**Disclaimer: 'The characters, references, and locations are the copyright of JK Rowling and Scholastic Publishing. The author of this story receives no compensation for their work.'**
Preoccupied. That’s what everyone had been, preoccupied. No one would remember anything unusual or striking about the teenage boy who boarded the train that sweltering summer morning. Dressed in patched and faded clothing, he melted into the rest of the war-wearied passengers, all of whom were consumed in their own little worlds, hoping for an uneventful day in the country. The boy’s dark hair hung a little long and ragged, the contours of his face a little sharp. Brilliant eyes stayed downcast. In short, he appeared no different than anyone else. An appearance expected from any Londoner who’d survived the siege of Luftwaffe bombings, rationing, and a war that gripped the entire world for the last several years. If anyone had bothered to look more closely into those bewitching sapphire eyes, seen those high cheekbones or flawless skin they would have remembered him. That is, if anyone had bothered to look. As it turned out, everyone was absorbed with their own problems, no one would remember seeing him at all. Which is a shame, because Tom Riddle was anything but ordinary, and he was as different from every person on that train as a unicorn might be in a field full of plow horses.
Five years ago, almost to the very day, Tom discovered that he was no ordinary human being. He was in fact, a wizard. This liberating piece of news, as Tom came to view it, was delivered to him by a very curious, very tall, thin man by the name of Albus Dumbledore. Professor Dumbledore as Tom now called him, arrived at the orphanage where Tom had lived his entire life, one dull summer afternoon. The good professor informed Mrs. Cole, the worn out, middle-aged, pinched face matron that he had a place for Tom at his school. After their meeting she was only too happy to ship Tom off to his boarding school. She only regretted the fact that Tom would return each summer. Tom was astounded at this turn of events. A man from the Farm Schools came a few years ago and took most of the other boys away. Only the girls, the very young, the sick, and the crippled remained at the orphanage along with him. No one ever explained to Tom what was wrong with him, why he wasn’t allowed to leave. So he often wondered what Dumbledore had said to the mean old alley cat during their interview to change her mind about him. Certainly he didn’t just march in and announce that one of her charges was a wizard. She would have had him committed or at least thrown into the street. No, Dumbledore must have used a bit of magic to alter her perception he thought, smiling. Something he could now do with ease and increasing frequency, and not just to Mrs. Cole.
Tom remembered that he too was skeptical of this outlandishly dressed visitor. He had demanded proof. With a casual flick of the old man’s wrist Tom’s wardrobe, containing everything of value to him suddenly burst into flame. Horrified, Tom watch fire consuming his treasured belongings until another casual flick of the wrist, and the wizard returned the wardrobe to its original state. Tom sat there dumbfounded. This was neither trick nor illusion, this was real magic. Dumbledore was a real wizard and a force to be reckoned with. Panic seized Tom as he stared at the wardrobe. What, he thought, if the old loon can read minds as well and what if he finds my hard-won trophies? Whether or not this Albus Dumbledore could read minds Tom never found out but his treasures were discovered. Tom was required to return them to, as Professor Dumbledore said, “their rightful owners”. Tom was both frightened and impressed by this wizard’s ability to so easily probe his mind, to know his thoughts and fears. He didn’t like this feeling of vulnerability. He hadn’t felt it in a very long time. Not since he discovered that he had that ability.
Begrudgingly, Tom returned the items as Dumbledore’s condition for acceptance into his school of wizardry. A few worthless trinkets, Tom reckoned, taken from bullies were nothing compared to the power he knew he would one day wield.
Someday, he thought, as he watched Dumbledore disappear up the street, no one will know my inner thoughts. Then, he thought with a fierce determination, I will be the one with the power to control.
Tom purchased his school supplies and boarded the Hogwarts Express along with the other student that September first. He felt the unwelcome pang of loneliness, of longing as he watched the other children hugging family members and saying good-bye. In the midst of the crowd he felt alone, an outsider. He was the only one there by himself, the throwaway orphan. He clenched his fists. Someday, he told himself sniffing back a tear, I’ll have a real family who will always be there for me.
It was in his sixteenth year that Tom became obsessed with finding what remained of his family. Not his father’s family for he had determined they were non-magical, common Muggles as wizards called them and Tom had no interest in that heritage. After eleven years in a decrepit and oppressive orphanage Tom had had his fill of Muggle society. Only his mother’s side was of any importance. That side was the magical one, and a most impressive heritage it was. To his infinite delight he discovered that he was a direct descendant of the greatest sorcerer ever to have lived, Salazar Slytherin, one of the founders of the school he now attended. That moment of discovery thrilled him like no other. He was somebody. The thought of discovering his roots haunted every waking moment. He researched the school library and old issues of the Daily Prophet, but his search yielded only one name, his grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt. Tom had hit a dead end. Finally, forced to admit defeat, he consulted his friend and mentor, Lord Grindelwald for help.
Grindelwald was a dark, secretive old wizard. He avoided most human contact and encouraged Tom to do the same. He forbade Tom to speak to anyone of their relationship. He rarely provided help or gave out information. It was therefore a surprise when he was very much in favor of Tom seeking out his mother’s family. He provided a wealth of information including directions to his family’s home.
“You need to return to where you came from. Discover your roots. It will be,” the old man had said, “a true enlightenment. This event will bring you closer to your true family and your destiny. Your life will come full circle.” Of course, the old sorcerer would be right. He was always right.
For the last five years, ever since that chance encounter in gloomy Knockturn Alley when Tom was first purchasing his school things, the clever, sometimes frightening old man had been there for him, a guiding hand and mentor. Tom now thought of him as a beloved uncle. He’s been tough on me, thought Tom, some might say even brutal. But, he thought again, I’ve needed it. I’ve deserved it. It has made me a stronger, better wizard, the best. Certainly a lot better, he thought with a twinge of irritation, than if he had limited himself to what was taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft. He felt no deception in returning to Lord Grindelwald every summer and not the orphanage. They don’t care what happens to me, he thought and Hogwarts doesn’t need to know.
So this year, rather than spend his customary last fortnight of August at the orphanage Tom planned a journey to Little Hangleton and his mother’s family. He prepared for Mrs. Cole’s predictable refusal. However, she was only too eager to be rid of him for another year and granted him permission without ever looking up. It didn’t require magic at all. Walking through the courtyard he clenched his teeth. Her lack of concern stung him more that he would like to have admitted.
There will come the day, he thought angrily, when you will be sorry for the way you treated me.
The excitement at finding his parents was intoxicating. For years he had imagined what his family was like. Every time the matron had them all line up in front of prospective parents he prayed his real family would be there. He could hear them crying “Oh my Lord, it’s him, we’ve found him at last!” It certainly happened to other children. However it never happened to him. Now, finally he was going to meet them. He imagined their first encounter. What they would say to him? What could they say? He imagined their astonished faces, his grandfather’s eyes widening as he saw a younger version of himself standing in the doorway. Would he hear weak apologies from his uncle? Distance yourself from the situation, Grindelwald would say. Remain outside and examine all possibilities, then make your move, don’t get emotionally involved. Of course Grindelwald would be right. Tom would remain calm, aloof, detached. He might forgive them, maybe, if they cooked the fatted calf upon his return. If they begged for his forgiveness, pleading ignorance he might relent, a little. He just might. Revenge would be sweet. A smile crossed his lips. He looked forward to the meeting. The thought empowered him. He raised his chin and strode confidently into the train station. He never noticed the flowers suddenly wilting as he passed.
Tom couldn’t use magic to get to the Hangleton’s. He was still underage and therefore forbidden by wizarding law to use magic outside of school. What happened with Grindelwald didn’t appear to matter because Grindelwald didn’t volunteer any information to the Ministry. Grindelwald didn’t like the Ministry. He told Tom it was corrupt, filled with greedy, self-serving Mudbloods and half-breeds who didn’t appreciate history or tradition. “Keep away from them,” he had told Tom on more than one occasion, “don’t befoul yourself with the likes of them.” No sense, Tom thought, of getting the Ministry of Magic upset and swooping down on him. So he boarded the train just like everyone else, hidden by a crush of servicemen and refugees. Pulling his jacket tightly around him he looked out a window. He kept his gloves on lest he touch one of them. No one paid any attention to him and he was glad of it. He was invisible again.
Hills like sleeping giants framed the entrance to the Hangleton’s. Even though it was still early afternoon deep shadows crept across the valley. Everything drowsed in the late summer sun. Tom looked wistfully towards the fine manor home on the hill. Even from this distance he could make out its neat flowerbeds, the well-kept lawn and ivy-covered walls. Sleek horses grazed in one field, plump cattle in another, another still was given over to hay. His feelings told him that was his destination but the directions Lord Grindelwald had given him were in the opposite direction. The village was where his mother had lived.
Tom walked purposely in the gathering gloom. His path was pitted and potholed. The old lamp he carried cast a feeble light against the advancing darkness. Weeds and brambles choked most of the path so Tom was obliged to pull his jacket tightly around him. Thorns tugged at his clothes. Trees, their branches twisted with age or disease reached out to scratch and slap at his face. Surely Grindelwald had given him the wrong directions. He had done things like this before, to test his ingenuity. Darkness gathered in around him. Silence muted even his footfalls. Neither bird nor insect could be heard. Even the crickets were silent. A house appeared suddenly in the gloom. Tom raised his lantern higher. The feeble light fell upon the cracked and splintered remains of what was once a fine oak door. Paper-thin remnants of a snakeskin, long withered away, hung nailed to the door. The name Gaunt was clearly visible on the lentil. Grindelwald had been correct. He was home.
How magnificent in its day thought Tom, gazing at the crumbling structure. Clearly, the affects of abandonment had befallen it. More than sixteen years of neglect he reflected. Bricks fell from the stonewalls. The veranda had collapsed, pulling parts of the house with it. Whole columns threatened to fall at any moment. Portions of the roof were open and exposed splintered beams. Broken windows were grimed with dirt. A stable wall, barely visible in the gloom bent at such an angle Tom thought it would fall right before his eyes. Slowly, he approached the front door. Something scurried away into the darkness. Tom looked around the silent, glass-strewn yard. No grass grew there, but Tom imagined what it must have been like when his mother lived there. When she was a little girl playing with dolls. He imagined a pretty little girl, dressed in velvet with his star sapphire eyes and raven dark hair playing on the front porch. He saw her sunny smile and heard her tinkling laughter. The scene played out in his mind. An old man, Tom imagined her grandfather, would appear from around the corner with a winged pony. The little girl would cry with delight and clap her hands. The old man would then gently lift her onto the pony’s back. There were hugs and kisses and promises of I’ll love you forever. He imagined lavish parties on the wide front lawn. Guests would suddenly pop out of nowhere to greet the master of the household, his grandfather Marvolo who held court on the wide veranda. He imagined his Uncle Morfin charging up unexpectedly, darkly handsome like himself, gripping the reins of a fierce bronze colored hippogriff, or better yet, a dragonish Thestral. Tom felt a twinge of guilt for despising his mother all these years. Grindelwald was wrong, they were all wrong. His family was dead he thought sadly, dead and gone to dust. I wasn’t dumped in that orphanage and forgotten, he mused, it was an effort to save me. His anger started to ebb away. His grandparents disapproved of his mother’s marriage to a Muggle so they ran away together. Tom Sr. died before he was born and his mother was too afraid to come back to her family. A broken heart he thought, she died of a broken heart. No one ever looked for me; his heart skipped a beat because no one knew I existed and now they’re all dead. A tear threatened in the corner of one eye. Had they known, they would have looked for him. They would have loved him; somebody really would have cared about him. He took a deep breath and cleared all thoughts of the bullying older orphans, of Mrs. Cole, and creepy old Lord Grindelwald from him mind. He was free at last. It was over. Some unknown past didn’t bind him. He would go into this house. He would find and read his family’s old journals filled with remorse and regret at the loss of his mother. He would remember and honor his family. He would restore their name, his name, and his heritage. He’d find their spell books filled with magic known only to them. He’d retrieve their accumulated wealth befitting an heir of Slytherin hidden inside this house. No longer would he have to live like some throwaway orphan with second hand robes and books and a questionable lineage. Reassured, Tom rapped the door sharply twice and opened the door.
The door creaked open. Tom held his lamp high so that its light spilled into room. Clouds of dust and small insects floated up onto golden fingers of light. Cobwebs hung from every surface. Cockroaches scuttled across the floor. A choking odor of rotting decay bloomed forth. Tom wrinkled his nose and upper lip involuntarily. His eyes searched the gloom until they came upon the room’s sole occupant. A great hairy head looked back at him. Beady mismatched eyes glared out from beneath the graying, knotted mat of hair. It held a knife was in one gnarled hand, a wand in the other. Rising with difficulty onto unsteady feet, it swayed in the semi-darkness. Then hunching its massive shoulders it staggered a few steps forward.
“YOU” the creature bellowed, its voice a croaking hiss. “YOU!”
“Stop” commanded Tom coolly. His voice, the same whispered snake’s hiss. Even at sixteen, he feared no man. Not any more. Lord Grindelwald had threatened him endlessly, hexed him repeatedly and hardened him until he was constantly anticipating an attack. He was always ready. It excited him.
The great lumbering creature skidded to a stop, grabbing onto the table to steady itself. Bottles skidded across the floor, old pans filled with moldy, half eaten food crashed to the floor. The creature was barely five feet away from him now. The stench of stale beer and tobacco hung over it. Tom’s stomach churned.
“You speak it?” the creature croaked in the same hissing language.
“Yes, I speak it,” came the reply. Tom stepped forward into the room allowing the door to fall shut behind him. Silence closed in around him. Who was this creature and why had it desecrated his home? Tom felt nothing but disgust as he looked at the loathsome creature in front of him. Broken blood vessels spider webbed across its face. Dull eyes that stared in different directions were swollen and red. Bloated skin pulled back cracked lips to reveal a mouth of blackened, uneven teeth. It attempted what might have been a smile but looked more like a leer.
“Where is Marvolo?” Tom demanded suddenly. His voice still a penetrating hiss.
The creature studied him for a moment, snot running down its nose. “Dead,” he replied at last, “died years ago, didn’t he?”
Dead, thought Tom, of course he’s dead. That’s why he never came looking for me.
“Who are you, then?”
“I’m Morfin, ain’t I?”
“Marvolo’s son?” Tom was incredulous. How could this be Morfin? Morfin was supposed to be dead, like the rest of them.
“’Course I am, then…”
The creature pushed back the knotted filthy mass covering his eyes. As light fell across its face Tom saw the black-stoned ring on his right hand, Slytherin’s ring. This is where his search had led him. This was the last remnant of a once proud family. This was his shining heritage. Something clawed at his inside. No repentant journals, no wealth of ancient knowledge, no treasure, just this caricature of a human being. This vile thing was his uncle. He turned his face to search the room again, searching for some ray of hope. Morfin pushed his vapid face closer, drool running down his chin in long thin ropes. He covered one bloodshot eye and looked at Tom more closely. “I thought you was that Muggle,” he whispered hoarsely. “You look mighty like that Muggle.”
Tom whipped around and looked his uncle full in the face. “What Muggle?” he demanded sharply.
“That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle that lives in the big house over the way,” said Morfin. He spat on the floor between them. Tom moved his feet reflexively. “You look right like him. Riddle. But he’s older now, in’e? He’s older’n you, now I think on it …”
Morfin looked slightly dazed as though the act of remembering was too much exertion. He swayed a little, grabbing the edge of the table for support. It groaned in protest; one of the legs cracked threateningly. He hiccupped a few times and his eyes unfocused. “He come back, see,” he added mindlessly, swaying again. Staggering backwards Morfin fell back. The chair screamed in protest. A cloud of dust and small insects rose up around him.
Tom gazed at the wretched creature in front of him. He waited until it calmed itself down. Never try to get information from hysterical people Grindelwald had told him. Let them wear themselves out, encourage it. Then take what you need when they’re quiet. When they’re more receptive to your suggestions. Tom moved a little closer to Morfin. He quieted his mind. He felt the familiar push as he focused on his uncle. Then in a silky voice he asked, “Riddle came back?”
“Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!” said Morfin, wiping his nose with one greasy sleeve and spitting on the floor. “Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where’s the locket, eh, where’s Slytherin’s locket?”
Tom withdrew a little but did not answer. Anger boiled up in him. A darkly thrilling power surged through him again like some omnipresent serpent. It struggled for control. Punish him, it ordered. He struggled against the command, fought to keep control. Stay cool Grindelwald would have told him. Always remain in charge of the situation and your emotions. The serpent finally receded. Tom was panting slightly at the exertion.
Morfin was working himself into a rage again; drool ran down his face and flew from his lips. He brandished his knife and shouted, “Dishonored us, she did, that little ****! And who’re you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It’s over, innit .. It’s over …”
“Yes Morfin,” he said coolly, “it’s over. Forever.” Stepping forward, Tom looked into his uncle’s blank face, at the ever present drool on his chin. Tom felt his jaw tightening. Pointing his wand right at those vague, wandering eyes, he concentrated, Somnamula Diem, sleep for one day. The eyes went out of focus and rolled back revealing only the whites. His uncle fell back into his chair, unconscious. Another cloud of dust rose around him, settling on his face and into his open mouth. Tom’s stare was harsh.
“It’s over for you,” Tom growled. “You should have stayed dead.”
We’ll just see about Tom Riddle, he thought. He should have stayed dead too. Reaching forward he plucked his uncle’s wand. Then grabbing his uncle’s hand he roughly pulled off the ring. This is the true heir’s ring, he thought, not some monster’s. Pocketing them both he turned and went off into the night.
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