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His White Queen: A Prequel	By : jsu1660n Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 18950 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I DO NOT own Harry Potter, neither the characters from the books or movies. I receive no profit from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
A/N: Hello everyone! I just wanted to let you all know that I am going on vacation for the next two weeks and this will be my last post until my vacation ends. Enjoy!

Chapter 13

“How did she take the news of your temporary sabbatical?”

Hermione put away the quill and parchment and curled in the chair across from his portrait. “Better than I expected. I suppose it was enough to hear from me. Although, she was under the impression that Draco Malfoy and I were up to something naughty.”

He lifted his eyebrows amused. “Really? And are you?”

“Of course not! He’s like a son to me – Meira,” she said, clearing her throat. She ignored Tom’s knowing smirk and called for Ava to bring her pumpkin juice. She took a sip and watched him with wide, anticipating eyes.

He looked past her, seemingly deep in thought. “My mother’s family, the Gaunts, was direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin and Cadmus Peverell.”

Hermione’s mind started to work faster than she wanted. Peverell. Peverell. She knew that name from somewhere, but where?

“Her name was Merope and she lived with her father Marvolo and brother Morfin. They were the absolute worst types of wizards you could ever come across. To come from such prestigious lines, the Gaunts were the equivalent to what the Muggles sometimes refer to as inbred trash. They lived in a shack close to Little Hangleton. They treated her about as well as Lucius Malfoy treats his house-elves. She had to cook for them, clean for them. They dressed her in rags and she was often not allowed to leave the house. The Gaunts were a dying line and I don’t think I have to explain to you exactly how Marvolo encouraged Morfin to attempt to save their bloodlines from extinction.”

Tom paused and closed his eyes as Nagini hissed. Hermione inhaled shakily, fighting off thoughts of Meira and Grindelwald.

“Fortunately, no child ever resulted from their revolting union,” he continued, failing to mask the emotions in his voice. “Merope was abused in every way possible, and because of it, her magical abilities were repressed. She could have been considered a Squib while she lived with them. Along the way, Merope…fell for a Muggle.”

Hermione surmised that the Muggle was his father, but thought it best not to interrupt him.

“Morfin, in all of his jealousy and hatred, discovered his sister’s infatuation with the Muggle and immediately told their father. They attacked her, physically and magically, and by the time they were through, she looked inbred. They did it because they knew no man would ever come near her. It was as if they were reenacting a twisted recreation of Athena cursing Medusa for tempting Poseidon! A ministry official intervened and Marvolo and Morfin went to Azkaban, giving her free rein to pursue her Muggle obsession.”

“Tom?” she whispered cautiously, afraid that even the slightest distraction would make him clam up and never speak of it again.

“Yes?”

“How do you know these things? Even though you are summarizing these events, they seem too intimate to me to be considered conjecture.”

“On my eleventh birthday, aside from the standard visit from a Hogwarts official, I received a letter and a diary. They were both from Merope. But that part comes later. With Marvolo and Morfin out of the way, Merope made it her mission to pursue Riddle.” She could tell that Tom shared a distinct hatred for his father. “Of course, she was nothing more than dirt beneath his shoes. Poor, living in a shack, she was nothing but another person for him to ridicule. He and his intended Cecilia enjoyed laughing at her expense. Still, it was not enough to defer her affections. Why don’t you take the back off the frame of Meira’s mother?”

Tom was still gazing in the distance as he suggested this. She removed the frame from Meira’s chiffonier. She returned to the chair, tucking her legs underneath her. Hermione avoided looking directly at Feodora’s photograph. Behind the photograph was another one, but it was a Muggle photo. It was of a man who looked like an older version of Tom dressed in a black suit. The woman beside him in the pretty, white wedding dress was none other than Merope Gaunt. She had brown hair as straight, thin and limp as hay that fell heavily around her shoulders. Her face was plain and her eyes went in opposite directions, but she had a very beautiful smile.

Hermione looked closer at the photograph and a bad feeling came over her. “Tom, I don’t mean to sound offensive, but there is something not quite right about your father in this photograph.” He seemed happy, but in a sort of dazed and unfocused way.

“It seemed that my mother and Meira’s mother were both very well practiced in the art of potions,” he responded dully.

“Wait, are you saying –?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Until she was pregnant with me. In her diary, she wrote that she lived for him. That he was all she ever wished to have. She stopped dosing him. She deluded herself into thinking that he would grow to love her as she loved him, considering they were going to have a child together. The withdrawal came quicker than she anticipated. He awoke in the middle of the night in a panic. He called her horrible names and returned to Riddle Manor with his parents. She wrote him letters every day, begging his forgiveness for her deception. Finally, he did respond. And in the letter, he provided her enough money to get by for the next year and warned her not to write to him again.

“She stopped attempting to contact him. He was back to riding around with Cecilia, telling anyone who would listen that he had done enough charitable work to last a lifetime.”

Hermione gritted her teeth at that. Yes, he had every right to be upset with her for deceiving him, but to just abandon them both so coldly? She only hoped that by the time Tom became the Dark Lord he had given his father exactly what he deserved.

“She was devastated. All that she had done had been for naught. New Year’s Eve came around and she gave birth to me in an orphanage. What a foreshadowing it was! She gave me his name and for reasons I will never understand, she gave me Marvolo’s name as well. She died soon after I was born.”

“And you were raised at the orphanage.”

“Unfortunately.”

“What was it like?”

“Dreadful, utterly, dreadful. The children were stupid and annoying. Every bad thing that happened there was always my fault. The flowers in the garden died – Tom did it. The broth they fed us turned into soup – Tom did it. The bibles Father Chapman brought on Sundays were all blank – Tom did it.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Were you responsible for those things?”

A phantom smirk came across his face. “Possibly.”

“What were the adults like?”

“They were really cheap back in those days. In an orphanage of 40+ children, there was the matron Mrs. Cole and then there was the deputy matron Ms. Stephens. Mrs. Cole was a bitch. There truly are no other words to describe her. But I liked Ms. Stephens. She was a Squib and she knew immediately what I was. ‘Tom,’ she would say whenever I did something to scare the older kids because I was bored. ‘There will come a time when the world will bow to your power.’ She taught me how to be the perfect little angel that you see before you. She was the only thing that made that place bearable,” he said almost sadly.

“Who was Father Chapman?” Hermione regretted the question as soon as it left her mouth. Tom’s expression darkened horribly and his coffee brown eyes seemed to turn near black.

“Muggles truly disgust me, Hermione. Priests were just as abusive then as they are now. The only difference is that they got caught a lot less in my time.”

“Did he ever…?” she didn’t want to say it, much less think it.

“No. But it was not for a lack of trying. Father Chapman preached to me that I was a demon sent from hell. That I was a wicked child who would be dammed in the afterlife. Salvation could be achieved only through his grace.”

“Did you ever try telling Mrs. Cole or Ms. Stephens?”

He snorted. “I didn’t mention that Mrs. Cole was a widow, did I? Chapman’s words were as good as God’s in her eyes. She believed everything that came out of his mouth and she enjoyed his company beyond the point of a platonic relationship. Ms. Stephens was another matter altogether. She never trusted Father Chapman. ‘A Muggle whose collar gives him the freedom to foster his sins.’ She believed the other kids when they would tell her how he forced them to confess their sins as he touched them where no child should ever be touched. Unlike Mrs. Cole who would lock the ‘lying heathens’ in the hall closet for an entire night without food or water. Chapman’s reign of terror did not end until the day Ms. Stephens literally caught him inside my room with his pants down. Oh, please don’t cry, Hermione.”

He stopped for a moment to give her time to gather herself. It made her sick to think of anyone hurting Tom, especially in that way. She took a few calming breaths and dried her tears. “Sorry. Go on.”

“It occurs to me that you have the uncanny ability of telepathy.”

“I do.” She accepted the ability as her own because she could only feel Meira as a faint pulse in the back of her mind.

“Do you truly wish to know me, Hermione? Do you want to see the inner workings of the Dark Lord’s mind?”

“Yes,” she said, vibrating in excitement.

“Then all you would have to do is allow your mind to connect with mine.”

“It still amazes me that Horcruxes have a mind of their own.”

“I shall try not to be offended by that,” he sniffed. “Close your eyes and open your mind. Block out everything around you and focus on my magical energy.”

She closed her eyes, but blocking out everything around her was nearly impossible. Through the darkness, she could hear the waves of the sea crashing beneath the bedroom window. She could hear the fireplace crackling. She could even hear Crookshanks purring in his slumber.

“Focus, Hermione,” he urged. “Reach out to me. Reach out and you will see a shimmering orb.”

Once she managed to block out all of the sounds around her, she saw a bluish orb the size of a magic eight ball. She knew, even without him telling her, that she would have to touch the orb with her mind. When she did touch it, she felt the same spinning and pulling sensation as she had the first time she used a Portkey, only instead of the feeling being centered at her navel, she felt the tugging and spinning inside her head.

The spinning began to slow and she felt a hard body holding her up. Sounds came into play and there was chatter all around her. She opened her eyes when his arms came around her waist as he led her in a slow circle. Were they dancing? Hermione recognized most of the people there from Meira’s memories. Abraxas Malfoy covertly spiking the punch. Orion and Walburga dancing happily a few feet from her. And a green and silver banner hanging above their heads that read, “Happy Birthday, Tom.”

“Tom?” she almost whispered, looking up at her dark haired Slytherin.

His dark coffee colored eyes met hers with a smirk. “Yes…Hermione?”

“Thank Godric,” she sighed, ignoring his raised eyebrows. “I was afraid something went wrong and I ended up experiencing one of Meira’s memories. But…you’re really here.”

“I thought that you might like to see one of my most cherished Hogwarts memories. This one takes place a year after Meira transferred here. She found out about my birthday being on the same day as New Years Eve. I told her – no, I forbid her from telling anyone or attempting to concoct some ridiculous celebration. Why would I want one anyways? But being the annoyingly logical Ravenclaw, she told the Slytherins of both our years and they contrived a way for her to lead me back here to our common room at just the right time. It was by far the nicest thing anyone had done for me since I arrived here,” he finished almost regrettably.

“Was this hers?” she said, looking down at the white floor length, gauzy layered gown that had a see-through overlay at the bust.

“Yes, it suits you beautifully.” Tom and Hermione danced until the song ended. “Come,” he said, leading her to the exit as the memory continued without them. “Welcome to my memory lane.”

The door to the Slytherin Common Room closed behind them. They stood in a narrow, seemingly endless hallway with countless doors on both their left and right. “I never imagined that your mind would be this organized.”

“It’s really not. I only set it up this way for your convenience, love.”

She blushed and lowered her eyes. “You left off with Ms. Stephens catching Chapman in your room.”

“Ah, right. After he was caught, she reported him to the highest authority…and of course, he escaped any legal punishments. Although, about a month and a half later, he was found dead. The victim of a poisoning. Mrs. Cole was devastated,” he laughed. “With Chapman gone and buried, unable to hurt anyone ever again, the children got along better. I was bothered less because Ms. Stephens favored me and everyone liked her too much to upset her. She started to bring me magical books from this store in a place she called Diagon Alley. One of them was called Hogwarts, A History. Do you know she caught me talking to a snake one day?”

“She was not afraid, was she?”

“No, a few days later, she brought me Parsel: the Forgotten Language.”

Tom picked a door on their left. “These are all my memories from the orphanage. On the left are Hogwarts.”

“When did the Dark Lord create you exactly?”

“The night before he and Meira completed the bonding ritual. It was actually her idea. A fail safe in case something happened to the others.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Others?” she gasped. “There are more besides you?”

“Oh, yes, but that is a story for another time.” He stood before the door, which opened presenting darkness before them. “Shall we?”

Hermione nestled closer to Tom as they stepped through the darkness and landed into a small sunlit room with a single bed, a desk and chair, a wardrobe, and a small window. As soon as they stepped through, the memory began to unfold.

Eight-year-old Tom Riddle stood before his window. His hands folded behind his back as he glared disdainfully at the frolicking children beneath his window. He hated children. He turned his back on them, ignoring their laughter and childish delight. Over what? The bigger children splashing the younger ones with the water hose. Tom couldn’t think of anything more absurd. Still, it would prove amusing to see The Hag Mrs. Cole’s face turn purple when she realizes that they all had slacked in their chores.

There was a knock at his door. He could say it was his door because the other children were too frightened to share a room with him. He was a mean and disturbed little boy according to them. His wide smirk quickly transformed into a genuine smile when he realized that there was only one person in the orphanage who was respectful enough to knock and wait for permission rather than barging in uninvited.

Tom opened the door and was not disappointed to see the woman who had easily become his favorite person. Ms. Stephens. She was tall, six feet easily. She had blue eyes, full lips and brownish-blonde hair that fell past her shoulders. She wasn’t as old as The Hag, but she was not really young either.

“Good afternoon, Tom.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Stephens. Please come in,” he offered politely as a way of hiding his excitement over seeing her.

“Thank you.”

He always kept the door opened when Ms. Stephens came to see him, especially with The Hag on the warpath looking for any excuse to rid the orphanage of her.

“Has anything interesting occurred since my last visit with you?” she asked, taking a seat on his chair.

“A few small things. Did you notice that the chair does not wobble anymore?”

She moved around a bit on the chair and gasped. “It doesn’t! How did you do it?”

“I was reading and the chair would annoy me every time I moved and I just wished it would stop. Then it did.”

“Amazing. You will be a very powerful wizard, Tom,” she praised. “I brought you something,” she said, opening her satchel. “It took me a while to track it down and to negotiatea satisfying means of payment after a friend and I made an unscheduled excursion into Knockturn Alley.”

“Knockturn Alley?”

“It’s different from Diagon Alley. For one, Dark Arts objects and books are not of short supply. As well as a few other…unsavory dealings. A shady place if I have ever seen one. But Borgin and Burkes makes it worthwhile. This was their only copy.”

The box was wrapped in black waxed tissue. It was a heavy tome titled, Parsel: the Forgotten Language . “Parsel?”

“That’s what it’s called when you speak to snakes and they speak back to you. You are a Parselmouth, Tom. This book will tell you all you need to know about the history of the language and you just may find some surprising facts in there.”

He clutched the book to his chest reverently. “Thank you, Ms. Stephens.”

“Of course, Tom…”

The memory ended there and Tom and Hermione left the dark room, closing the door behind them.

“It was how I learned just how extensive my bloodline truly is. Thanks to Ms. Stephens,I was learning so much about my abilities and about myself.”

“Hmm,” Hermione said as they approached another door.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“No, really, nothing. It’s just…”

“Just…?”

“She was very attractive is all.”

Tom shook in his silent laughter beside her. “Hermione, love,” he said, taking both her hands in his. “You do realize that I was nine, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” she huffed, feeling both silly and in spite of it all, intimidated by her beauty.

“Perhaps now you can truly appreciate the Dark Lord’s fury the night of the ball.”

She could have argued that it was of an entirely different set of circumstances. But in doing so, it would only further prove his point. “Continue,” she prompted, determined to steer clear of anything that would lead to talks of her, Meira, Cedric, or the Dark Lord in romantic terms.

“She couldn’t actually teach me magic, but she understood most of the principles involved. Of course, nothing golden lasts forever, as they say. Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson who were thorns in my side from day one discovered that Ms. Stephens brought me books and decided to tell Mrs. Cole. They had no reason to be jealous because Ms. Stephens always bought toys on Christmas. She always baked cakes and brought at least one toy for every child’s birthday at the orphanage. But this was just the type of opening Mrs. Cole was looking for. She blamed us for Chapman’s dishonorable fall from grace and had spent all of her time looking for the most vindictive ways to punish me. What better way than to report an innocent woman for having an inappropriate relationship with a child?

“One of the saddest moments of my life was watching her walk through that door. With Ms. Stephens gone, the other children reformed to their old ways. They blamed me, you see, for her departure. From then on out, I made a promise to myself that I would repay Dennis and Amy in full, along with everyone else who ever harmed me.”

Hermione could see the conviction in Tom’s eyes. “Were you able to…um, exact your revenge before you ever held a wand?”

Tom smirked, meeting her innocently curious gaze. “Why Hermione, if I didn’t know any better, I would say that your fascination by far surpasses your fear.”

She blushed, absently twirling the strands of her hair around her finger. “What can I say? You’re fascinating to me.”

“If I recall correctly, there was an unfortunate incident with Billy Stubbs’ pet rabbit. Another boy might have tripped over a flat surface and broken his leg. And a very annoying little girl who always tried to kiss me may have woken one morning with her lips stitched together. That was a sad day; we lost dessert privileges. But you know how confusing these things are, memories.

“My eleventh birthday finally did roll around and I thought I would go insane from the wait. Dumbledore made the ‘house calls’ back then.”

“What was he like?”

“Annoying. Invasive. Hypocritical. The ultimate killjoy. Much like he is now. From the very beginning, he was a busybody, always trying to see what type of iniquitous activities I partook. And Mrs. Cole was right there, so eager to tell him every detail about me. I actually overheard one of their conversations.

“…he scares the other children, but it’s very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents…Nasty things…”

“Dumbledore has always been suspicious of you then. Did he even bother to check out the way you were treated in that orphanage? Did he research Mrs. Cole and her totalitarian ways?” she fumed.

“It’s Dumbledore where I was concerned, Hermione. Of course he didn’t. All he needed were the words of others to substantiate his own theories.”

Eleven-year-old Tom sat in his chair by the window. The sound of the splashing rain outside soothed him. It was his birthday and after passing on the sheetrock The Hag called a cake, he decided to open his gifts from Ms. Stephens in the privacy of his room. The first was a knitted green scarf with his initials embroidered at the bottom. The others were The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4and Ambrose Bierce’s The Devil’s Dictionary.As always, he hid his magical texts beneath the loose floorboards under his desk. He would read them after everyone else had gone to sleep. He had read up to the I’s.

‘Idiot, n. A member of a large and powerful tribe whose influence in human affairs has always been dominant and controlling. The Idiot’s activity is not confined to any special field of thought or action, but “pervades and regulates the whole.” He has the last word in everything; his decision is unappealable. He sets the fashions of opinion and taste, dictates the limitations of speech and circumscribes conduct with a dead-line.’

Tom, who had been enjoying his birthday in spite of the nervous flutter in his stomach from receiving two packages. One, an acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and two, a wrapped box from his dead mother.

The Hag knocked on his door and as usual, opened it without waiting for permission. “Tom, you have a visitor.”

She used her polite voice. The one she used to fool other adults into thinking that she was this wonderfully caring matron. The old man beside her seemed to buy inot it, and that made Tom immediately dislike him.

“How do you do Tom?” he stepped into the room almost casually. Almost.

Tom surveyed the man and didn’t like at all what he saw. For one, he could sense the magical aura surrounding him. He was obviously a wizard. A very powerful one. And two, while he seemed dead set on making eye contact with Tom, he noticed that the man’s eyes twinkled! Of all of the ways magic can manifest inside of a wizard, his was focused in his eyes. It was bound to annoy Tom as time passed.

“Fine, sir.”

Tom closed his book and placed it on the desk. As soon as he turned his back, the man started to touch his wardrobe, thinking he was being stealthy. Tom gritted his teeth, but restrained his magic. He knew The Hag had spent her time regaling the man with tales of thievery and torment on his part.

Tom took a seat in the chair and unwillingly offered the man his bed.

“You’re the doctor, aren’t you?” It amused him greatly when The Hag declared that she would find a doctor and make sure he was taken as far away from her orphanage as humanly possible. Tom knew very well that the old man was no doctor, but his day had already been interrupted, why not amuse himself?

“No. I am a professor.”

“I don’t believe you. She wants me looked at. They think I’m…different.”

“Well, perhaps they’re right.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Hogwarts is not a place for mad people. Hogwarts is a school. A school of magic. You can do things, can’t you, Tom? Things the other children can’t?”

Oh, Tom could do many things that other children could not. “I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me…I can make them hurt if I want.” The old man was not as easy to frighten as The Hag was, but he could still see the apprehension in his annoying twinkling eyes. “Who are you?”

“Well, I am like you, Tom. I’m different.”

“Prove it,” he demanded. Without taking his eyes away from his, the old man ignited his wardrobe. How amusing.

“I think there’s something in your wardrobe that’s trying to get out, Tom.” Tom was forced to go through the motions of taking the box filled with his souvenirs of the other children from the burning wardrobe. “Thievery is not tolerated at Hogwarts, Tom.” Yet it is perfectly fine for the other children to try to steal his things. “At Hogwarts, you will be taught not only how to use magic, but how to control it. Do you understand me?”

Tom was just itching to wipe that righteousness off the old man’s face. “I can speak to snakes, too. They find me. Whisper things. Is that normalfor someone like me?”

The memory paused and Tom stood face to face with a frozen Dumbledore. She whistled lowly. “1930s Dumbledore, eh?”

“He never truly trusted me after that revelation. In hindsight, it may have been best to have kept that particular bit of information between myself and Ms. Stephens.”

“Did Dumbledore ever know that she had already versed you in the basics of the wizarding world, years prior to his arrival?” Hermione questioned.

“I was never clear on that. Back then, definitely not. Now, however, when he stands to gain the most by delving into my past, I would be very surprised if it slipped his notice.”

Hermione chuckled lightly. “You truly were an amazing actor, Tom.”

“Why?”

“Because for all of his wisdom and experience, Dumbledore failed to see,” she turned to him, caressing his handsome face as his eyes darkened. “He failed to see that you, Tom Riddle, would grow to become Lord Voldemort. The greatest wizard alive today.”

He leaned Hermione back against the window, his hands ghosting across her skin. An excited thrill hummed inside her as she imagined Tom taking her right there in front of Dumbledore. She felt the tip of his tongue tracing circles on her neck. “You are incredibly detrimental to a man’s sanity, Hermione.”

“I would hope so, Tom,” she said, grinding herself against his erection poking into her stomach.

“We should finish the memory,” he said, extracting from her with great difficulty.

“There is more?” she questioned, straightening her dress, ignoring the way her body begged for him.

“Much more.”

When Dumbledore left the orphanage – Tom watched his departure from the window – he closed the door and began to pace. The old man left him in a bad way. He was not in charge of Hogwarts, but he seemed to have enough power on his own. It was obvious that the old man would never be on his side, which meant that he would have to be extremely careful in perfecting his image in the eyes of the other professors.

Alone with his thoughts, Tom’s eyes strayed to the barely noticeable dented floorboards beneath his bed. It was pointless and absurd to fear a box. But Tom had the distinct feeling that by opening the box, he would learn things that were probably better left unsaid.

Still, he found himself down on his hands and knees, lifting the board that concealed his most treasured secrets. Tom looked at the door. He wanted solitude. He wanted to be able to peruse the blue wrapped box without the worry of The Hag or any of the other children interrupting him. The door shimmered and melted within the wall leaving no way in or out.

The box was sealed with a ribbon. Tom hated ribbons. Ribbons always multiplied an individual’s excitement over what could be inside. Usually, the mounting anticipation was wasted because the contents of the box never measured up. But this time, Tom was not disappointed. Inside of the box were a book, a diary, and a wand. Ms. Stephens had told him all about them, but was unable to procure one.

Tom held the wand in his hand examining it carefully. It was 12 ¾ long, made of hazel wood. He felt…powerful holding the wand. He placed it back inside the box and opened the diary. The pages were blank. He couldn’t say why for sure, but he expected something more than blank pages. Beside the diary was a folded piece of parchment with his name written on the outside. The parchment was old and worn and in some places, the ink was smudged. With trembling hands, Tom began to read his mother’s letter.

Dear Son,

I am writing you this letter as I feel you moving inside me. I scarcely know where to begin, but if you are reading this letter, then it is as I imagined. I have gone from this world and have missed the chance of being in your life. I know I would never willingly leave you, my son, but every day I feel myself slipping further and further away.

I leave you the last of my possessions. My diary which is accessible only by you – you will see why – my wand (I never really used it, but as it is untraceable, I trust it will serve you well), my mother’s copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard(do not take this lightly. For even in children’s tales, there is wisdom and a knowledge in which you previously had not), and lastly, I leave you the responsibility of procuring our family heirloom – Salazar Slytherin’s Locket. The last I heard it was still in the possession of Caractacus Burke of Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley. Whatever methods you may employ in obtaining it, I thoroughly support.

When you do get around to reading my diary, please try to understand. I loved your father more than I could ever hope to explain on paper or in person. One day, if you are lucky, you shall know a love so consuming and enthralling that you will break every law, moral and value you hold dear.

I will not make excuses for my actions. What I did to your father was unforgivable. It was the worst type of treachery and yet I cannot bring myself to regret one moment of it. Not just because it brought me closer to him and afforded me the title of Mrs. Riddle, but because my influence over him coupled with my love, gave me you. My precious little baby boy.

I have held on this long without your father for your sake, but I am weak, love. I have never been as strong as I should have, what with my father and brother discouraging me at every turn. Even I began to believe that I was nothing more than a “disgusting little Squib”.

It is upon the hour, my son, and I must end this letter before my tears wash away all that I have written. At this point, you will see me as a coward, the worse type of deserter, and I would not hold it against you. I wish that I could watch you grow and see how the blood of my powerful ancestors thrives in you, but I am long due to part from this world.

No matter what your feelings may be for me when you learn all there is to know about your mother, be it anger, disgust, or even your hate, I accept it all because nothing that I have done warrants better sentiments.

But know this. Whether you decide to follow the path of the Light or descend to the Dark as our great ancestors have done, I will always love you. You are a part of me as I am a part of you. Nothing will change this. Be well, love.

Your Mother,

Mrs. Merope Gaunt-Riddle

A single tear fell from his eye, but when he felt the tear fall, the letter caught fire in his hands and all of his possessions began to fly around him. His window shattered and a gust of wind disturbed his papers. Five minutes passed before Tom was able to pull himself together and will his room to restore to its natural order.

“What on earth is going on in here, Tom?” The Hag demanded barging into his room as the door reappeared.

He faced The Hag, his eyes burning darkly within his angelic face. “I don’t know what you mean…”

Tom leaned against the door, twirling his ring around his finger, lost in his own memories.

“I…I hated her, Hermione,” he confessed. “More than I hated everyone in the orphanage, more than I hated my Muggle father. I hated her not because she behaved as a Blood Traitor and that the blood of Salazar Slytherin’s descendents was tainted in my veins. I hated her because she left me. She grieved for my father until it killed her.”

She was overcome with sadness, anger, and longing. She couldn’t tell if they were her feelings in reaction to all that she had learned or if they were Tom’s feelings transferred to her. “Do you want to stop for a moment?” she said, unconsciously moving closer hoping her presence could comfort him.

“No,” he sighed. “There are other things for you to see. Which memory do you want to view next?”

She nibbled on her lip, thinking over what he had just told her. “What ever happened to Dennis and Amy?”

His trademark smirk returned full force and she could feel the weight of despair lifting from her shoulders. “Officially? They wandered off during a trip and when they returned, they were just as lively as a dementor’s victim.”

“And unofficially?”

“Are you familiar with H.P. Lovecraft?”

“I watched the 1982 Muggle movie version of The Thing which is a remake of Lovecraft’s The Thing from Another World. Although, I actually spent more time watching Kurt Russell than actually following the storyline…” she trailed off when he arched an inquiring eyebrow. “Anyway, I am vaguely familiar with Lovecraft.”

“Then you have not read any of his horror stories?”

“Life has enough horror in it, Tom, without it spilling onto the pages of a book.”

“Touché. However, I enjoyed a little horror now and then. Sometime between 1921 and 1922, Lovecraft wrote Herbert West – Reanimator. The character of West had the ability to reanimate corpses. As a child, this was as you have said, fascinating to me. To have the ability to bring back the dead whose sole diet was the flesh of the living.”

“Why do I get the feeling that this story does not end with sunshine and daisies?” she smiled.

“Does it ever?”

He opened the door and they stepped through to watch the next memory play.

Exactly seven months after Ms. Stephens was dismissed from Wool’s Orphanage, Tom was ready to make good on his promise. He would avenge Ms. Stephens by destroying The Hag’s two favorite little orphans, Dennis and Amy. All of the kids had earned a weekend vacation away from the orphanage. They would camp for two days and a night. During that time, they could pretend that they were like the other kids attending summer camp who would return to their parents. There was a cave nearby their campsite. Tom could feel the magical presence inside of it.

Luckily for him, Dennis and Amy picked then of all times to wander off from the rest of the group. With The Hag fully distracted by three unfortunate little boys who were introduced to poison ivy, he set off after the children. They moved closer to the cave and far enough away from the campsite so no one would see.

“Do you like them?” Dennis said, handing Amy a handful of red and yellow wildflowers.

She took the flowers gratefully and giggled. “Thanks, Dennis.”

The boy’s cheeks blushed red and he lowered his eyes. Tom rolled his eyes and gave a suffering sigh. He suppressed his emotions and arranged his expression until it gave nothing away. “What are you two doing?”

Amy’s eyes lit up at the sound of his voice and Dennis growled, balling his hands into fists. “Hi, Tom.”

“Beat it, Riddle.”

“No need to be huffy, Dennis. I saw you giving Amy those flowers.”

“And what of it?” he said, taking a threatening step towards Tom.

“I found this really cool place. I thought maybe Amy would want to see it because there were a lot of pretty flowers there, too.”

“Really?” she gasped, dropping Dennis’ flowers in her excitement. She was a trusting and easily excitable child.

Dennis’ face turned red from anger and jealousy as Amy had completely disregarded his flowers. “I told you to get lost, Riddle.”

“But Dennis, I want to see the pretty flowers!” she pouted.

Dennis’ anger waved slightly when Amy clutched his hand. “Fine. We can go see them,” he said to her. “But this had better not be one of your freaky tricks, Riddle.”

“No tricks. I think it is time to put our problems in the past. Think of today as a fresh start for us all.” He suddenly grabbed their arms and willed them inside the special cave.

They arrived in total darkness. It was damp and cold and there was an indescribable odor in the air.

“What did you do, Riddle?” Dennis hissed with the slightest tremble in his voice.

“Den-Dennis? I’m scared!”Amy cried.

“Riddle? Riddle! Where are you?”

As their fear continued to build in the utter silence, Tom focused on the wand less projection charms he studied in one of the books he owned. He felt a spark of magic spread from him to the unnaturally still lake.

“Because of the two of you and your inane jealousy and love for The Hag, you cost a good woman her job,” he said as the water in the lake sloshed as though someone were swimming. “She was my friend,” he continued. “My only friend.”

“What’s going on?” Dennis panicked.

“You hurt her. Now I hurt you.”

Light filled the cave. Dennis’ gaze narrowed on Tom. He grabbed him by his shirt collar. “I’m going to make you wish you had died with your stupid mother, you freak!” he threatened. He drew his fist back, stopping short when Amy screamed.

A dozen mutilated, reanimated corpses started rising above the water, missing eyes, teeth, limbs, and flesh in some areas. The corpses growled and wailed hauntingly. One of the corpses grabbed a hold of Amy’s ankle dragging her towards the lake.

“Dennis, help me!” she screamed.

“Amy!” he released Tom and ran to her, grabbing her arms to pull her back. “Let her go!” he yelled at the corpses as they steadily dragged Amy towards them.

She was almost over the edge when one of the corpses climbed up her body, biting a chunk out of her throat as Tom laughed happily. Blood sprayed out of her throat, covering Dennis’ face as he screamed, and accidentally let her go.

They screamed beautifully and Tom hated to see it end. But all too soon, he cancelled the entertaining imagery. The corpses disappeared. Amy’s “blood” vanished and the two continued to scream and cry. He waited in patient amusement for them to realize that the corpses were gone and what had happened to them had only been an illusion.

“It would be in your best interest if you kept to your own business and stopped telling lies about me.” He grabbed their arms and willed the three of them out of the cave and back to where they were before. Amy and Dennis stared up at him. Their faces streaked with tears and snot. Their eyes wide and haunted. “I don’t think I have to remind you that this side trip is our little secret, yes?”

“Yes, Tom,” they whispered.

Tom could barely conceal his smile as Hermione stood gaping at the now closed door to the memory. Her mouth hung open and she didn’t blink. It was only when he placed his hand underneath her chin to close her mouth.

“Speechless?” she nodded. “Let us move on then.” They walked down the long corridor hand in hand as natural as the sun rising. “Aside from Dumbledore constantly watching me, waiting to see if I would go on a killing spree, Hogwarts was my haven. It was the only real home I knew. I wrote to Ms. Stephens often, regaling her with all that I had learned. I remember that on every trip to Hogsmeade I always stopped at Honeydukes to pick up Treacle fudge. She loved the stuff. But during the summer of my sixth year, I noticed that my letters and packages returned to me unopened.”

“What happened to her?” she asked carefully.

“Grindelwald. Wrong place, wrong time. I didn’t realize that he was responsible for her death until much later. Although, had I did, this may have been a different memory altogether.”

The death of Ms. Stephens hit Tom hard. She was the only person left in the world who truly cared for him. But with her death brought clarity and a reaffirmed purpose. The first time Tom read his mother’s diary by use of blood magic – after he put out the fires he accidentally set off in his room – he swore that he would seek out his familyand…reacquaint himself with them.

The first stop that warm summer night was to the Gaunt Shack where his mother was born. Tom felt that he and his grandfather Marvolo had much to discuss. Sadly, Marvolo was not there. But Morfin was. He took one look at Tom and sneered.

“I expected you’d show up eventually,” he hissed in Parseltongue.

“You know who I am.”

“I ain’t stupid! I would recognize the mug of that filthy Muggle anywhere. Merope ain’t here. What you looking for?”

“You.” He quickly stunned Morfin and bound him to a chair. He stared into the angry, yet fearful eyes of his uncle. “Do not fret, Uncle Morfin. On this night, you not die.” He already knew all he needed to know about Morfin and with his plan cemented perfectly within his mind, Tom set off to Little Hangleton to do what needed to be done.

Tom banged the bronze knocker against the heavy door. He could sense three Muggles inside Riddle Manor. An old and gray woman opened the door. Her polite smile vanished as she looked him over.

“Mary Riddle, I presume? Is your son home?”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. She stepped back allowing him in.

“Mary, whose at the door?” her husband called from the parlor.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she mumbled. “May as well come into the parlor,” she said over her shoulder.

It would have irritated Tom to be spoken to in such a manner, but he expected nothing less from these particular Muggles. In the parlor, the Muggle’s husband Thomas sat on a chair reading the paper. “Who was at the door?” he said, without putting the paper down.

“It would appear to be our grandson.”

The sound of a shattering glass caught their attention. Tom Riddle, Sr., stood in the parlor doorway, gaping at his son. Tom was more than disappointed to see how much he resembled his father in person. He had the same hair. The same eyes, nose – all of his features, only aged. He had patches of gray sprouting from his temples. He was dressed casually in a white buttoned down and trousers. Tom could see that he was in no way desolate. The thought angered him.

“Merope Gaunt,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the older Muggles before settling on his mother’s husband. “You are all familiar with her I take it.”

“Horrid woman,” the Muggle woman fumed.

“Kept our boy away from us for a year, she did.”

“Only by the grace of God did my son finally break free of that hideous inbred trollop,” she continued, paying no heed to the twitch of Tom’s wand hand.

“You’re like her, aren’t you?” his mother’s husband accused. “One of them. A freak.”

“I am my mother’s son.”

“And where is she now, your mother? Bewitching some other poor bastard out of his fortune, I would imagine,” he spat, pouring himself another glass of the dark liquor.

“Dead,” Tom replied, just barely restraining his fury.

His mother’s husband hesitated briefly before raising his glass to consume the contents in one harsh gulp. “Good. If there is any justice in the afterlife, your mother is downstairs accounting for the wages of her sins against me, boy.” He glared at Tom as though he blamed him for not being dead too. “I suppose it’s reparations you’re looking for. Compensation for your miserable life at Wool’s.”

“You knew?” he breathed.

“Yes I knew! I had her every move tracked when I left her because I was sure she would pull the same stunt that you are attempting. I lost track of her and naturally assumed that she gave you up and moved on somewhere else. Looking to land her next big fish as they say.”

“I am not here for your money.” Tom was fed up with their remarks and insults to his mother.

“Then why are you here, boy? If you are expecting me to claim you as my heir, then you can forget it. You have my name, son, but I shall die before I ever give more to a bastard son of the whore that trapped me.”

Tom unsheathed Morfin’s wand and cast a silencing charm around the room. The two older Muggles were confused and unnerved, but his mother’s husband recognized the wand for what it was and he was terrified.

“Your death is the only thing you have said tonight that I agree with. Crucio.” He fell to the floor, screaming in agony as his parents cried, begging Tom to stop. He lifted the curse and hit him with his perfected phantasm curse. “Muggle One and Muggle Two, I would like to thank you for your participation in this productive evening,” he said, cordially. “Sadly, your presence is no longer desired. Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!”

“No,” he moaned when the green light faded. His parents had fallen dead against the couch. He turned his gaze to the hateful young man who could have easily passed for his twin. “Go on. Finish it,” he sobbed.

“Very well. Stand up!” Tom yelled.

He slowly climbed to his feet, turning his back as he leaned against the bar.

“Look at me, Tom.”

He heard the voice, but he thought he must have been going crazy. She was dead. He had notheard her voice.

“Look at me, ducky,” the voice called again. Only shehad ever called him that. “Look at me.”

He slowly turned around to see Merope standing in her wedding dress. “You will never escape what you did to me. Never. Not even in death.” Even as she damned him, she continued to smile the same way she used to when they were together.

He felt a strong pain in his chest. He could barely breathe and his vision was turning black. He was having a heart attack.

Tom watched dispassionately as he fell to his knees. A fitting end to such a lowly creature he thought. Tom knew that he was seeing his mother and he hoped, even now as he watched his pupils dilate, that her memory would haunt him in his afterlife.

Tom returned to the Gaunt Shack. He modified Morfin’s memory and took his ring. It was a believable story. Morfin never kept a secret his hatred for the Riddle family. There was only one place left for him to go.

He discovered many years earlier that his mother’s grave was located outside of a Muggle nunnery for misplaced young women. The nerve of his mother, a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, buried in an unmarked grave of a Muggle cemetery!

He removed his mother’s wand and transfigured a white marble headstone from a pebble. He engraved a drawing of her with her eyes closed and Slytherin’s Locket around her neck.

Merope Gaunt-Riddle

1907 – 1926

Loving Wife and Mother

“It is done, momma,” he sighed. “It is done.”

“I bet you wish you would have gone back to Hogwarts now, don’t you?” Tom said when the memory ended.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. It saddens me that you have gone through such horrible things. And I wish that you could have had both parents with you. But I would never wish to change who you are, Tom.”

“Even with all I have done? All of the lives I have taken, all of the lives that will be taken? And what of Potter’s parents?”

“You were overzealous, yes. But it doesn’t change how I feel.”

“And when the time comes, and the Dark Lord comes for you – you know he will, mistake or no – will you still feel as you do now?”

“What do you expect of me, Tom? Should I ridicule you for all of the anguish and fear you have caused others? Should I declare you a monster unfit to be loved by anyone? If what you are seeking is rejection and condemnation, Tom, it will never come from me.”

His arms came around her waist, drawing her into him. The corridor of doors suddenly disappeared, leaving only two, one behind her and one behind Tom. She looked over her shoulder at the door. Something in her compelled her to believe that this was the way out. But even so, she was drawn to the door behind Tom. She reached out, her fingertips ghosting over the curved handle when his hand closed around her wrist.

“You must be positive that it is this door you wish to enter, Hermione,” he warned her.

“And if I am?” she was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. She could almost hear the rhythmic beating of his heart. She wished that he were real and now that he was, even if she was inside his mind, she never wanted to let him go.

“If you step through this door then that’s it. If you step through this door, I won’t continue to hold myself back from taking you.”

His eyes had darkened considerably. From the visible strain he held over his normally impeccably controlled emotions, Hermione knew that he would follow through on his promise.

She pushed down the curved handle of the door. It opened to darkness, but filled with a dim candlelight as she stepped through. Hermione felt her gown altering into something more appropriate for their intentions. “Then it is just as well. Don’t hold back, Tom. Don’t hold back.”

She thought she might have been wearing a camisole, but the only thing that mattered to her was that it ended up at her feet. Later, she would realize that the room was an exact replica of the bedroom in the manor.

Hermione slipped the camisole up over her head, dropping it to the floor. Her eyes never leaving Tom’s as he took the buttons of his shirt one by one. He nodded towards the bed and watched her climb in, ready to obey his every command. Seeing the bits of his exposed skin had her near panting. She was only vaguely aware when she started rolling her nipples between her fingers.

Tom was finally naked after what felt like an eternity of waiting. He was bigger than Cedric, she immediately rationalized, but from the way he smirked, she realized she might have said that aloud. He crawled towards her, his skin caressing hers almost like velvet.

He lifted her hips to take off her underwear. She felt his lips at the inside of her thigh, getting closer and closer until he was kissing her swollen and parted lips. “Tom,” she moaned, raking her hand through his hair. His tongue devoured and lapped at her, tasting every part of her. “Oh, god, Tom! I’m going to…!” she cried out her climax, her body trembling as Tom redoubled his efforts to coax out another. Two more hit her in rapid succession. He kissed up her stomach and to her breasts.

“I like them this size,” he murmured, but Hermione was too focused on his mouth and hands to fully comprehend anything at the moment. He kneaded her breasts and suckled her nipples until she came – something that had never happened before.

His lips were soft against hers and she could still taste herself on his tongue. As they kissed, Hermione slipped her hand between them having felt his cock grinding against her stomach. She spread the fluids leaking from his tip around him and carefully stroked and teased him. He seemed to grow and grow within her hand.

She coaxed Tom onto his back. She took her time as she kissed and licked his pecs, his nipples and abs. Hermione settled on her knees. She stroked him with one hand and licked his sack, taking it inside her mouth. He groaned knotting his hands in her hair. She allowed him to set the pace when she started to suck his cock. It took three terrifying tries before she could deep throat him. And when he came, it was directly down her throat.

She stroked him slowly until he was hard again. She bit her lip nervously as she positioned herself over him. She resolved to keep going no matter how much it may hurt. She elected to do it quickly. Tom held her hips as she slammed herself down on his cock. She moaned feeling a small flutter in her belly.

“You’re in my world now, love,” he said to her awed expression. “No pain here. Only pleasure.”

He guided her hips until she was ready to move on her own. She bounced on his cock, blushing slightly from the wet slapping sounds their connected bodies made.

“Tom,” she panted, when he cupped her breasts and tweaked her tender nipples. “Close. So close.”

He thrusts came faster, forcing her to meet his new pace. He flipped them over as she wailed, her soaking cunt fluttering deliciously around his cock. He kissed her, swallowing her cries as he pounded her into the mattress.

Entwined in the throes of passion, Hermione writhed beneath Tom oblivious to the triumphant smirk that darkened his perfect face or the scarlet flash of his eyes.

Back in the abandoned Riddle Manor in Little Hangleton, a wizard no more than a shell of his former self, whose deformities are so grotesque that even the shadows quiver before engulfing him, sits in his chair before the fireplace, cackling madly. Miles away, within a different realm, he could feel their union. She had succumbed to his other self and it would only be a matter of time before she was his once more. He was pleased if not a little envious of his other self for doing what he was now unable to.

“O, beware, my lord,” he rasped. “For jealousy is the monster that mocks us all in its undertaking!”

A/N: Dark Lord’s quotes loosely taken from William Shakespeare’s Othello. – “O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on.”
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