"ʜᴏᴘᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴇᴠɪʟꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏʀᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɴ." ― ꜰʀɪᴇᴅʀɪᴄʜ ɴɪᴇᴛᴢꜱᴄʜᴇ
Chapter Four: The Unanswered Riddle
He stared at the wand grasped in his hand.
He had done this before. Gazed down a length of tawny wood, looking into the eyes of his enemy.
His enemy was an image in the blurry, dirty mirror; haunted, bruised eyes, and hair that stood on end.
What?
The glass warped, melting and burning. Globs of molten silica dripped down the casing, revealing the metal back.
Who are you? Who is T. M. Riddle?
The answer glinted behind one of those eyes. If only he could cleave blood and flesh and bone to find truth.
The clear, clean white abyss had scrubbed it all away. Like chlorine bleach, applied liberally to every corner of his brain. The loneliness was etched into his skin.
He hadn't slept for months, afraid for what horrors awaited him inside his subconscious. Afraid of returning to the abyss, even temporarily.
Who am I? Who am I?
Tee?
That is not my name. What is my name?
The question ran through his mind in a maddening loop, without an answer to stop the buzzing, blooming confusion.
Sometimes what is not real still spilled over into reality. Sometimes he thought he heard the basilisk, still.
I'm crazy, thought Tee. I'm going crazy. Going, going, gone. I've gone crazy.
Someone banged on the door. "Tee?"
He froze.
Real or not real?
"Tee?" someone called again.
Ruby. Real. Standing on the landing.
"Tee, we're going to have a look around the Riddle House, did you forget? Are you decent?"
He thought for a minute what she could possibly mean, said, "Yes," and sat down on the floor, attempting to appear unoccupied, just as the door opened to reveal Ruby holding two mugs of tea and wearing a grey jumper and what appeared to be one of Maggie's scarves wrapped around her for extra warmth.
"Thanks," he said shortly, and took the warm mug from her.
"Maggie's still sleeping," said Ruby as she sat down. "I don't think she'll mind about the tea. We'll wash. I'm very neat."
"I'm sure you are."
"What do you think we'll find? I think all the nice stuff ― candlesticks and cutlery and all that ― will have been stolen, won't it? But they've got to have family pictures, or paintings." Ruby paused. "But if you were born here, then why do you sound like you grew up in London?"
"I don't know," said Tee, through gritted teeth. He had managed to burn his tongue. "I don't know anything, remember? How's that for your candlesticks and cutlery?"
Ruby gave him a withering look before finishing the rest of her tea.
"I've left Maggie a thank-you note. She didn't have to let us sleep here, especially without asking questions. Let me have your mug and then we'll go to the chemists, then the old house."
"Thanks ever so," said the wizard, without a hint of moisture in his voice.
"Don't be rude," said the witch.
The second of September was a brisk morning, nowhere near freezing but not particularly warm, either. And the chemists, like most things in Little Hangleton, looked the worst for wear, with its dingy, dirty little green cross, next to the words 'Smith Family Chemists.'
It looked very Knockturn Alley, according to Ruby, which rang a vague sort of bell. While she looked for sensible things, like Band-Aids, crackers, and a large bottle of water, Tee was drawn to one of the shiny postcards near the till; it depicted a black cave in a black cliff, in the midst of a black sea... could it be?
"I know that place." He jabbed the postcard with a finger.
"Oi!" called the man at the till. "You get greasy fingerprints on that postcard, you pay for it!"
Tee scowled and folded his arms.
"Everyone knows that place," said Ruby from a few feet away, turning around with her arms full. "It's the White Cliffs of Dover."
"Oh."
She was right. The cliff was white. Blindingly so. He turned away.
"Is that all?" asked the man at the till sarcastically as Ruby shoved what she'd found onto the counter. "Don't want to go back for another packet of crackers, just in case?"
Ruby glared at him, and nudged Tee. "Cough up. You did bring the money, didn't you?"
It turned out that Muggle automatic teller machines were not very smart. A weak enough magical pulse was more or less close enough to a mild electrical shock, which when directed a certain way fooled the ATM into thinking you'd put your key, or card, or whatever it was in.
Tee gave a long-suffering sigh, and began to rummage in his pockets for whatever exorbitant fee they were about to be charged.
"That'll be nineteen pounds and fifty-nine pence."
The man gave them both a weird look as Tee started counting out the money, but said nothing more, and soon they were outside again.
Tee squinted up at the hill. The early morning sun hung over the crest, sparkling faintly through the heavy, grey cover of clouds.
The Riddle House looked tall, impressive, and much further away than it had yesterday. If either Ruby or Tee had a passion for geology, they would have noted that the manor, though obscured by a heavy curtain of English ivy, was made almost entirely out of rag-stone.
The eastern hill was unpleasantly rocky and steep, and Tee, about ten minutes into the climb, was beginning to doubt that anyone would bother going up there and across an algae-laden moat, no less, just for some candlesticks.
Soon, the house began to grow closer, and Tee watched Ruby go to a small side door that looked slightly ajar, and eased it open into a cavernous, dark space. Deprived of sight, the sickly smell of decay was yet more powerful than it might have been otherwise, and his stomach turned before he managed to pull the top of his shirt over his nose, breathing sweat and cotton.
He held the idea of light in his mind, and a star-like bubble burst out of his wand, hovering in the high ceiling.
It was all somewhat preserved, apart from the bacterial overgrowth. Rows of copper pots, only slightly tarnished, still hung above the stove.
There was a sudden crackling noise, like the snapping of twigs.
"What was that? That wasn't you, was it?"
"No." Tee paused. "Maybe it's haunted."
"Muggles don't turn into ghosts," said Ruby, and then remembered that she was not altogether convinced than the Riddles were completely non-magical. "Anyway, let's keep going. I think I see the hall out there."
'Out there' was a similarly derelict great hall, with a crumbling minstrel's gallery, opposite from which appeared to be a dais, upon which was emblazoned the head of a proud, golden, wolf-like animal with large ears. Two large mullioned windows stood on either side of what must have been the front door, double-barred and twice as tall as Tee.
Ruby started up a rattling sort of series of increasingly louder sniffs, then sneezed so hard that Tee felt his eardrums pop.
"Dusty," she said sheepishly, still sniffing.
Tee turned slowly on his heel. Behind him hung a large portrait. A woman with shiny raven hair, pinned up around her head and wearing a flouncy white dress, tied with a fluttering yellow sash, glanced haughtily away from him, as if no one was worth her time or attention. Her red lips were pursed into an equally haughty smirk, and she stared listlessly into the distance.
"Look at all these paintings… kind of vain, don't you think? ... Hey, who's that? It looks like you," said Ruby, awe in her voice. "From ages ago, obviously, but still. It looks like you. He could be your brother or something. Or, you know… you."
The subject of the painting, this time, was a young man wearing an old-fashioned, fur-collared overcoat. And, though still incredibly proud, he was looking at the viewer, perhaps a little angrily, with a steady, haunted gaze. Tee thought he recognised it.
"Tee, that sound again," said Ruby, her voice insistent. "Maybe it really is haunted."
He flicked his wand, and the light disappeared, leaving the dim sunlight from the windows as the only illumination in the room.
The crackling sound became a muffled, off-beat tapping, and the tapping began to grow louder and louder. Tee drew his wand, and he saw Ruby, for the first time, reach for hers, too.
The tapping ― steps, Tee realised ― stopped a few feet in front of them, and so did the silhouette of a man in an anorak.
"Who's there!" snarled Tee, only to cringe in pain as a blinding light seared his eyes, and he saw the white of the abyss; struggling to breathe as the room became airless (or was his chest just unbearably tight?) and his fingernails drew blood from his palms, his mouth filling with a metallic taste.
"Flipping 'eck," came a gruff voice, "so you are t' spitting image."
The light dimmed, Tee realised it was not the abyss, but a torch, held by the silent old man from the pub. He shuddered, rubbing his shoulders as if for warmth.
"Frank," the old man said, offering Tee his hand to shake; callous, but steady and warm.
"Tee." He nodded his head in Ruby's direction. "And that's Ruby."
She was giving Frank an appraising look, the same one she'd given him when they first met. Trying to determine whether he was predator or prey.
" 'Ow do?" asked Frank.
"Okay. How are you?" replied Ruby in a stony voice.
"That'll be Tom," said Frank, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, gesturing to the painting with the torch. "The last of 'em."
At Tee's insistent look, he continued. "Funny story. There was a family of mad tramps, the likes the Riddles wouldn't spit on, that lived in the shack in the forest over yonder. But 'ere's the real riddle. The daughter ― Merope Gaunt ― a real ugly little thing and timid too ― well, Tom breaks off his engagement and disappears for the better part of a year and comes back madder than an 'atmaker in an 'aberdashers. Said mad little Merope Gaunt cast a spell over him and bewitched him, isn' t the queerest thing you ever 'eard? Don't look a' me all big-eyed like that, lass, it's only a story," he finished, the last bit directed at Ruby.
Frank gestured at the painting beside it, this one of a young woman with short golden hair, her blushing face turned away from the viewer as if she were mid-flight.
"Cecilla. The lass he was engaged to before 'e ran off. 'Ad 'er painted, but she wouldn't 'ave him after t' scandal."
"And what happened to him after he came back?" pressed Tee.
"Became a recluse," said Frank. He tilted his head back, as if trying to remember. "Signed up as a volunteer for the RAF minute the war started and trained up to pilot. Even got stationed down in London flying night-fighters during the Blitz. Then came back on leave and got murdered, by 'is own doppelganger, no less. 'Bout the same time I lost m' leg in France and came back 'ere."
"All those nights getting shot at just to die in his own home," said Ruby. Evidently, the irony was not lost on her. "It's a very sad story." She paused. "And he was the youngest one ― an only child, right?"
Now, Frank was staring fixedly at Tee.
"My memory en't what it used to be. But there was a strange, pale, dark-'aired boy climbing up the hill the day it happened. About your age. Your frame, too. Watched 'im go in the house from the garden. They were all convinced it was me that killed t' Riddles. Half of 'em still are."
"Why would they think you did it?" asked Ruby.
Frank made a funny noise. "I didn't like t' Riddles, and they didn't like me. Snobbish, stuck-up, the lot of 'em. And, o' course, I 'ad the spare key."
With that, he produced a rusted metal key from his pocket, hanging on a scrap of red ribbon.
Ruby gave Tee a strange look; half-disgust, half-intrigue. He could tell what she was thinking ― he killed the Riddles, too?
Maybe he's lying, thought Tee. Maybe he did kill the Riddles. After all, this strange boy who no one else saw is an 'awfully convenient' sort of visitor. Besides, if she really wants to know, she can ask that little rock she's so fond of gazing into.
"Didn't they ever question that boy?" she asked, her wide eyes fixed on Tee.
" 'E was never seen, or at least not round here." Frank shut his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if I dreamt 'im up mis'en."
"People can't just disappear," said Ruby, still glaring at Tee. He didn't know quite what she was thinking, but he imagined it was something along the lines of but wizards can, can't they? "When exactly did it happen again, Frank?"
"August, it must 'ave been," he said. "August, 1943."
And he'd been stuck in the abyss since June.
Tee let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Ruby's brow furrowed.
"Tom was bewitched, you said?"
Frank snorted.
"Love potion, that's what Riddle said. Said Merope Gaunt was some kind of witch."
Tee said nothing, instead staring at the painting of Tom Riddle. The artist must have been very talented, he thought. The man had the unmistakable look of someone who had had the fright of his life and was still remembering it...
It feels like the Chamber, thought Tee. Bad things happened here.
"Where do those stairs go?" asked Ruby, pointing at heavy stone steps leading from the dais into what must have been the second floor.
Frank chuckled. "Tha's not heard about t' Grey Lady, then?" Ruby shook her head, and he continued dryly: "Anyone foolish enough to go up those steps 'asn't gone for another try after they 'ear her wailing an' screeching."
Tee, undeterred, strode towards the stairs, his wand hidden in his sleeve. He placed a foot on the first step, and turned back.
"Coming?"
Ruby, he could tell, was gripping her wand, too. But Frank made not the slightest hint at movement, which he was personally grateful for.
Together, they went up the dusty stairs, with no sign of the ghost. Once they had left Frank far enough behind, Tee lit his wand again.
They were standing in a dark passageway; Tee stepped forward and got an eyeful of cobwebs.
"These must be the private rooms." It sounded as if Ruby was rattling the doorknobs. "Which do you think he lived in?"
Tee didn't know. It felt like magic had only touched this house twice; a tangle of it in the room behind the door at the very end of the passageway, and a thin, delicate strand spilling into one of the nearer rooms.
This place wasn't haunted by a ghost. It was haunted by the memory of what had happened to its occupants. The walls cried out in anguish.
There was no ghost. This house was the Grey Lady.
He reached out for the handle, and found it strangely... uncomfortable. When he lowered his wand to get a better look, he saw that the door handle, for some odd reason, was in the shape of a jackal's head.
The door opened, almost too easily, though it squeaked on the hinges. Tee jumped back as if expecting Frank's Grey Lady to jump out at him.
This room had a bay window, which would have faced the moonrise, as Tee supposed was intended due to the inscriptions carved above it, but currently was letting in enough sunlight to make his wandlight unnecessary.
It was a surprisingly bare room; a bed, still neatly-made, a few rotting, discoloured armchairs, a commode, and a writing-desk, along with a few lamps, a fireplace and the requisite fussy wallpaper.
Ruby carefully shut the door behind them. She stepped on the rug, sending a plume of dust up, and immediately had to cover her nose and mouth to muffle the cough.
"What's that book on the desk?" she asked. "It looks like a diary, doesn't it?"
Diary.
Despite himself, he stiffened, and stepped away from the desk.
"It must have belonged to him, Tee," said Ruby, already flipping through it. The paper must have been high-quality, to not crack and flake after all these years in this dead, dusty room. "Maybe it'll tell us what happened. If it's been left up here, if people have been scared of a ghost, maybe no one bothered to read it."
And again despite himself, Tee found himself strangely invested in what had become of Tom Riddle, all those years ago... as if it were a distant sort of memory that he might have once known...
He only vaguely noticed the jackal's head, again, emblazoned in an heraldic fashion on the front cover of the book, and under it in silver lettering: In ambages, veritas.
It has been a month since I escaped the witch's clutches. I am ruined. Merope Gaunt, the tramp's daughter, enslaved me with her foul, ungodly magic arts. I had paid the girl a few kindnesses, perhaps, that had encouraged this act; I will regret such things to the end of my life. All I can remember are blurry images — my one stroke of luck is that I cannot recall exactly what transpired in the time that was stolen from me, else it would haunt my dreams, but I can imagine the horrors.
Now, my own personal tragedy has become a great scandal; I am mocked and insulted by the entirety of both Greater and Little Hangleton. My suffering has become my comeuppance; my misfortune, their amusement. I stay shut up in my room to avoid my parents. Cecilia wants nothing more to do with me.
The official story was that I was 'taken in' by her. That by some accident, she claimed to have fallen pregnant and by my own actions I was induced to believe that the child was mine. Let it be said, in my own hand, that never have I, or never have I desired to lay a finger upon the wretch of my own accord, except to strike her down as she stands.
But if I state that the foul witch used her black magic to seduce me, I shall truly be mocked and thought insane.
It still disgusts me to think of my child growing inside the witch, read Tee, his voice stiff and monotone. Yet there is no question that it will turn out to be wicked as her; no mortal of mere flesh and blood, let alone an unborn child, could resist the constant pull of such evil from her poisoned womb.
January 30th. 1927, read Tee. He had not read the dates before. I found my thoughts drawn once more to my ordeal. By now, the witch must have birthed the child, or else died in the attempt. Alone and bereft in London in the coldest part of year, it is vastly unlikely that they shall survive. For Merope, I can drudge up no pity and compassion — for the child, I wish only that it should not suffer too much, having come into this world no doubt as unwillingly as I was in taking part in its creation.
With shaking hands, he replaced the diary on the desk, wishing he hadn't looked at it in the first place, sunk heavily into a chair, and put his head in his hands.
"1927... I'd be fifteen or so, wouldn't I, in 1943? I was the child. It had to have been me. It-it fits."
"So, you really are—" Ruby's voice had come out all strangled-sounding "—the last Riddle."
She cleared her throat. "What a horrible story."
So that was the great mystery. That was who he was. The half-blood, bastard child begotten of a terrible crime.
Harry had spent the entirety of his morning glowering at his schedule: specifically, a boxed-in set of letters marked on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday afternoons from two to three-thirty — Defense Against the Dark Arts, Third-Year Level, Umbridge, Classroom 3C.
"Maybe," said Hermione diplomatically, clutching her copy of Defensive Magical Theory, as they waited for the class before them to file out, "it won't be so bad."
An affected cough came from behind them, and Harry turned around to see who it was. A girl with dark brown hair set in princess curls — Daphne Greengrass, and Theodore Nott, misery guts himself, slinking around behind her like a giant storm cloud in human form.
"The upper year Slytherins have all got the same textbook as us," she said. "Personally, I don't think that bodes well. Although it will be nice to finally have someone capable teaching the class."
"Oh, shut it, Daphne," said Blaise Zabini, appearing out of nowhere at Daphne's shoulder. He waved a hand at Harry. "Mother sends her love, Potter. You're welcome at our house any time, now that we know you're a Parselmouth."
Harry did not think much of Umbridge's capability (or Zabini's invitation), but wasn't keen to defend Quirrell or Lockhart either, so he shrugged and said nothing else. He noticed that Theodore went to a lot of trouble to sit near to him and Ron; even sliding into the usually always-vacant seat next to Neville and abandoning Zabini (which he didn't seem to mind).
Hermione, for her part, was busy setting up her desk; Defensive Magical Theory placed in the right corner, her parchment in the middle, her ink above it and her quill beside it, and last of all, her wand on the leftmost portion.
Harry attempted to avoid Umbridge's gaze, and copied Hermione, keeping his eyes fixed on the desk. Seamus, who was sitting in front of them, had turned around to talk to Ron about the Chudley Cannons.
"Hem, hem."
If Umbridge had been intending to get the whole class's attention, it certainly did the trick; if only because the students wanted to avoid any possibility of hearing that irritating cough again.
"You may put your wands away," said Umbridge, the oversized black bow, like a fly perched on a toad's head, wiggling. "In fact, you will not be needing wands in my class."
"Are we running an obstacle course outside?" asked Ron. "Charlie did that third year."
Umbridge gave him an awful, patronising smile, and folded her hands in front of her pink tweed skirt.
"Mr. Weasley, please raise your hand in future." She turned towards the class. "Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it? The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect. You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year."
We'll be reading this stupid textbook and filling out worksheets, you mean, thought Harry ruefully.
"How are we supposed to get up to the standard without practical experience, Professor?" asked Hermione, and when Umbridge half-simpered, half-glared at her, she raised her hand for good measure.
Ron raised his hand. "Hermione's right. If there's anything we've learnt from last year, it's that we have to learn to protect ourselves. Come on, who thought we'd be dealing with a basilisk in here? But we did!"
Several people nodded in agreement; mostly Gryffindors, Harry noticed. Tracey Davis, one of the few half-bloods in Slytherin, nodded, looked sheepishly at Pansy Parkinson, and sunk down in her seat a little.
"You may just talk yourself into a detention, Mr. Weasley," said Umbridge in the sugary warning tone that people used for small and fluffy animals that had just had an 'accident' on the rug. It might have been appropriate for Crookshanks.
She gave Harry a very hard look, as if she expected him to say something.
But, Harry noted, as long as he managed to keep his mouth shut, there was nothing Umbridge could do other than spin some story about him being a massive liability, which he was sure practically everyone outside of Hogwarts was doing anyway.
"It is the responsibility of Hogwarts to contain... any abnormalities that might appear. As the current administration has, may I add, repeatedly, failed to keep you safe, the Ministry shall fulfill that role. We hope to make your time here... easier. Less complex. Less dangerous. Less neglectful."
I'm not an abnormality, he wanted to say, but that was a lie.
Freak!
Harry turned around, but saw nothing but a bored Theodore next to a very nervous-looking Neville.
"Misbehaviour will not be tolerated in my class," said Umbridge sweetly, and Harry seemed to remember McGonagall saying something similar their first year; although she had not sounded as if she were speaking to a group of toddlers. "I expect you to read quietly and study diligently."
"Yes, Professor Umbridge," said Daphne Greengrass very seriously, sitting ramrod-straight. A few titters resounded through the classroom.
Umbridge looked the closest she had to flat-out fury, the frills on her pink blouse quivering.
"Turn to page five, Basics for Beginners. We will have a short discussion on the content up to page fifty tomorrow."
No one much felt like getting detention from Umbridge; a thrice-weekly lecture was already panning out to be torturous, and the last thing you wanted on top of that was even more quality time with the toad, so they all turned to page five and shut up.
Umbridge let out a pleased little hum, and seated herself behind the desk.
Harry could only describe the book as the literary equivalent of soggy porridge cooked in dishwater; it was the blandest, dullest, and most mind-numbing thing he'd ever read. Even the phonebook was less boring.
He had a look through the index to see if there was anything to look forward to.
Unless Common Defensive Theories and their Derivation, The Case for Non-Offensive Responses to Magical Attack, and Non-Retaliation and Negotiation contained some sort of unadvertised, shocking surprise, he was not in luck.
Ron wasn't faring much better; staring fixedly at a single word. Even Hermione looked as if someone was pulling out her entrails with a blunt tool.
Someone jabbed him in the shoulder with something that felt like a rolled-up piece of parchment, and, without looking back, he took it, uncurling the note under the desk so Umbridge couldn't see.
Hello, Harry.
Hope you're well. Wondering if you've heard anything from Ruby? We miss her in the Slytherin dorms.
T.H.N.
So it was Theodore Nott, was it? What did he want? And what did the H stand for, anyway?
Probably something stupid and pompous.
Unfortunately, he was better company than Defensive Magical Theory.
I'm fine. So's Ruby. I haven't been told where she is, for safety. So please don't ask.
Of course, Theodore wrote back. I've realised I don't really know you, Harry, even though we've been in the same classes for two years. Let's explore Hogsmeade together on the first weekend open; I think it's sometime in October.
Harry stared blankly at the note.
Who even uses semicolons?
And worse yet:
What does he want now? And what have I just gotten myself into?
The depiction of the Riddle House (down to the resident Grey Lady) is inspired by Ightham Mote, a small medieval manor house in Kent.