lounged in your happy home, with your mommy and daddy."

Riddle Sr. hissed furiously and he glared at his son, the fear and humiliation had been replaced by the rage that welled within him, "You are nothing but a thing, a freak of nature. A monster. Yes, I hoped you were dead, boy. I hoped that both of you were gone." He spat out venomously. "Your mother's family were a pack of tramps. Parasites they were, living of snakes and weeds." His eyes blazed as he rose to his feet and faced his son, who had returned like a plague from the past just when his bright future was settled. "You won't get away with this. My family is the most respected in the Hangleton area and we have friends in London. I can make a call to Winston Churchill and he'll drop the war just to talk cricket with me. What are you? A filthy orphan boy, you are."

Riddle felt the power burning within him, the words on his lips all that he needed was a flick of the wand but he waited, it would not be prudent to rush.

"Silly foolish girl, pined after me she did. I saw her staring at me every time I passed that hole she called home. I use to pass by sometimes just to watch those eyes light up," he smirked. "But she snaked me in somehow, got me to marry her and slopped all over me for days and days," Riddle Sr, took the same relish from watching the indignation on his son's face as the latter had when he stood over him crying over his parents' body. "It comes back sometimes in nasty dreams. There were times with her I thought I was myself, I'd see her loom above me and but I couldn't feel a thing. Must be one of them pills she put in my cup, my friends in college talked about using them on some girls. Ha ha … it works on men too." He wavered slightly and then smiled insanely, half made with pain and revenge, "Imagine that, you're nothing but a…popped pill."

Riddle was finished suffering his father's spite. "AVADA KEDAVRA."

He stared at the floor. All three bodies were piled haphazardly. The parents formed an awkward cross over each other. His father was stumped on the floor. As he turned their bodies over, he was pleased to see the look of fear in their eyes. He had done it right then. He examined himself, noticing how numb his toes and fingers felt. The wave of hatred he had unleashed through his wand had cost him slightly.

His mind immediately returned to the matter at hand. He had considered the fact that his murders of the Riddle might attract attention as he walked along from the Gaunt house to the mansion. Using his Uncle's wand made things clear and simple for the Ministry. All they had to do was reverse the spells used and they'd find their answers. All he had to do was fix Morfin so that he says what he says. He levitated the three corpses and brought them into the living room. He lined them up on the floor. He returned to the dining table and cleared any physical evidence that the Riddles had been eating in the room. Tom's Muggle upbringing had allowed him knowledge of some of the police methods in searching for information and he knew that the Muggles had ways of sensing if some other person was in the room or not. Now it was impossible.

He placed another disillusionment charm and stared one last time at his victims before exiting the same way he had come. The silencing charm he placed had ensured that no one outside had listened to a single word that had been spoken inside the house. His revealing spell had told him that the Riddles were the only one inside the house and the only servant was the gardener…he stared at the gardener who was sitting on a lawn chair resting and eating, his hedge clippers on the chair. Riddle walked out of the building and began walking to the Gaunt shack.

He had stayed in the village for three days as he had told Mrs. Cole and used the bus fare she had given to book one back to London on the third day. He had little intention of drawing attention to himself by using magic so soon after the murders. He had been careful not to tell her which village he had gone to. The only connection to Little Hangleton that could be traced to him was the doctor he had contacted by phone but no one else had seen him there except for the gardener.

The two days he had passed in Little Hangleton allowed him to survey the impact of his actions. The Muggles in the village had gone in a frenzy as he had expected and Frank Bryce, the gardener was taken for questioning. He had been wary when the gardener mentioned seeing him in the vicinity but no one else had as he had been careful to avoid meeting people in the village. He had watched from a safe distance as wizards had come to the Gaunt house and taken Morfin out of the shack with a portkey. It had been child's play modifying his memory and feeding him the screams and faces of the Riddles, the sound and colour of the curses and of course obliviating his sole visit to his uncle. The only object which tied him to Little Hangleton was the ring. From breaking into his mind he had found out that this was Marvolo Gaunt's ring, a family heirloom. He had also known now of a lost heirloom, a locket which belonged to Slytherin which his mother had taken with her when she had left. He examined the ring softly in the palm of his hand as he stood in the crowd thronged outside the town hall where the aldermen were giving a speech about the loss of the Riddles. The small stone on the ring was not a precious stone nor did it seem to contain any magical properties. Maybe it did once before it got cracked. In the centre of the stone was a vague symbol, he made out a triangle. Marvolo thought it belonged to the Peverells, one of the families the Slytherins married into. This was at last the inexorable proof that he was descended from Slytherin. The locket which belonged to Slytherin needed finding. A quest, he thought with a smirk, one more rite for the ceremony.

He listened dutifully to all the stories of the Riddles until he took the bus out of the village. How they had once been a thriving family, had owned a lot of the land and how there were no heirs left. That was fine with Tom. That meant that in a matter of weeks and months, the Riddles would slowly fade away. Dead names of large fishes in small ponds always faded away, especially when the last recognized son was a worthless spendthrift who did nothing with the family business and who had no heirs.

Tom would begin his sixth year at Hogwarts soon. And after that he would have to start a career. His scores were high, he had culled influence but the real reason for returning to Hogwarts this year was to conduct his research for his secret interest. Of all the people in the world, it was his father who had reminded him. He had asked Tom to reverse his grandparents death and Tom had told him that it was impossible. This was true and yet Tom was wondering about ways to protect oneself or reverse death in the eventuality that some unworthy wizard struck him by a stroke of luck.

Magic is for the living he had wanted to live very long.