Tom had a mission this year. He had meant to explore this topic more with Hermione, but since the incident that summer he was reluctant to include her in anything that might be considered dangerous.
It was a simple mission, but important, especially if he was going to convince the other Slytherins that he was worthy of their respect beyond as a peer.
He was going to find the Chamber of Secrets and learn how to control the magical beast within.
The reason he could not have Hermione with him on this was simple: she was a muggleborn and the monster was supposed to murder those of her bloodstatus. While Tom didn't know his exact quantum, he was considered a halfblood by the Slytherins now that he had proven himself a Parselmouth. The monster would surely sense the old blood in him, recognize him as an heir, and obey him.
At this point, Tom was fairly certain the beast was some sort of snake. He even had an inclination as to which, but didn't want to get his hopes up. He thought there was only one snake worthy of being the familiar of Salazar Slytherin, and thus of himself.
He had seen the way Slytherins were talking about the war and about Grindelwald. Nearly half of them wanted to join the man while the other half was content to watch and wait. For his part, he thought Grindelwald was a fool.
For one, the man thought of muggles as children to be shepherded according to the propaganda Tom had read around the common room. Tom had seen the effects of muggle war and knew they were anything but. While there were deadly curses, to include the one that was meant only for death, wizards had no equivalent to bombs. They did not fly through the night throwing down explosives and killing indiscriminately. No, when wizards killed, they did it selectively.
Muggles, he was slowly beginning to see, were lesser order beings. The powers of science made them too arrogant to be trusted with the world. It needed a wizard in charge.
That wizard would not be Grindelwald. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time until Professor Dumbledore (how that had surprised him to learn) duelled the man and won.
He was not sure of his stance on muggleborns. Like most, the muggleborns he'd met were beneath him. So were the purebloods and the other halfbloods. However, the only person who came close was Hermione. She could manage any spell, remember any fact, and reason through just about any argument. She was an anathema to the purebloods who believed in their own superiority; they did not know how to handle her.
It was amusing to see the way they dealt with her, his two little followers, Alphard and Avery. Alphard seemed to genuinely like Hermione now, but Avery was constantly fighting himself and Tom could see it. He didn't know how to handle such a clever mudblood.
It was even more difficult once she'd started taking care of her hair, as though the lack of frizz somehow made her more worthy.
Tom snorted. He didn't care how Hermione looked; what mattered was her mind.
That was why he had to be careful in his search for the Chamber. He needed to make sure not to release the beast. For one, Hermione already knew he was of the proper bloodline (or guessed, as the only proof they had was his ability to speak with snakes), so if he released it to get rid of some undesireables, she would know who to blame. For another, he would not risk losing her in the exchange.
It was curious, his attachment to her, and he thought back to what had transpired that summer.
When sirens went off, he had been more afraid than ever in his life; which was to say, for the first time in his life, he felt fear. His heart had raced, he was sweaty and shaking. All-in-all, it had been a deplorable emotion. He was glad he didn't feel it regularly.
As he'd sat in that cellar awaiting bombs or the all-clear, he had worried for his life. It could have been gone in an instant. Some German muggle could have decided to launch a bomb at the dull grey building that was Wool's and he would be dead.
He had comforted himself that perhaps being in the cellar was enough; it might give him just enough time to form a shield around himself. Then he had turned to Hermione, who had wasted her time by grabbing one of the little ones, and felt a new type of fear layered in with the other— a fear of loss. He might lose Hermione .
The thought was impossible. Hermione had been a staple in his life since she came to the orphanage when he was seven. Every single day, Hermione was there when he wanted to speak with her, to borrow a book, to ask after a fact she might know. The thought that something could happen and she would be gone was inconceivable.
He'd asked if she at least had her wand so she could protect herself and she had said no. Little goody-Gryffindor she was, she wasn't carrying her wand.
He suspected it wasn't only during the night in the cellar, either.
He had tried to impress upon her that he would protect her if need be, but that it was important she learn to value her own life. While hers was the only other life he cared about, no one would value her like she would herself, but she had scoffed and been confused by his meaning.
Perhaps it had been a confusing conversation overall, but he'd just experienced his first dose of fear and a brush with his own mortality.
He dreamt of sirens and bombs for weeks after that, imagining himself under rubble the likes of which he'd passed in London.
Sometimes he was alone and other times he heard Hermione crying just out of sight, also crushed and pinned in place.
No, he would not lose her if he could prevent it.
It was first important to read everything he could about the history of the castle and Salazar Slytherin's descendents. Tom told Hermione he was looking for mention of the Riddle name, certain it would appear if he went back far enough.
Hermione sat beside him as he read about Hogwarts' architectural changes throughout the years (prior to the eighteenth century they would simply relieve themselves where they stood and banish the mess, a rather disgusting practice; Tom had to admit that muggle plumbing was indeed superior), she herself looking through pedigrees, which it was ridiculous Hogwarts kept at all.
"Tom." He hummed lazily, but kept reading. "Tom, look at this."
She picked up the book and carried over to him; they were spread out across the table as otherwise their books got mixed up. Tom caught sight of the title, The Pureblood Directory, and nearly groaned.
"Look here, under Gaunt." He finger followed the lines. "Gormlaith, Corvinus, Noctua, Omnis and— there!" She jabbed at the name on the page. "He has a daughter listed, one Merope Gaunt."
Tom stared down at the page, at the name that matched one of his own. He had been told by Avery that it sounded suitably wizarding, and here was the proof in front of him. He felt a sliver of disappointment that it was his weak mother who turned out to be a witch; she had wasted her life, died giving birth, of all mundane deaths. According to the book she was Merope Gaunt, and she had a brother named Morfin.
"Where the bloody Hell is Little Hangleton?" he asked.
Hermione made a face. "Don't curse," she said. "And I don't know, but we'll find out. Look, you can see right here where your mother's line intersects with Slytherin's." She traced up again and there he was, Salazar Slytherin. It was not necessarily hard proof, but it was enough for Tom to believe it.
"So it's true. I am a descendent of Slytherin," he murmured.
"Of course, as if there was any doubt," she said proudly, as if it were her own lineage she had found.
"Hermione, have you found any sign of your own family?" he asked, wondering what he might find if he looked beyond the veil of her parents.
She was confused and it shone on her face; she was always so readable, whereas he chose which emotions surfaced. "No. My parents were muggles after all."
"You really should check; perhaps you have magical ancestry after all," he said.
"Then they would have to be squibs, because my parents didn't recognize magic at all," she reminded him.
He nodded absently. Squibs. There was a thought. He could convince the other Slytherins that she was a descendent of a squib whose magic had returned. They would stop their muttering about her then, he just needed to looked deeper.
Over the course of the next week, he redoubled his efforts to find what he sought, which was now a longer list than ever with Hermione's lineage added to the mix. He nearly gave up on it when something happened that made his idea possible.
It was during Potions class. Tom was busy thinking about which books to read next and he was not focused on his potion at all. As a result, he and Hermione were creating in tandem. Her potion was just as masterful as his.
"Say, Miss Granger." They had reached a point where they needed to wait fifteen minutes and it was there the professor approached. "I was reading a copy of Potioneer's Monthly, the periodical of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers and I remembered the founder and one of the greatest Potion masters of all time— Hector Dagworth-Granger. Is there a chance you're related?"
Hermione's heat-reddened cheeks paled. "Not to my knowledge, sir. I'd ask my parents, but…" By this point the man had caught on that Hermione, too, was an orphan and that the orphanage was where Tom and Hermione had met and befriended one another.
He nodded sympathetically. "Say no more, my dear, say no more. Ah, Tom, what a perfect shade of puce…"
Tom researched Hector Dagworth-Granger after that and there was absolutely no information about him, not about a wife, nor children, nor any siblings. There was not another Dagworth-Granger, nor mention of a Dagworth excepting a singular Ravenclaw. In modern history, it appeared the families had died out.
"It's possible, you know," He murmured, drawing his chair closer to Hermione. It was study time officially and Black, Avery, and Lestrange had joined them. Lestrange was his most recent acquisition and had started hanging around him more since Grindelwald declared war.
"What is?" she asked, tickling her chin with her quill.
"That you're related to Dagworth-Granger. Literally the only information available about him is related to potioneering, and there's no family before or after," he said. "Perhaps he had a squib for a child and you're the descendent."
Hermione scoffed. "You're still on about this? Does it really matter?"
Lestrange, who had overheard despite Tom's low tone, said, "Yes." They both turned to him. "No mu–muggleborn has ever been as talented as you are, Granger. You're an exception to every rule we've been taught about your kind. If you're actually the descendent of a squib, then it would make sense. Somehow, magic has seen fit to bless your family again."
"Magic has blessed me? What does that mean?" she asked.
He gazed at her like she had just said the moon was made of cheese. "Magic is the singular most powerful force in the world, Granger. There's a reason most families hide squibs when they find them, and that's because they show that magic is abandoning the family. If it's true you're a descendent of a squib, it's proof the blessing can be earned back."
"That is…" Hermione rubbed her temples. "I am sure there is a more logical explanation to all of this." She glanced up and there was a sly look in his eye that Tom rather liked. "And on that note, what if every muggleborn is descended from a squib?"
Lestrange balked and further down the table he saw Avery and Alphard shift closer. "That— there aren't enough squibs for that."
Hermione licked her lips and leaned in. "How do you know if everyone hides them?" Then she sat back and continued her reading as though nothing strange had happened.
Meanwhile, the three purebloods had the most interesting reactions. Alphard was thoughtful while Avery was consternated; Lestrange sat in shock.
Tom suppressed a chuckle and went back to his book.
In the summer before their fifth year, people started to look askance at Tom. He was sixteen and had started filling out, a good six feet tall, with broadening shoulders, some thought he was older than he was.
He knew what the looks were about— why was he not in uniform?
Every time someone stared, he wanted to scoff. He was not yet old enough for conscription. It wasn't his fault he'd grown tall over the last year.
By contrast, Hermione appeared to have stopped growing taller in second or third year. Now she was growing in a different way. Not that he wanted to notice.
It was the burden of puberty, these thoughts. He couldn't help but appreciate the shape of her legs or the way her tie sat upon her breasts. It was always distracting when he noticed such thighs, so he tried not to. At least he only had one female in his inner circle; the rest were men, and it appeared he was firmly heterosexual.
He supposed that was one less problem to deal with. He saw no use in caring who liked what type, but so many acted as though same-sex relations were deviant.
Not that he planned to act on these urges. Hermione would slap him for one thing and for another he did not wish to be a slave to his teenage hormones. They were temporarily bolstered by puberty and would eventually level out; or he would find a way to extract them entirely.
It wasn't just Hermione he noticed; there were the men who saw her as well. He could read the appreciation in their eyes and he did not like it. She was to good for them. She was his friend, not some ordinary girl for them to slaver after.
It was especially difficult the day Hermione declared she had planned an outing for them.
The fact that Mrs. Cole allowed it surprised him, much less that Hermione magically (it was probably, in actuality, forwarded inheritance from Mrs. McCarthy) had currency for travel across a good portion of the country.
She handed him the ticket to Hangleton and he glanced up at her in curiosity. "It's the closest I could get," she said and he merely nodded. She would reveal all when needed.
It was a two hour trip via train, but they were used to the Hogwarts Express by now, so it was nothing for them. They passed the time as they usually did, with reading or, as he did on occasion, writing in his diary.
He was loathe to admit how good of a gift that had turned out to be. He wrote shortcuts for potions he found, ideas for spells, little discoveries he made. He even had all the information about the Chamber in there.
It was warded to keep anyone from reading it, so he was not worried someone would pick it up and find out his secrets.
Upon arrival at Hangleton, Hermione ordered them a carriage. "I might've tried to order a car were things different," she told him. He knew she meant if she'd had access to her funds and were the war not rationing petrol.
Tom had long since gotten over any jealousy toward Hermione for the inheritance that awaited her. She used it so freely for him that he had little doubt that when she came into it he would directly benefit.
The carriage ride was shorter than the train, though much more difficult to read or write during; he had forgotten how muggle carriages rocked. It was apparent to him now that there were charms for stability placed on the Hogwarts carriages.
"So," said Hermione when they stepped out into a small hamlet. "This is Little Hangleton." She waited for a response, but there was none forthcoming. He still did not see her point. "It's where your mother's family is from."
Now he remembered. "We are tracking them down," he said, to which she nodded.
It was just like Hermione to plan an outting like this without Tom's foreknowledge. He couldn't be too angry about it, since it was for his benefit in the end. They might get real answers about his lineage.
"Well, lead the way," he told her.
She wove her arm through his and stopped the very first person she saw, who was a woman with basket. "Excuse me, we're looking for, er, Marvolo Gaunt? Or any Gaunts, really."
The woman blanched. "Why would you want to see them? They're awful people."
"We have business with them. Important business." The way she stood emphasized her bosom, as least in his opinion. She had dressed particularly distracting this day, in the one casual muggle outfit she owned, while he was wearing a vest, buttondown, and trousers, a la Hogwarts, since it was of better quality that his Wool's uniform.
He didn't remember the trousers hugging her so well the last time she wore them and he wondered if he should suggest that she wear skirts. He wouldn't want her to attract the wrong attention, especially if she were to ever go out sans him.
No, that would be too foolish of her. Where she went, he was also, and vice-versa, minus their common rooms at Hogwarts.
"Tom?" He smiled at her to show he was listening. "It's apparently through here." They were bound for the outskirts of the village, where trees started to thicken into the surrounding forest. He thought they must have passed it after a while, because there were no more houses, and then he saw something peculiar— it was a snake nailed to wood, the wood of a door, in fact.
The house was so grown over with flora that it was like it was part of the forest.
"Do you want to or—" Hermione was whispering as she gestured toward the door and her hands rubbed at her biceps as though she had a sudden chill.
Tom stepped forward. There were nettles everywhere almost as if they were reaching for him, protecting the house from interlopers, and he could see missing tiles on the roof even as he approached the ramshackle house.
It was probably abandoned, and he prepared himself for that, then knocked. He glanced back at Hermione who gestured him to try again, so he did. He was about to knock a third time when the door swung open and the most hideous man he had ever seen stood in front of him.
"We don't want anything and we ain't selling," he snapped.
Tom considered him with his hair so matted the color was hard to determine, eyes facing different directions, and the overall dishevelled state of his dress. If this was a Gaunt he could see why there were almost none left.
One of those dark eyes fixed on him shakily. "You! You're one of them. Hoity-toity muggles who think they're better than us. You look just like him."
"I am not a muggle, " he replied smoothly. It had taken him a moment to realize that the man was speaking Parseltongue.
The man's eyes narrowed. "So she did it, eh? She up and married that disgusting muggle and reproduced. More than a thousand years of blood purity and she ruined it all." He spat to Tom's left and Tom had to school himself not to recoil. "Took the locket, too, our one tie to the Founder, the little bitch."
Were he an ordinary man, he might have felt compelled to defend the mother he never knew, but he had always thought her a weak, ineffectual being.
"Whatever she did, she's dead now, and I remain," he hissed.
"Always at the window, waiting for him to ride down from his house on the hill." Morfin, for he was too young to be Tom's grandfather, was still ranting about Merope.
"What exactly did she take? " Perhaps he could get more information from this visit than just proof he was one of these disgusting people.
"Merope took the locket, Slytherin's locket, probably sold it off, too. Mad woman. More than a thousand years of blood purity! I'd have done right by her, woulda taught her respect like our father never managed…"
Tom glanced around the man and into the dingy inside he could just barely see. There seemed nothing of note, at least until he spotted the ring.
It had a black stone larger than a marble and was set in gold. Not the most handsome stone, but it was more wealth than he would expect a family like this to show.
"What is that?" he asked, and Morfin instantly held his hand to his chest as though burned.
"Nothing a dirty halfblood needs to worry about. Unworthy, that's what you are. May as well be a mudblood."
The man then started a rant about blood purity, but Tom was determined to get answers.
"It's a family ring?"
"Yes! And you're not family, even if my bitch sister whelped you ." He shook his head. "Can't believe it. She coulda tried to find a pureblood family. The Crouch's, now they still have standards."
He knew a Crouch and was not all that impressed.
"Well, I'll leave you to it. " He nodded to Morfin Gaunt and stepped back until he reached Hermione.
"Was that it?" she asked as he returned to her. "Was that Parseltongue?"
He nodded; she had known him so long he almost forgot she didn't know what his second first-language sounded like.
"He sounded angry," she said.
"He was. He also said I looked like a man from up the hill." They were walking back through the trees, remembering that there had indeed been a lovely house up on a hill overlooking the village.
"Shall we check it?" she wondered. "The woman in town was staring at you."
"They all do that," Tom said off-handedly. He hadn't even cared to look the woman in the eyes, to be honest.
Hermione clicked her tongue. "Tom, this is about your family. This could be your father's side."
"My father? Supposedly he left my mother to die on the street. And he was a muggle ," he spat.
"So were my parents," she said. "Are you sure he knew about you? What if he never did? What if all these years he's wanted a son?"
"Hermione, you are being sentimental." She was also being stubborn; she would often go like this until she got her way.
"What is the worst that could happen? He turns you away and you're exactly as you are now?" she asked, her hands on her hips as she stared him down. She was the only person in the world brave enough to do such a thing; anyone else, he may have taken out his wand and hexed them and consequences be damned. She stared up at him with those doe-brown eyes and pleaded as though it were her own parents she meant.
Tom sighed. He'd never hear the end of it. "Fine."
The glee that overtook her features was almost worth it.
The pair of them trudged up the hill, Hermione panting while Tom's longer legs made easy work of it, though he told himself that perhaps a little more walking around the grounds might do him some good once the trip up was done. It was a fine manor, the facade stone that spoke of many hands working tirelessly. It was also quite a large home, the sort that probably had servants quarters. There was a trellis to one side, ivy growing up to create a lovely wall of green.
"You're sure about this?" Tom asked Hermione once they were within a few paces of the door.
She nodded. "I'll even knock." She took the remaining steps and, contrary to her statement, chose to ring the bell.
It had a handsome bell that tolled three times, then they waited a moment. The door opened, and Tom nearly lost the ability to think, much less speak.
He was looking into a face so much his own, but older, that there was no doubt in his mind this was his father. The man had the same refined features and curled hair, the same height and build… the only thing that differed were the eyes. While his were a shade of brown not at all like the cut-amber of Hermione's, Tom's were dark blue.
He apparently had the same reaction and stood dumbfounded a moment in the doorway.
"Good afternoon, sir," Hermione began, and Tom Riddle, Senior's eyes slowly dragged to her. "My name is Hermione Granger. I am here with my friend to—"
"Get out of here and never return," that man finally gritted out.
"I beg your pardon?" Hermione replied.
Tom Senior's cheeks were growing ruddy with rage. "Get the Hell off my doorstep!"
"Don't speak to her like that," Tom replied in a low, deadly voice.
The man's eyes flicked back to him and narrowed. "I know who you are. I know what you are, too! And if she's with you then she must also be one. You will leave or—"
"Or what?" Tom's own rage was slowly stirring like a cobra in a basket being stirred to wakefulness by its song. "You'll call the coppers?"
"I should have drowned your bitch mother before leaving her and killed you both—"
"Now, see here," Hermione interrupted, putting herself directly between the two men. "There is no call for that. Tom never did anything to hurt you. He wasn't even born then, and he has spent most of his life in an orphanage. He's a genius and top of his class at a school for special students. You should be proud to have such a son."
"Tom." The elder's lip curled. "She put you up to this? Send you here—"
"She is dead," said Tom. "She died giving birth to me."
"You should have died with her."
Tom tensed behind her, moving his hand to his pocket to wrap around his wand.. "Tom, we don't want to get expelled," she murmured back at him. "Mr. Riddle—"
"No."
"We just want—"
"No."
"We only—"
"You listen, you freak, if you don't get off my property this instant, I will—"
They never heard the end of the threat. Tom held up his hand and growled out, "Stupefy!" and Tom Riddle, Senior fell backwards as though pushed.
"Tom!" Hermione turned and shoved at her friend's chest. "You're going to get yourself shipped to Azkaban or worse— expelled! And me with you!"
"I didn't use my wand," he said coolly.
"What? But—" His hands were empty. "How did you do it?"
A cruel smile appeared on his face, one that had Hermione take a step back. She was in no danger, but Tom didn't blame her. "With my will and intention. Honestly, Hermione, even you could cast a wandless stunner."
That brought up her irritation. She turned back to Tom's father and sighed. "So what do we do now?"
He slid his hands in his pockets and shrugged, not that Hermione saw. "Leave?"
"We can't just leave him here," she said.
"Why not? He'll wake in a bit and get on with his life, as will we," though a part of Tom wondered if he should visit again on his own and show the man the meaning of fear.
Hermione reached forward and pushed his father's foot with her own so that it was out of the path of the door, took the handle, and slowly closed the threshold. "This was a horrible idea. I'm sorry, Tom."
He shrugged. It had been and he had told her, but he also finally knew just what a piece of shit his father was.
Neither of them saw the curtains twitch as they walked away.