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Chapter Text

27 July, 1943:

The plan was simple: Ring the bell, get inside, ask his father the truth about the abandonment of his mother, kill him (and his grandparents) and lastly, walk out of that hell of a manor with a heart lighter than a child's. The torment, the despair would simply end there - with his father's assassination.

The 'plan' did not go even the barest bit like he had played it out in his head.

♧♧♧♧

Tom finds the manor to be dreary and gloomy, despite its regal architecture and grand size. It is entirely made of black bricks, resembling a haunted mansion, like the ones he used to read in horror stories when he was younger and more naive. - Easily impressionable, foolishly gullible. - But it is still day, about half past six in the afternoon. So with a brain full of questions and rage, he knocks the door.

A woman is the one to answer it a few seconds later. She appears to be about fifty years old, but in contrast of her age, she is still standing elegant before him. Her hair hasn't quite started to turn gray. It is black and shiny, pinned in a bun on the back of her head.

"May I help you?" she asks haughtily, her tone sharp and poised, used of giving out orders.

Tom sees some kind of resemblance. She must be his grandmother.
He is caught off guard at the sight of her, so prim and proper. Regal, even in her muggle status.
He doesn't know what to say. His mouth feels dry and unused, as if he hadn't been muttering what he'd say all the way walking through Little Whining.

He finally settles on a polite, "Good afternoon, madame. My name is..."
He falters. He was expecting a man to answer - his father, possibly. This isn't going as he would have liked it to. He has a bad feeling about it. Something will go southwest.
He swallows down his pride and continues. "My name is Tom. Tom Riddle. I'm looking for..."

"If it's my son you're after," says the woman, interrupting him. "He is not here. Neither is my husband. They left mere minutes ago and I do not know when they will be back. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for them - or come back another day." She gives him a look that passes through him like a ghost, as if she has insight to his very soul. "The choice is yours."

Tom decides to subtly use Legillimensy on her, just to be sure. He finds out that she's indeed not lying. She doesn't know where the men of the house are.
Tom had thought he would catch three birds with one stone, but this? This is unexpected.
(Maybe he can come back another day and kill all three of them once and for all, but...)

"That is perfectly fine." he replies, trying to appear calm and unbothered on the outside. "May I talk to you instead?"

"That is rather rude of you to ask, young man. Entering a Lady's house without any previous announcement. Do you even know my name?" she inquires in a tone purely made of silk. Her mouth is curling to the left in amusement and one of her eyebrows is arched, as if once again judging him for his bad manners.

Somehow, she makes him feel the slightest bit self conscious. No one has ever done that before - save for Dumbledore. "No, I..." he is in a hurry to say, "I admit that I didn't think to ask you for a name or a rendezvous. I apologize."

"Well, I didn't expect anything..." she murmurs but stops her tongue there. With a sigh, she says, "I suppose you're excused. This time. And as for my name, boy, it's Mary. Mary Riddle." she gives him a look of intrigue and offers her right hand out, no doubt for the required etiquette of a handshake. "And you, no doubt, must be my grandson. You look exactly like my son did in his twenties. Tom, wasn't it?" she asks afterwards. She may be muggle but remains an aristocrat to an Old House nonetheless.

With his own hand slightly shaking, Tom returns the greeting. He never breaks eye contact. "Indeed, madame." he mutters. His hand leaves her own only to grip the fabric of his black suit, as a reflex for when he gets nervous.

"Come inside then. I assume you have many questions as it is." she says with a sudden amount of energy and enthusiasm as she pushes the wooden door further with one arm so they cab both fit through the opening. Then she smiles - faintly, but Tom still sees it. "You're not the only one."

"Thank you." he says. His fingers fidget with a white button, rolling it around, one time backwards, one forwards. His feet move on their own will once she tells him gently to get inside.

Once he has followed her, the door shuts with an ear splitting bang behind them. The shadows of the house swallow him whole.

♧♧♧♧

The interior of the manor is bigger, all painted black and intimidating. It reminds Tom of the one the Malfoys  have, only the muggle version.

"So..." he hears the woman, Mary, say. "Can I assume that you're here in attempt to reconnect with your father? Mind you, my son is not an easy person."

'I came here to kill you.' thinks Tom, his vision red for about a second. He doubts she notices it. 'Kill all of you'. Instead, he says, "That is inevitably one of the reasons, yes. But seeing as he's not here, I guess I'll have to settle for you instead." His tone is humorous. He tries for something nonchalant in order to show her how detached he is from his pain, his anger. The anger of not being wanted, of feeling abandoned by the two people that society insisted to call his 'parents'.

"I'm afraid you'll have to." she agrees, quite charmingly.

And on they keep walking. They enter the parlor that contains a lovely room and a balcony. There is also a wooden library with various science and literature tomes. Tom sees about five frames with old, nearly close to decaying, black and white photographs.

"That's your mother, right there." says Mary as she picks up a small square canvas with a photograph that depicts Tom's mother and father on their wedding day.

Tom squints his eyes to observe more thoroughly the black and white picture. He sees his father displaying a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He is dressed in the usual men's black three-piece suit that goes along with his equally black moccasins. A white handkerchief, pinned at the side of his heart is the only white piece of clothing amongst the dark tones. His hair is parted to the left, a single curl of deep chocolate brown is falling to his forehead, almost covering his eye. The same lips and cheekbones as him, the same intensity. His arms are laying on the front, fingers intertwining with each other as if he doesn't know what to do with them.

His mother is another story altogether. She wears the biggest smile - the only pretty thing about her - even with all they gray make up and lipstick, which Tom assumes to be light pink and deep red respectively, when the picture was originally taken. Her face is thin, full of angles, only thinned out by the food that she must have started to consume just recently. Her hair is dark maroon, almost black and pinned in a strict bun at the back of her head. Her dress is so long that it covers what Tom assumes to be white high heels. The skirt of it is puffy. Merope wouldn't have the right body so to wear a dress that would complement her boney figure, so she tried to hide it. The top has smsll roses on the beginning of the cleavage - Tom sneers contemptuously at that. 'As if she had big enough breasts to buy a wedding dress with such a pattern.' The woman appears to be completely flat. The sleeves of it reach her elbows. They are simple with no lace of frilly ending. On the top of her head, Merope wears a tiny tiara made of roses, blush pink this time, that holds her veil together. The veil itself almost dirties the front yard outside of the church. Ah, so it was a Christian wedding. Tom can say that he is almost amused by the irony, the antithesis of the fact. A crime taking place on holy grounds.

'We weren't even in our son's own wedding, you know." The young man hears Mary whisper, dragging him out of his musings. "She didn't want us there. Why would she? Me and Thomas, we would ruin her illusion, the little dream she had crafted for herself." Tom can see that her knuckles are turning red. She must be digging her nails into her palms. That must hurt. He does it sometimes too when his frustration gets the better of him. "The day after the wedding..." says the Lady of the house of Riddle in that same defeated tone, "... a mailman came. He gave me only the photograph, wrapped carefully inside some brown paper. I knew it was her who sent it." she finds his eyes, dark like hers again. "Your mother. She did it to mock us." She chews her bottom lip for about three seconds before saying, "I waited to tear it into pieces that day. Do you understand?"

"Then why didn't you? Why keep a photograph of a woman you hate?" he asks, curious more than calm.

"Merely out of spite, boy." she says, her throat sore, her voice muffled, full of rage, like his is, sometimes. "...so she doesn't win, wherever she is."

"I don't think that she has exactly won anything in life." he replies. When he sees her turning on the heels of her black, freshly polished high heel boots made of deerskin and full of laces, looking at him with shock visible in her face, he adds, "She's dead." It's blunt and cold and indifferent, the way he says it, but Mary knows he has a right to be angry.

"Dead?"

He nods. "I've never actually met her."

"She died during pregnancy?" she finishes the thought for him, her eyes pinned on his own, sharp, intense.

He swallows. "After. The caretakers said 'an hour after'."

"I see." she murmurs before asking yet again, "You're reading my mind right now, aren't you?"

"How do you...?"

"I read eyes instead." she says softly. "It's a non wizard thing."

"That is..." 'Marvelous. She can read emotions without using magic. True skills of deduction.' He thought that only he could do that. "...certainly impressive."

"Thank you." she replies, always polite and proper. "I'd like to think so too." A heartbeat after, she says with much more energy, "Have you seen your mother's house? It's just across the street. Come. I'll show it to you."

Tom doesn't expect the ease and casualty with which the suggestion was made. In the end he whispers an unsure "Alright." When she walks to a grand balcony, he follows after her quietly.

"That's the Gaunt house, right there." she says and points her finger to somewhere to the left side of the road, where an old, decaying hut made of wood stands, halfway through being completely abandoned.

Tom wrinkles his nose and squints his eyes, trying to make anything of the rathole that can barely be afford to be called a 'house'. "That is..."

"Not a house?" The woman easily finishes his thought for him with a saddened grin. "I know. There are farmers in the village with establishments way more decent than old Marvolo's place. Mr Mason's home is quite lovely. We purchase our groceries from him. His crops are always swell."

Tom's hands are pressing to the marble outline of the bars with quite the intensity. Must be the stress, the frustration, the anger. "And my mother?"

"Right, of course." He hears her muttering before she finds his warm brown eyes once again. His brown match hers. So it was her eyes that he inherited, not his mother's as Mrs Cole had told him time and time again. "Your mother..." He can see the machines in her brain working with fervor in order to put the events in the right order. "Your mother's existence became known, most of the time, from her cries and screams. An unfortunate truth, but nontheless the first thing that comes to mind each time I remember her."

"Screams..." repeats Tom

"They were beating her - frequently." she explains, very calmly, might we add. "I still do not comprehend their reasoning. They weren't smarter than her or more educated. I guess, Marvolo and Morfin merely wanted something to punch the guts out of, something to do besides killing and hammering snakes on their threshold."

"Hammering snakes..." Tom tastes the words in his mouth. They're too vile for him. He loves most of the snakes he has met. He would never do that to a snake, not to the animals which made him special, the serpents he could communicate with, never. "Why?"

"Ah, to show off, I suppose." she says, shrugging. "To show the rest of us how scary they are." She tears her eyes away from him to look at the old hut. "Let me tell you something, boy. When the daughter is left with no other choice but to blackmail a stranger into being with her and having his child - yes, I do mean your father - her father goes to prison for attacking a bunch of teenagers and her brother can only rot away in their house, spending his days drinking... that doesn't scream 'scary'. Merely 'pathetic'."

Tom can only stare at her, his shock barely hidden. "Marvolo went to prison?"

"Mhmm." she nods. "Two years after your mother and my son had left the village to buy a new, more 'proper' house in East London. Tom said it was his idea." Then she laughs and that laugh is full of pure hatred for the woman dressed in white. "I never believed it for a second. It was your mother who hated her birthplace, not him. My son loved this house. Still loves it."

Tom turns to look behind at the interior of the manor. It is indeed lovely. "Well, it's a really nice... It has something very picturesque about it."

That brings a smile to her face. "It has, hasn't it?" After some seconds, she asks, "And what about you, boy? We'll discuss the rest of your mother's shenanigans later - and she did have a lot of them. Where did you grow up all these years? You said she gave birth to you inside an orphanage?"

"I... I didn't say anything about an orphanage-"

"Of course, you didn't. I guessed it." she says, her voice unmistakably proud of herself before she becomes sad again. "In any case, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve to grow up like this. No child ever does."

Tom opens his mouth to tell her off, tell her how annoying it is to hear pity from people who are essentially strangers all over again, but she catches up with him pretty quickly.

"I know you're tired of hearing this. You must be, but... I think it's important for you to know that me and my husband, if we knew where to find you, we would have. We would have taken you away from there if we had a clue about your existence."

"And my father?" asks Tom. "What about him?"

'Yes, your father's mental state at the time was a bit more delicate predicament..." whispers Mary, getting a bit nervous. He can see it in her eyes and hollowed sharp cheekbones.

Nevertheless, he didn't come here to merely dance around the subject. (If he wouldn't kill anyone today, he would at least have his answers.) He didn't allow even the notion of returning empty handed haunt him for longer than two seconds.

"I'm afraid you'll have to provide more context, my Lady. Such a statement is way too vague to be left as it is." He drawls smoothly, once again stepping into the comfortable mask of politeness and perfection, a mask he had left to be discarded for some reason.

This woman, his grandmother, she makes him feel... disoriented, out of his game. He doesn't know why. He hasn't felt like that (since his last encounter with Dumbledore) When was it? The beginning of June, the day when Myrtle Warren's parents had visited the school in an attempt to confront Hagrid, the person they believed killed their daughter.

To his utter shock, she isn't fazed by his unexpected change of behavior. "My my," she mutters. "You really are my grandson."

He can see her pleased grin. Moments later, she ends up giving in, bracing herself to remember a time that usually brings her back unpleasant memories.

"Fine. You're tying my hands, but so be it. That March of 1926, when Merope - your mother - decided to 'drug' my son - and your father - so to comply to her own desires and needs, Tom was about to be engaged to another woman, Cecilia Hogan. Cecilia was a young lady of a nearby village. Her father was the mayor. She knew your father since they went together to the same boarding school at thirteen. I'm afraid that I don't have a photograph of hers to show you, but further details on her person will be left for later."

Tom frowns. The fact that the first thing Mary tells him is that his mother ruined some innocent woman's engagement... is a tough pill to swallow, for sure. It disturbs him. He doesn't sigh or rub his nose though, like he did at other times while in stress. He only nods at the brunette to proceed. "Alright, go on. And my mother?"

"All that Tom told me, when he returned back home at July, was that the last thing he remembered from her was a glass of water she had given him after his four hours of horseback riding," says Mary just as solemnly. "When he told me the exact date of the event, I realized that whatever your mother gave him reached its potency at three days after consumption. Three days later, my son had disappeared. Merope too. He hadn't even packed all of his things. Most of his clothes stayed here, waiting for him to find them again, four months later."

Tom looks at his grandmother, a woman so strong-willed, so fierce with a not very promising gaze. Something in his darkening irises shows her that he has started to regret certain misconceptions, though which ones exactly, she doesn't know. "You're telling me that he didn't remember anything he was doing since she gave him that glass of water?"

"Oh, I doubt it was just water," she mutters sullenly. "Do you know what... it might have been?"

"You seem to know enough about wizards."

"Merely bits and pieces."

"Do you know what potions are?"

"Yes. Your point? Is there one that can cause infatuation for someone?"

"Of course there is. We learned it this year. Amortentia - oh, shit..."

"What?" The woman cocks a brow in slight puzzlement. "Is that what she did?"

"Most probably." He replies. "The effects match with your description."

Mary curls her lips downwards. She doesn't like what she's hearing. "Well... now at least we know what happened."

Tom snorts at that part. He doesn't quite appreciate learning the bitter truth about the mother he had so idolized and pitied all in one either. "Right. We learned that my mother was the creepy daughter of a tramp, who was so hellbent to get away from her previous life and delusional enough to believe in a dream, that she destroyed a neighbor's family and her newborn child in her haste to make that dream last as long as possible."

He walks towards one of the five chairs, the ones of the color of magenta, that are still inside the living room in which they're in and throws himself carelessly on it.

He thinks of Mrs Cole's words; 'She mustn't have been a sound of mind girl, boy. There was always something... wrong about her, like a darkness that surrounded her memory every time I try to remember the night of her labor - of your birth.'

"Whatever Merope may have done..." Mary's whisper breaks his once again obsessive thinking pattern. Her tone is soft as she takes his hand into hers, a gesture of affection that takes Tom off his game as he once again finds her eyes to only make a funny face of confusion. Nontheless, she doesn't hold back. "...has nothing to do with you. Her mistakes are not yours."

"I know," is his quiet murmur.

"Good. And you mustn't allow her ghost to haunt you. Not like I have. That was stupid on my part, very stupid." She raises her hand instinctively to touch his cheek in the same motherly manner that she did on her own son. Midway she stops. She sees him backing off. He mustn't be used to affection back in the East London streets that he grew up at. "Forgive me. I should have asked first. It's just... your eyes."

"What about them?" asks Tom with his brows furrowed, eyes displaying nothing but curiosity, a thirst for any piece of past backstory she can give him.

"They're like mine. I thought you got hers, initially, but... hers were darker. May I?" she says, placing her palm on his cheek that has flushed by now. She is smiling, just a little. It's a grateful sort of smile. "No. No, you have my eyes. I'm glad."

"How can you be 'glad'?" asks Tom, whose doubts don't ever leave him to find peace. "You don't know the first thing about me."

She gives him what he would call a 'smart-ass' look full of smugness. "Oh, I think I know enough, young man." And then some seconds later, she glances down at his hand and - oh, shit. "For example; how did you steal Morfin's ring?"

Tom promises to himself that he will not lose his cool. He has found himself into more dire conversations than this one. (Though not as exhilarating). He glances to his left at the two biggest bookshelves that are behind the Riddles' dining table and turns to ask in return, "How did you find all these books - the ones about Dark Magic? Did they fall from the sky at your feet or something?"

"By meeting a few interesting wizards." she says carelessly as if it's a perfectly nornmal thing to say. "Connections can be valuable. Gold can help a lot." Mary smiles at him sweetly. This time he wants to choke her. He considers it briefly, but his grandmother doesn't leave him the time to contemplate it that well. "And you?"

Tom shrugs. It's no use to pretend anymore. Not with her. She reminds him of Dumbledore- in a more intriguing sort of way. "I Obliviated him."

She twists the left side of her mouth down into a frown. "Yes, I'm afraid I don't understand the wizarding term. Do make it simpler."

"I, uh... basically it's a spell that causes amnesia."

He can see that her eyes have widened. She looks like an owl. Not one of the unpleasant or dumb ones though. "Oh. Oh, that's harsh..."

"It depends on the way you see it, really." He murmurs. "I think of it as mercy."

"Mercy..." she echoes. "What do all these men in their high political positions know about mercy, while our country is dying?" Her gaze darkens a lot more after. "I assume that... Albus Dumbledore can be a real jerk, can't he?"

Tom sputters and spits out the rest of his tea. "How do you even know that name?"

"I'm a squib, dear," she says with an amused smile. "Haven't you figured it out yet?"

The young wizard blinks. "You're..." His thoughts stop for a minute. What the hell he had just heard? Wasn't the whole point that his father's side was non-magical? "Say that again?"

"A squib," says Mary with another sirius look at the young wizard's direction. "In my case, I can do magic, accidental and only at certain cases, but that's pretty much it. I never went to Hogwarts."

"Yes, I figured as much." His voice is grumpy like a child's when he says that. "If anything, I would remember seeing my last name on the school records."

"And you wouldn't find it in there." Says Mary something cryptic in her golden brown irises. "My parents went to Beauxbattons."

Tom tries to remain impassive and cold, but the left side of his lips is curled down. He doesn't believe her. "You're joking."

She shakes her head with motherly patience. She seems to be enjoying his confusion. "I'm not."

He cannot say he shares the same sentiment. "How?"

Before Mary answers him, she calls the maid and rings a bell, essentially a button on the wall near the living room library. "You know that the Sacred Twenty Eight aren't the only wizarding families in the world, right?" She asks with a too self entitled voice when she turns her eyes and attention on him again. "Other names and families exist as well."

"Obviously." He mutters, vexed, though he tries to hide it. He doesn't do much of a job at it.

The woman - 'Mary', he chides himself, 'Her name is Mary' - insists on constantly looking at his face for the little twitches of irritation that his lips and brows produce. There is a pause of silence that lasts for about three heartbeats, before his grandmother says, "Hold on. I have something to show you. Wait here, I won't be long."

Then she leaves again, heading off to an impressive wooden door with carved flowers across its corners. She opens it and disappears from the living room. Her footsteps fade away too eventually.

Tom is left alone to carefully observe the grand living room; the library, the dinner table with the chairs around it, all five of them woden, the elegant black chandeliers that were lit up and are now giving off a faint light that makes the house look even more mysterious in the late afternoon. How had the hours pass by so fast? Tom remembers the sky being a soft blue when he had knocked on the front door and now it's a deep pink mixed with orange.

He wonders if his kleptomaniac tendencies will shine through. He briefly considers stealing a pair crystal glasses with gold details and a little porcelain statue of two ballerinas talking with each other, delicately painted with beige for their skin, blue for the tutu skirts and chestnut brown for their hair.

He decides against it after a bit of thinking. Stealing from that house would make its owners seem important, more important than what they actually were. The manor was his by birthright anyway. He wouldn't degrade himself so low as to resort to violence where it wasn't needed. He would just have to play his cards carefully. Especially with his grandmother. She was too clever, too perceptive for her own good. Tom has a gut feeling about that. She also seemed to be the matriarch of the household. She is the head, not her husband, whoever that is.

She returns before he has a chance to form another coherent thought in his head - along with a wooden box in her hands and a young maid, no more than twenty, following quietly behind. She places the box on top of the higher shelf of the library and then says with her more formal third-people-are-present-voice, "Tom, this is the maid, Jenna. You can tell her if you wish to drink anything. Perhaps a glass of scotch for your throat? I know it's quite a bother when it does happen."

His throat had been sore from a yesterday night's cold, but Tom has been doing his best so people won't notice such a trivial weakness. It's a miracle how she was aware of it. "I... I don't drink that much alcohol, ma'am." He whispers. It comes off as a bit awkward. (Laughable. He's a Dark Lord in the making. He should never be this awkward.)

"Oh." Her features are pulled back from the slight surprise. It sends a self - satisfied sensation in his stomach. She must have thought of him as bolder than 'not drinking'. Most young people were used to taste new wines, beers, whiskeys and other beverages. There was no shame in it. Mary herself was a rather heavy drunk in her youth. 'Living life to its greatest potential' she called it. "Alright then. Shall we stick to the usual? Tea and biscuits?"

"That would be more preferable, yes." Tom is rushed to say with a quick nod. "Thank you."

"No problem. Whatever you like best." Replies Mary with a small grin directed to him before turning on the young brunette with the light blue eyes.

She seems shy and isn't as good as her mistress at hiding her shock once her eyes fall on him and his resemblance to his father.

"So, Jenna..." starts off Mary, catching her maid's attention. "Do fetch a glass of Gin for me and..." Now her attention falls on Tom. "What kind of tea is to your preference, dear? You didn't say."

Tom takes a few seconds to offer an answer. Once he does, it's kind of awkward, rushed, not like his normally confident posture. "Is there any black one left?"

"Sure."

"Right, err... A cup of black tea then. Milk, no sugar."

"Excellent. Add some biscuits too alongside the tea, Genna - the ones I made yesterday, you know." Mary then waves a hand at the girl, dismissing her. "You may leave now. Thank you."

And so, the pretty but painfully introverted girl leaves them alone with a small bow at her Lady.

The first thing that Tom cannot help himself but ask is, "What's in the box?"

He gets another cryptic grin an an answer. "Open it and see for yourself."

Tom casts his eyes on hers for a bit, trying to figure her out. He can't. She isn't giving anything away. Rather strong-willed for a muggle - squib, whatever she had said she was. He gives up and with careful movements takes the box in his hands. Opens it and finds -

"A wand?" A real wizard's wand. One that's working. The woman is absolutely nuts, having a wand in the house. "Why should you get a wand? You can't use it." 

Her mouth forms a line of feigned disappointment. "First off, you let your emotions get the better of you. That makes you sound insensitive. You wouldn't last a day in high circles without proper training. You're getting there, but there's always room for improvement. And second, it's a wand. I bought it. I paid for it. I wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons. Why the questions?" 

"It's just..." 

"I'm a squib, so I don't count as someone that 'can do magic'. About that now... I simply don't care. I'm perfectly fine working on the family business with your grandpa. Trust me, I won't miss 'the wizard's life'." 

Tom cannot think of how to answer to such a casual dismissal of something as wondrous as the Wizarding World. "Well... good for you, then." He mutters, startled. 

A few moments of comfortable silence later, Jenna re-entered the living room to bring them their beverages. 

Tom had decided to sit down on the nearest sofa. His grandmother thought still kept on standing up. He didn't know how her legs could get used to it. 'Must be all these formal events she's been invited to', he thinks with a bitterness. 

"Ah. The tea. Thank you, Jenna." She says, her voice neither stern nor unpleasant, like all these Ladies' - visiting mothers in King's Cross, packed up to pick up their highly esteemed sons - before her. 

Jenna places the glass of Gin, two plates, one empty and one filled with chocolate chipped cookies and the cup of black tea on the table, gives a little bow at her mistress and then leaves again as quietly as a mouse. Tom likes her well enough. 

"So how is it?" Mary asks him, after walking to the table to take the delicate china set of plate and cup and pass it to him. 

He drinks his first sip of the tea. It's hot and sweet, exactly how he prefers it. He allows his face to appear the least bit puzzled by the ubiquitous nature of the question.

"The life, the castle." Is the woman's immediate answer. 

Ah. "Beautiful." He says in a blink of an eye - his eye, to be exact. It's one of these questions that don't need much preparation to be answered. Hogwarts, after all, always was an architectural miracle.

She grins at him. Once again with her eyes, not her mouth. "I only saw it once."

What. the. hell. Who is that woman? How much power does she have exactly? "You went to Scotland? How? You're a muggle."

Mary gives him a pointed but amused look. "A muggle with good connections and influential parents."

Tom scoffs and offers a sad, begrudging smile. "Ah. I get it. It comes back to money again."

"Doesn't it always?" She asks. Her tone is harsh and cold but speaking of truth.

'At least she's a bit of a realist amongst all that sweet talk about family reunion.' "I suppose it does." He replies neutrally.

"And that bit about Dumbledore?" asks Tom. "How could you possibly know of him?"

"I saw him in a pub." says his grandmother with a carefree shrug of her shoulders. "Five times."

She makes him smile. Again. It's weird as well as comforting. "You're not..." He says quietly, contemplating how he would word his next thought.

Her eyes are kind when she prompts him to continue with a warm, "What?"

"... how I thought you'd be."

She takes a sip off her glass filled from bottom to top with Gin and then says, "Hmm. Let me see...You thought I'd be a judgemental bitch with no other personality trait rather than yelling my lungs out for how much I hate people with low income." She takes a bite of a cinnamon biscuit, munches it for a little before swallowing. Then she gives him an all too knowing look. "Did I get it?"

Tom is rather certain his cheeks have flushed by now, turning fully red. "Umm... kind of. Yes? I mean, when you word it like this, it sounds..."

"Like a children's book villain." She says boldly, surprising him. She makes eye contact once again. She doesn't like losing the face and expressions of her conversation partner, never. The same goes for the young man before her - her grandson. How life turns out sometimes, huh... "See here, boy. I know how easy it is to put people into these little boxes of archetype behaviors. You know, the girl who's trying to hard to get your attention in school so she's an 'attention-seeking bimbo', the 'arrogant, rich boy' whom you'd rather throttle in his sleep with your bare hands. That one teacher you hate because he's a 'self-righteous asshole' who only favors a bunch of kids whose group you aren't included."

He gives her a glance full of intrigue at that. "That last one was about Dumbledore, wasn't it?"

"You tell me." She whispers, voice full of conspiracy. "I didn't study under him, remember? Anyway, my point is; you must forget these boxes. They don't apply to real life people. At least, most of the time."

Tom nods absent-mindedly. He allows some seconds to pass. Eight, nine, ten... His tea has somewhat cooled off so he drinks it all until the cup has been left empty. He usually takes his time with any kind of hot drink, but - "As much of an interest this conversation was to me, ma'am-

"Oh, do call me Mary, dear." She interrupts him, with a wicked, humorous glint in her eye. "You can at least give me that, if not more details of your story."

Typical. People were always intrigued by his sad, little tale of orphanhood. 

The young man clenches his jaw. His posture has overall sharpened. "Mary... I'm afraid it's time for me to take my leave." 

"Course it is." She mutters. Her smile starts faltering around the edges. "You can come back anytime. Tomorrow. Same time. My husband - your grandfather - will be here too. It's better to meet him first before..." 

She doesn't even have to finish the sentence. They both know what she wants to say. 'Before you meet that wreck of a father.' She may be too polite to say it, but he knows that's what she's thinking. 

Regardless of the brief awkward pause, Tom resumes their talk by responding - tone pleasing to the eye, well rehearsed; "Thank you. I will-" 'How. very. interesting'. "...consider it." 

He stands up from the sofa, pretends to look for anything he might have thrown on it. A coat, an ombrella. He carries nothing with him except his wand. 

"You weren't carrying anything with you, dear. Don't worry." He hears her soft voice, now a fond voice, saying. - Where did the fondness come from? - He certainly wasn't fond of her, not at all. Not three hours ago. 

"Right." He mutters. "No, I wasn't." He turns to meet her eyes. "Thank you-" He gulps, bites his bottom lip. "-for having me here." 

"Sure. Don't even mention it." She seems a bit lost, out of her depth now that the most intense parts of their tête a tête are over.

He is better than her in masking that foreign feeling, whenever it overwhelmed him. 

"Would you mind showing me out?" He asks to spare her the embarrassment of not knowing what to do now that the stakes aren't as high as they were before. 

It works. She is relaxing, little by little. "Yes, I can do that." Her feet move automatically to the closed door leading to the entrance hall to open it in haste. 

He follows pliantly behind her. His sharp features and reserved expression barely betray his satisfaction. 

*******

When they arrive and the entrance of the house, that same polished dark green door, Tom can only nod at her with a courteous tilt of his head, before bidding goodbye and turning his back, waking away from a house that had been haunting him for years. 

He sees her reciprocating the nod, followed by a faint grin, crooked to the right. She waves at him and yells at him to "Be careful with all these crazy folks out there, boy! I mean it!" 

Oh, the irony. Tom smirks just for himself, to himself.

The next couple of days will be proven to be quite fruitful, he can tell.  

Chapter Text

Thomas Riddle was a man of precision, of numbers and careful, meticulous calculations. His post as the owner of a highly esteemed jewelry shop in Eldon Street of London and three other departments in Surrey, Lakeside and Kent respectively had made him over the years - or more so, his mind - to work with an almost mechanical, computing kind of way.

That didn't mean he was unfeeling. He adored his wife. She wis partner, his second in command, his right hand. She was clever and funny and teasing. She knew when it was time to force him to take a break from his typewriter and have some cake and biscuits instead. Let his mind wander about anything and everything...

Out of gratefulness, he sought to help her out in the kitchen whenever he could, especially with desserts. Whatever his lovely Mary made was surely to be most savoring, even new recipes. Even though they were close to their fifties, they both had a particular fondness for sweets - Thomas a bit more than her sometimes, so they never ran out of something to satisfy their sweet tooth with; cookies or some pieces of a lemon pie were always tucked into a bowl or into the fridge to wait for them. 

He had first met Mary - Crawford was her maiden  name - when he was twenty six and still the penniless son of his father, Karl Riddle, a humble butcher that lived in Walden's Way in East London and had two other kids besides Thomas; Jane and Matthew.

Jane was proud to have become Dr Owen's  secretary - dentist - due to her talent of picking up many new information at a light speed.

Matthew had chosen to study under their father's guidance at the slaughter house. He liked slashing meat a bit too much. 

But he, like Mary, had not been content with the prospect of continuing the family business. (Her own parents were rich because they were the founders of a show making company, CR - the logo of it being the first two letters of Mary's surname). Thomas had wanted something more for himself.

So one day, he packed his bags and travelled all the way to Ghana in Africa to try his luck with the gold mining business. He made a deal with an old man named Jeriel Vasquez. Jeriel was from Guaynabo, Puerto Rico. He was a good man, quick witted and great with deals. He owned three mines that used to flourish - back in the days when he was younger - and now wanted someone to help him out with managing them as well as the workers under his supervision. One mad alone could hardly be at five different places at once. He taught Thomas everything he knew about the mining business. 

After a year and a half of working with Jeriel, Thomas brought Mary to Ghana to show her how much his fortune and wealth had grown. 

Mary had expressed her passion for crafting jewelry, using mostly silver and metals, through her letters to him, which, later, she selled to a woman that owned a jewelry shop in London for a good enough price. The woman, Mme Pierce, appreciated her hard work and quality of her jewelry pieces, so when Thomas told her that it would be a good idea to ship some gold from his and Jeriel's mines to London to be made into a unique series of jewelry, she agreed with quite the enthusiasm. Jeriel, in the meantime, had grown so fond of the young man and his soon to be fiancée - they reminded him of his own daughter and her husband - that he gave them half the ownership rights to the mines, saying that he was close to seventy six years old and was finally ready to retire,  now that he knew that his property was in trustworthy hands and would find prosperity equal to its worth. 

Two years later, when Thomas was reaching twenty eight and Mary twenty nine years of age, they had already established their own name in the jewelry industry. People from all over England came to purchase their wedding rings, earrings or necklaces, all made of gold, silver and precious stones, such as rubies, which were Mary's favorite material to work with. 

The day of the second store's opening night, Thomas was grinning like a fool. At one point he had whispered in her ear, "Well, my love? Isn't this what you wanted?" 

She had smiled at him with a hint of amusement, affection and adoration altogether. "Indeed it is, Thomas. I couldn't be more satisfied. With both of us. It-" -

- she looks at the crowd of people that have cone to congratulate them for their success. "It's the closest I've ever come to make my dreams come true." Then she turns her eyes back at him. "Thank you for giving me the chance of it." 

He kisses her forehead ever so tenderly. "Anything that I can do for you, my girl..." he promises, "I will." 

Her eyes close briefly upon feeling his soft lips on her skin. She's savoring the moment for as long as it lasts. 

Then the memory ends. 

*****

"What do you mean 'There was a boy in this house who looks exactly like our son and has the exact age to be his son'?" Thomas places the glass of whiskey down on the glass surface of his office desk. "That's impossible. Have you told Tom about that yet?" 

Mary leaves  alone the lip that she's been biting to give him a look full of concern. "I wanted to discuss it with you first. I wanted... well, there's a certain way Tom must learn about this. It must be done with delicacy." 

Thomas keeps the frown on. His eyes do not dare to look at the ones of his wife. "Of course, I agree, but are you sure that this boy wasn't lying to you?" 

"No, Thomas. If you had seen him... He was a spitting image of Tom. And Merope was his mother.  I saw it in his eyes. He loathed her too much to lie ro me. It was too personal for him. He told me she died after labor and left him in that orphanage " 

That's an interesting past already, completely in contrast with the description Mary had given him of the sixteen year old, who appeared with impeccable  clothes and an air of aristocracy to him.

"Really?" Asks Thomas. "Which one?" 

"Wool's." Says Mary. The intisting tapping of her fingers tells him that this is one of these times her nervousness becomes too much for her to handle. 

"The one in Kensington." He mutters as he walks closer to take her shaking hand into his to soothe her out of the nerves. 

She nods, "Mhmm. Remember, two years ago, when we had sent a sum as a donation to Wool's and to another establishment that was in Adam Street?"

"Yes, yes. Now that you mention it..." The idea that the boy had some connection to them starts to sound a bit more logical. All of this is so bizarre for the Lord of the house, but that doesn't mean it cannot be true. "Huh. Small world."

Nevertheless, he must see this hoy for himself before allowing his son to go anywhere near him. Thomas likes to think of himself as a bit more reserved and suspicious of people than his dear wife. Not that she wasn't ruthless when she needed to be, but the boy mentioning that he most likely was her nephew awakened Mary's motherly instincts and melted her heart a bit too much.

'It's rather clever of him', muses Thomas, before looking at Mary once again. "Very well. I will meet him tomorrow afternoon. But you must take our son and leave the house. I want to speak to the boy alone. And if I deem he's dangerous in any way, he will not set foot in our house again. If this is for blackmail, I might as well give him the money he asks for and be done with this story forever. I will not have Tom traumatized for a second time." 

Mary dips her head in agreement. "Of course, Thomas. And... if he tries to intimidate you-" 

He smiles at her worry with that same fondness he held for her thirty years ago. "He will not exactly have the chance for that. Don't you worry. As a businessman, I have learned sufficiently by now how to make the odds work in my favor." 

*******

When Jenna opened the dark green door and told him with a quiet voice that "Lord Riddle is expecting you", Tom thought that she was talking about his father.

But no. Once again, the man that shares half of the responsibilities for his very much miserable existence in this world is not there. 

Instead, inside the small room that is used as an office is his grandfather, Thomas Riddle.

He's in his mid fifties, as it seems from the gray in his otherwise black hair. There is something about him that screams old money and power. He is someone to be respected, to be feared as well. 

He is as handsome and posh as his wife. He is sitting behind his desk that is made of oaktree and has carved lion paws for legs when Tom opens the door and Jenna leaves them alone. There are two vintage looking chairs dressed in velvet in front of the desk. His grandfather is wearing reading spectacles. They're of a half moon shape.

'Exactly like Dumbledore's. Only these are golden, not silver.' Tom snorts at the irony. Remembering Dumbledore will do him hardly any good. 

It's then when Thomas Sr pins his eyes on him and smiles. "Well, go on then. Step inside. And close the door behind you." 

Tom blinks. He makes a few slow, hesitant footsteps forward and finds himself inside the office with the black walls. He glances behind his shoulder as he carefully shits the door closed. Then he looks back at the man. 

"Sit on the right chair, boy,"

So he does. Eyes not straying away from the ones of his grandfather. Still, he doesn't say a word.

If the man likes control so much, then let him live in the illusion that he controls their conversation. Tom was played once; by his grandmother. He refuses to repeat such a mistake again. 

"I suppose you're my grandfather then?" he asks, making his voice silky and unsure on purpose, putting on the 'poor, harmless young man' facade once more. It's a test. It doesn't seem like the other man will buy it. 

Thomas purses his lips, leans back on his own leather and very much comfortable armchair and crosses his arms over his chest. "That's a biological fact. Genetics say I am. The question is; do you want me to be?" 

"That's why I'm here," he offers simply, even though his mind is racing to pick up his scattered thoughts. Of all the reactions Thomas Sr could have, he hadn't expected that. "That's what I'm trying to figure out. It's too early to-" 

Thomas taps the fingers of his right hand on the left arm, the one his hand is wrapped around as if impatient. It could be considered adorable, for it was something Mary did too. But to Tom as of now it doesn't seem to be adorable. Only stressing. "Don't lie to me, boy. Not when you have already decided how you feel about your father, about all of us, long before you came to our doorstep."

Tom feels his fingers grabbing the fabric of his dark gray pants and pulling it. He grits his teeth, but tries to keep the polite tone going. 'Ah. So her husband is as bright as her. What a perfect match.'

"I assure you, sir, even if my feelings towards my... my father haven't been the best all these years, I cannot possibly judge you and your wife. Not until I properly get to know you. I've already met Mary-"

"She gave you permission to call her that?" asks Thomas sharply. His tone is far from pleasant. 

Tom nods.

"She did, yes. So will you listen to what I have to say?" he continues, hoping to sway his grandfather into being less defensive.

(After all, he isn't lying. He does want to get to know them. All of them. Even his father. Mary, he will most certainly spare. He is conflicted about this one, though.)

"I suppose I don't have any other options, do I?" Thomas peers at his only grandson through his spectacles with clear interest. "You seem to be the controlling type, type B. One that doesn't like being contradicted, prone to anger very easily. Unlike type A, who's more laid back than this."

( Tom thinks he can see a shine of satisfaction in the older man's eyes.)

Thomas Se opens a drawer and takes out a tiny crystal bottle, probably filled with some kind of scotch. He opens it and drinks a bit, savoring the taste of it. When he's had enough, he resumed his attention to the young wizard before him. "How's that for a guess?" 

"I applaud you for your skills of perception, sir, though I have to disagree with you on one part."

"Oh, really?" A small grin, almost invisible, hidden in the corners of the man's lips. "Which one?"

"This is your house," Tom explains simply. "You arranged our meeting. You could have very well cancelled it, should you wished to. I had no intention of making you do anything you didn't agree-"

The Lord of House Riddle dares to openly laugh at him, cutting his carefully weaved apology off. "Oh, but, you see, young man, you had." He taps his finger onto the desk, pausing a bit before continuing. "You absolutely had. It was either 'talk' or 'kill', and you picked the first. Lucky for my family and I."

'This is going to be more difficult than I thought,' thinks Tom, trying to keep his expression neutral.

His grandfather doesn't leave him much room to contemplate his thoughts. He's very determined to get to the bottom of this. "So, now that we are talking... what do you want, child? Information? Money? Both, perhaps? How old are you, again?"

Tom hates the way his... well, grandfather refers to him at such a condescending manner, thinking of him as immature as his peers. "Sixteen," he says softly.

"Sixteen..." Thomas Senior seems surprised. He must have thought him older. "You're still at school then?"