Chapter Text
"My dear, you know it's in the by-laws that the ruler must have a consort and besides, someone to-- uhh... smooth out your rough edges couldn't--"
"Rough edges?!" Hermione fumed. She'd had this argument with her parents many times before and they'd already hit all the key notes today. Clearly feminism was not a word in the stodgy statesmen's dictionaries. "What rough edges?!"
Her parents looked at each other, then back to their daughter who looked as if she was about explode. "You can be a bit... jarring to those who don't know you."
"Which is most people, dear, with you being holed up in the library most of the time."
"I have to read up and practice in case an evil witch or wizard think they can take advantage of our kingdom! We have so few magicals here," Hermione tried once more to get them to see her side. "We agreed that I have to help however I can."
"Even more reason for you to find a consort sooner rather than later!" Done with the conversation, the king snapped. "We have your birthday ball well in the works and you will find a consort there or the parliament will go ahead with your cousin who is next in line."
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Tom Riddle was born from a noble line. He knew this despite the fact that for longer than he could remember he'd been an orphan as he'd been told the tale many times. His mother had died giving birth to him and his father, with little thought of his young son, soon remarried to the recently widowed Madam Weasley, who brought along seven step-siblings for young Tom.
There was not much to tell of the few years that passed. Many comments were made about how lovely a child Tom was, but also that he looked nothing like his many red-haired siblings. He likewise acted nothing like the boisterous half dozen of step-siblings who carried on making jokes and playing tricks with one another while he preferred his lessons in all things, especially anything about magic.
Tom's father traveled to check his lands occasionally, checking how prosperous the crop was and picking up little treats on the way. However, it was on one of these trips which he did not return. He fell from his horse on the return trip and hit his head on a rock, never to wake again. While Tom found this to be mildly disconcerting, he realized that what remained (more so who) was infinitely worse.
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"Tom, dear, could you go help your brothers with the chickens?"
Tom lowered his book to the table to stare icily at the harridan. For years after his father passed, Tom lived under her rule but it was finally about to end. He was of age, all he needed was a wand to travel to a wizarding village and never return to this pauperized manor. "Of course, ma'am," he smiled.
Rising from the table, he fled and joined Charlie and Percy in collecting eggs while Bill watched their younger siblings. They were discussing the upcoming ball.
“Princess Hermione birthday ball is in two weeks. I think mum is planning on us going,” Charlie scrunched his nose, “to find a 'nice girl to court’.”
Tom's face remained blank. He had no interest in a romance, but a dowry, a title, a manse. Those were something he could use to get out from this despotic household. He handed Percy the eggs he'd collected and asked, “That sounds like it would be quite the Place to be. Is everyone to attend?”
Percy preened at the attention from his older step-sibling. “Oh, yes! The whole kingdom is attending-. every male, at least. Surely you remember when the invitations arrived? Mum was going on about it for days afterward because the bannisters weren't polished.”
Tom nodded slowly. He recalled being punished for not cleaning those, as if she had any right. The manor was his. He could do as he liked. Leave the labor to those born for it. He didn't recall any invitation, however. Was the harpy trying keep all the decent women for her children (not that he cared)? Was she trying to get him arrested? Possible, since Percy made it sound as if this ball was mandatory for all males.
Well, he would her what happened when someone got in the way of Tom Riddle and his goals. He smirked, “I can't wait.”
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Tom couldn't believe it.
Madam Weasley expected him to wear one of Bill's hand-me-down robes to the one event that could free him from her grip in this hell! They had to be at least 3 years old and completely out of style. He'd only manage to attract a low-tier noble with those sort of trappings. He wouldn't go. It would be an embarrassment to show his face in such things.
Tom stalked through what was once his mother's flower garden-- now denigrated to hold vegetables and other such 'sensible' flora. He just had to go, though. He had to get away from this place that abused all of his senses daily. The constant chittering of his step-siblings. The continual deterioration of his childhood home. The film left in his mouth from such heavy, butter-coated meals.
He had to think of something.
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