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Letter
A letter from Mummy Dearest.
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"Yes, that's the correct flick of the wrist, but yours is still too wide. Try making a smaller half circle." Tom said at the desk beside the one Anakin was using. They had commandeered two desks in the study hall, and no one complained, considering the battered couches were still more comfortable to sit in than the wooden chairs.
Anakin sighed and tried the movement again with his pencil, feeling rather foolish. Tom was drafting a letter; he tried to decide whether some phrases felt natural or artificial, cast away whole paragraphs in one go and then rewriting it again. Anakin grudgingly admitted that for all that it was possible to read and use information in Tom's mind (or the other way around) when their bond was completely open, it was still slower than properly acquiring the knowledge and using it. It was why Tom studied Huttese and Basic properly, accumulating as many text as possible in both languages while speeding the process up with an intensive level of mental connection open. It was why Anakin also agreed to study English. It was why Tom studied lightsaber forms rigorously.
It was why Tom had been prodding him to learn how to cast spells with wands. Anakin still had to fight back the urge to yell that the Force isn't magic, as the belief was too-ingrained for him.
After one final try of Expelliarmus, Anakin slumped on the desk. "This is stupid."
Tom spared him a glance before going back to what he was working on. Anakin was throwing his fatigue and weariness through the bond at Tom, and it seemed to have been enough for his twin to give him a mental eyeroll and let off the pressure. For now.
"I've been wondering about something for a while. All your world's uses of magic are mostly wandless and directly accessing it, right? And almost nobody uses a focus?"
"We use the Force—"
"And I'll call it magic as long as we're on this side of the universe," Tom said with a flourish. "I'll call it the Force when I'm on the other side. I'm hoping you'd extend the same courtesy."
Anakin murmurred something, but as it was mostly unintelligible, even he knew who actually won the argument. Tom's smirk told him that he was quite aware of it too. The blond sighed.
"There might be someone using it for all I know, but it's not common knowledge or instinctive to figure out."
"I thought so. While here, magic is almost unusable in its pure form, hence the need to use a focus to render them practical and useful. There must certainly be a common ground that will allow us to transfer useful methods… but I'm digressing and it's useless for me to tell you too much when you haven't actually seen enough magic in practice." Tom paused, seeing just how his brother's eyes had started to glaze the farther he proceeded into his hypothesis. He wrapped it up right there.
"We'll get back to that later once we're in Diagon Alley and get wands as well as everything else. For now, I want to ask what you think about the final draft."
"Of the letter? Who are you sending it to?"
"Us." He drawled, eyes glittering at an inside joke. Anakin pressed the heel of his palm to his eye and hoped for patience. Tom better started explaining soon or he won't be blamed if he bit him. Fortunately, his twin did as he passed his notebook over.
"It's supposed to be from our Gaunt mother."
"Gaunt? I thought we're Riddles."
"That's her family name. Riddle is his name." Tom said. If Anakin hadn't known of Tom's personal history, he would never have guessed the distaste he bore for both of his parents; his voice had been perfectly even. Anakin glanced down at the precise and well-formed cursive script on the lined paper. "Ignore my handwriting. I'll come up with the appropriate fake one when I write the real thing."
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My Dearest Thomas and Anthony,
If this letter reaches you, then I'm afraid the worst has happened. I've died. I'm sorry that I couldn't see you grow up and I'm sorry that I can't be there with you whenever you need me. Dearest, I swear I would have if I could, but fate chose differently. I hope that you're growing into strong and intelligent boys with your father. I wish very much that it is so. Heaven knows how much I love him, but I have to prepare for possibilities good and bad. If he is with you, stop reading here and know that I am happy to have left you in the best of hands. You remind me so much of him, Thomas, even when you're but a baby.
If your father is dead, then I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I never wanted my children to be orphaned. Know that I will always be with you wherever you are. You are never alone, Thomas, Anthony. I have a brother, your uncle, and I hope that he can take care of you. If you are not with him, bring this letter to him as proof. His name is Morfin Gaunt and he lives in Little Hangleton. Please stop reading the letter here, if your father is dead.
If you do not grow up with your father and he is somehow not dead, please forgive him. He would've wanted to raise you if he knew the darlings you both are. We got into an argument recently and I scared him. It was getting worse after I thought I could stop feeding him his special medication, but I was wrong. It was the wrong choice. It's a long story, but I'll say that I regretted it. I'm not sure if I'll be able to find him and make up from our stupid argument because I feel sick now. I've been so sick this entire week. You will wonder how could I scare him—a small woman like me and a tall man like him! It's unthinkable, I know. Normally it would be true, but we are anything but normal. It is time that I will tell you of our family's secret. We Gaunts come from a long line of wizards and witches, and yes this means that we can do magic. If you don't believe me, try to remember when the last time you feel strong emotions, like fear or anger. Remember if anything strange had happened at that time. Strong emotions can trigger uncontrolled magic. I believe that in time you will receive an admission letter from Hogwarts too—that's my magical school and you'll both go there too! It's a great place and I'm sure you'll love it. I hope the two of you ended in Slytherin, where our family has always been, but I'm getting carried away. You see, your father was a muggle; he's from non-magical people. His family has never approved of our relationship. I'm sorry if this means you will never get to know your cousins and grandparents on his side. If you want to know more of your heritage and meet your family, go to Little Hangleton and find the Gaunts.
Your Loving Mother,
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Merope Gaunt-Riddle
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Anakin stopped reading, still trying to process everything at once. He knew the letter was a fake. He had seen Tom composing it all the time he was practising his wand movements and spell pronunciations. It still didn't stop his mind from conjuring the image of another mother, of a desperate dark-haired woman who only wanted the best for her children who died before her time…
"Finished?" Tom asked. Anakin only nodded, still staring at the letter and not trusting himself to speak.
"It's probably not that accurate, considering it's only an estimate of her acumen, but I find myself untalented at dumbing down my words more than that before it starts to sound ridiculous. We'll have to settle with her seeming more intelligent than she actually is because of this letter. I'm sure that wouldn't be too much of a disadvantage for either of us." Tom drawled. His voice was acquiring a mocking tone.
"Notice the happy family picture she has successfully deluded herself; it is this delusion that she hopes to pass on to her children. Special medication indeed! He was her love slave for as long as she keeps feeding him her love potion. He would have wanted to raise us? The odds of that being true is less than a snowball's chance in hell. He'd probably want to run as far away as possible to the other side of the country from the demon spawn of the woman that had bewitched him."
He scoffed. "And I haven't even started on the Gaunts. Morfin was a prime example of—"
"Tom."
Tom stopped because he could feel a hundred emotions swirling around Anakin through his bond. He waited, because he was always polite that way, and Anakin sighed as he massaged his temples. The blond still couldn't stop thinking that Merope, for all her faults, had still loved them, but he supposed he knew where Tom's intense dislike came from, and the dilemma was putting him on edge.
"You really hated her, don't you?"
Tom actually smiled in amusement at that. "Whatever gave you that idea? No. I think her foolish, certainly. Insensible, stupid, delusional and an incompetent parent, as well as a host of other flaws under the known universe. I don't actually hate her. Hate implies that she was important enough for me to care."
Anakin raised an eyebrow. With the strength of the emotions you've just dumped to the Force? You could've fooled me.
His twin exhaled and lowered his head a little, acknowledging the truth and tried to explain it. It's not hate. It's… irritation, I guess, an annoyance that I have to somehow involve her in my life again, even after she's dead all this time. That woman is an embarassment—I'd be happier if I can strike her name and existence from my personal records permanently.
Anakin nodded. The source of the intensity he felt was suddenly clear now.
"Still, if she's necessary for us to convince Dumbledore of how we found out about our magical heritage, it's an acceptable sacrifice. Not to mention it is also a useful motive to use for our trip to Diagon Alley, if the people at the orphanage are panicking over our sudden, momentary disappearance during that day," the dark-haired twin concluded, before he smirked.
"You don't need to worry about me at all, Ani."
He rolled his eyes. "Who said I was worrying about you?"
I could feel it through the bond, remember?
He didn't say anything, but did put up a few more mental shields between them, ignoring his brother's smirk.
"It's a very good letter," he finally said, because saying that one can hardly potray someone else that well unless they love them or hate them deeply would not go over well with Tom.
"If I didn't know better, I'd be convinced of its authenticity."
His brother nodded in satisfaction. "I thought I did well with projecting her delusion. I'd make the final version once we've gotten to Diagon Alley and I can find a parchment that's appropriate, and some quill too."
He wasn't worried about Tom, because he could feel that Tom truly did not feel anything for Merope. What he was glad that his brother had missed was the slight pity seeping into his concern. For him, it was a sad thing to realise that Tom Riddle's parents had failed him since he was a baby, and that he'd probably never felt what a parent's unconditional love felt like until he was reborn as Tamlin.
"I know that she's dead, considering that we ended up in the orphanage, but what about him?"
"Who?"
Anakin gave an annoyed sigh. He couldn't believe that his brother was that dense. "You know who, Thomas. The man Merope Gaunt married? Our biological father? Tom Riddle, Esq.?"
"Not important."
"What?" Anakin asked. That answer had been given a little too quickly for it to be by accident.
Tom clicked his tongue and shook his head with a slight annoyance, but decided to humour him. "He's alive, with his muggle parents. He's probably trying to get into another advantageous marriage right now. He was on the verge of one before Merope dosed him with her love potion. Obviously that arrangement fell apart. His parents thus felt she ruined his future." Tom said.
"Really, he's not that interesting… besides the fact that he'd probably be running straight to the next county, in abject fear, if we confront him as his devil spawn. It's not interesting as a sport either; he's not exactly an athlete."
Anakin wisely decided not to comment on that. Some morbid sort of curiosity prompted him to ask, though. Perhaps he was guided by the Force—he didn't know.
"How did you know how they're like? You've met them before?"
Tom nodded slowly. The way he was carefully staring at his twin brother gave Anakin pause since he could feel the weight of Tom's deliberation. The lack of emotion in it was slightly unsettling, but the intense focus that he put into it implied that at the very least, he took it seriously. Tom seemed to have reached some sort of conclusion after a while.
"I did say I won't lie to you," Tom finally said. There was the weight of long deliberation in his answer and he knew whatever it was, it was important.
And probably unpleasant.
"I did meet them. Right before I killed them."
And by now, Anakin knew that Tom took his opinion seriously.
The sound of children playing at some corner of the room never sounded so distant, nor as alien as it did, then. It felt unreal. Everything felt unreal except for the two of them as Anakin touched the Force deeper, more completely, willing to find more strength through it and a way to understand the man who had became his brother and had always stood by him all this time and how he was once the same person who'd gladly hunt down his biological father.
To fuel his ambition to become ruler of his known world.
He started. "That was—"
"I wasn't a dark lord then; not yet, not exactly," Tom said, as if trying to head off whatever defence his brother could put for him. His dark blue eyes were open, frank and unclouded with soft pleasantries, and in its depth was an endless night.
"I hadn't made my first horcrux, and I only did so after killing my father." It was just me, the careless way he leaned back seemed to say. The intensity in his twin's dark eyes spoke of an old, cold and calculated dislike.
"But you were already studying the Dark Arts, then." Anakin said. It was not a question, and the blond had already felt the truth rang in the Force as the words fell from his lips. Tom nodded.
"Of course I was. I wouldn't know how to make a horcrux otherwise," he was still damnably calm, as if he hadn't just handed Anakin an active neutron bomb with his words.
Anakin nodded. He didn't know if he had anything to say. Yes, he could feel the odd clarity in his brother's tone, because he was truly uninvolved in the deaths he had caused, as if they were just minor loose ends that he was trying to tidy up. Yet most other people would've missed the momentary flash of hate that Tom didn't even want to acknowledge, but he didn't. Some part of Tom still blamed his biological father for a portion of the bad luck of his childhood and he probably killed Tom Riddle Sr. with relish.
But Anakin had known how unusual his brother was, hadn't he?
He took a steadying breath. Tom had told him that he wasn't like most people in how he felt emotions—and Anakin couldn't believe that his brother would tell the truth without his mask of genteel behaviour if Tom didn't trust him. Tom had trusted him to do what was right with it, even if it meant showing him the killer that always waited underneath his skin. What he said next would carry a lot of weight with his brother.
Now, if only he could figure out what in the Force that was supposed to be.
What could he say now? He who had easily believed the lie that he had killed his wife, because in his anger he was krethin' close to doing exactly that? That he would probably have killed her if he hadn't been interfered with? He had been a killer too, and the responsibility over many of the deaths were not always something he could easily pass on to Palpatine. Many were born purely out of his anger, sometimes at people who stood in his way, most of the time at incompetence.
Who was he to comment on another dark lord's path to the Dark Side and pass judgment? He knew a saying that Mrs. Cole had used once that seemed appropriate: those who lived in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.
"You're not saying anything?" Tom asked, curious, and still staring at him intensely.
"What am I supposed to say?" He asked back.
His brother shrugged. "I don't know. You know, something about not killing family members as they're supposed to love each other or questioning how I could ever do such a horrific thing. Maybe some shouts of outrage. Maybe throw in several accusations about my evil-ness with that and cast aspersions on my humanity. You know, the usual?"
"Are you done?" Anakin asked wryly.
"That's all I can think of right now, yes." The corners of his lips twitched upwards.
"Well, there are bad days and there are worst days," Anakin said, and he could see that his brother's smile grew slightly wider unconsciously. "Why are we here in the first place, anyway? To talk about days long gone? No, right? So I guess if I have to say something, it would be this; would you kill them again?"
Tom furrowed his brows at that. "What? No. Why would I? I no longer think that a horcrux is worth the price."
There was a little more that was missing. Anakin wasn't quite sure he knew what it was exactly until he carefully felt it through the Force, asking another question.
"And you'd stay that way? You know, not killing them?" He no longer knew who he meant by them when he said it, but he didn't care. He knew that Tom had sensed the change too, but still chose to answer.
"Who knows what the future brings? I might succeed in staying my hand, or I might fail. Both possibility exists in superposition." Tom glibly answered. Anakin had known him better now to not be so easily baited, not when they were immersed in gentle flow of the Force. To find his answer, he would need patience and the perspective gained by a clear mind. His brother was a man of many faces and to fixate on the first one visible was carelessness.
He only waited—and was rewarded for it when Tom continued.
"This is still worth doing, whatever happens."
Truth, the Force spoke to him, as it had always done, and for a fleeting moment he could see the bright blue blaze that was his brother's presence in the Force, with the darkness lurking somewhere in the background, hoping to catch him unawares. It was familiar to Anakin, because the darkness waited on him the same way. He blinked and saw the study hall once more.
"And that is the best any of us can do." Anakin finished. The look they exchanged each other held a weight heavier than any oath.
"See? It's not such a big deal. You know where to find me if you need me. I'll leave you to dispose the failed drafts of the letter. I can't imagine that it would be a good idea for Mrs. Cole to find them."
Tom looked down, staring at the various versions of the letter as he lost himself in thought. If his gaze was distant, it did not concern his brother. On his face now, was the faintest trace of contentment.
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