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Chapter Text 章节正文

He's read the book twelve times. By then, he knew each word before turning the pages. He’s read all the books in the very small collection the orphanage had and the ones he had managed to steal from street vendors. Still, it was better than doing nothing or focusing on his empty stomach.
这本书他已经读了十二遍了。到那时，他在翻页之前就知道每个单词。他读过孤儿院里为数不多的藏书里的所有书，以及他设法从街头小贩那里偷来的书。不过，这总比什么都不做或专注于空腹要好。

Amy is crying again, because Robert stole her doll. Billy is laughing like an idiot, a little further away, talking loudly to some of the older boys. Tom hates them all, can't focus as he’d like on the story, because he always has to be alert. They started to learn not to mess with him, but he is still vulnerable if they gang up on him, especially the bigger boys. He wants to go to his room, yet Mrs. Cole insists he socialises and forces him to spend some hours in the common room. His only joy is that the others mislike having him there as much as he does.
艾米又哭了，因为罗伯特偷了她的洋娃娃。比利笑得像个白痴，离得更远一点，大声地和几个大男孩说话。汤姆讨厌他们所有人，无法像他想的那样专注于故事，因为他总是必须保持警惕。他们开始学会不惹他，但如果他们联合起来对付他，尤其是大男孩，他仍然很脆弱。他想去他的房间，但科尔太太坚持要他参加社交活动，并强迫他在公共休息室呆几个小时。他唯一的快乐是其他人和他一样不喜欢他在那里。

“Oh, look! Another one!” Billy yells and all of them rush to the window before quickly gathering around the door, arranging their faces into sweet expressions. Even Sarah, the new addition, just three, waddles behind them, smoothing her skirt.
“哦，看！再来一个！比利大喊一声，所有人都冲到窗前，然后迅速聚集在门口，把他们的脸整理成甜蜜的表情。就连新加入的莎拉，只有三岁，也蹒跚地跟在他们身后，抚平她的裙子。

Tom doesn't stand. He’d tried, in the past. He’d hoped. He’d sat in that line and smiled, answered stupid questions, wanting to be the one to leave with the couple. But they never picked him. And they never will.
汤姆站不住了。他过去曾尝试过。他希望如此。他坐在那条队伍里，微笑着，回答愚蠢的问题，想成为和这对夫妇一起离开的人。但他们从未选择过他。他们永远不会。

Unwanted. Insignificant. Unworthy. A voice whispers but it’s weaker than it’s been, easier to chase away. They’re unworthy of him. Let the other snotty idiots leave with boring, mediocre adults. Tom was destined for great things, and he won’t need anyone’s help. He’s all alone and it’s best this way. It is, he repeats to himself, turning the page, refusing to look up.
多余。微不足道。不肖。一个声音在低语，但它比以前更弱了，更容易被赶走。他们配不上他。让其他流鼻涕的白痴带着无聊、平庸的成年人离开。汤姆注定要做大事，他不需要任何人的帮助。他孤身一人，这样最好。就是这样，他自言自语地重复着，翻着书页，拒绝抬头。

“Have you come for me, sir?” Amy whimpers as a rush of cold wind signified the door had been opened.
“先生，你是来找我的吗？”艾米呜咽着，一阵冷风表明门被打开了。

“Are you my daddy?” Billy asks.
“你是我爸爸吗？”比利问道。

Tom snorts. They’ll scare the idiot away, overdoing it like that. Many fools had left in tears, overwhelmed by having to pick one and leave the others.
汤姆哼了一声。他们会把白痴吓跑，像那样做得太过分了。许多傻瓜流着眼泪离开了，不知所措，不得不选择一个而离开其他的。

Someone gasps. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a dozen feet hurrying back. He looks up.
有人倒吸一口凉气。他用眼角余光看到十几英尺匆匆赶来。他抬起头。

The man is very tall, it's the first thing he notices. The second, is the expensive suit. The third, he is heading straight for Tom, with sure steps, and Tom has to struggle to remain seated, panic gripping him. His instincts scream, the way they always seemed to do when he sensed danger.
这个人很高，这是他注意到的第一件事。第二，是昂贵的西装。第三，他正朝着汤姆直奔而去，迈着坚定的步伐，汤姆不得不挣扎着保持坐姿，惊慌失措地抓住了他。他的本能尖叫，就像他感觉到危险时一样。

I will not show weakness. I am not afraid. There was no need for fear because something other than panic rose inside him, when danger was near. Something that whispered in his veins, something powerful, that set him apart, that had saved him, many times.
我不会示弱。我不怕。没有必要害怕，因为当危险临近时，除了恐慌之外，他内心升起了其他东西。某种东西在他的血管里低语，某种强大的东西，使他与众不同，多次拯救了他。

He looks at the man's face and he understands the gasps and the fear emanating from the other children. Eyes, red as blood, stare at him from a pale, aristocratic face. Tom’s instincts flare again, that power inside him awake, as he stares back, afraid and mesmerised. There is something in the man’s face that makes Tom’s stomach coil with an unfamiliar feeling.
他看着那个男人的脸，他理解其他孩子发出的喘息和恐惧。一双红如血的眼睛，从一张苍白的贵族脸上盯着他。汤姆的本能再次爆发，他体内的力量苏醒了，他盯着后方，既害怕又着迷。男人的脸上有一种东西，让汤姆的胃里有一种陌生的感觉。

“Come.” The command is uttered in a deceptively soft voice, but Tom hears all the strength in it. The hairs on his neck stand up, electrified.
“来吧。”这个命令是用一种看似柔和的声音发出的，但汤姆听到了其中的所有力量。他脖子上的汗毛都竖了起来，通电了。

“Who are you?” his own voice isn’t as strong, though he practiced, days on end. He’d never heard this stranger before, but just as soon as he did, Tom wants to be him. That familiar feeling in his gut sparks again, with something akin to recognition.
“你是谁？”他自己的声音没有那么强烈，尽管他连续几天都在练习。他以前从未听说过这个陌生人，但只要他听说过，汤姆就想成为他。他直觉中那种熟悉的感觉再次迸发出火花，带着一种类似于认可的东西。

“What is going on-” Mrs Cole rushes inside the room and stops, frozen, as soon as she does.
“这是怎么回事——”科尔太太冲进房间，一进房间就停了下来，愣住了。

Tom doesn’t tear his eyes away from the stranger, notices only a slight move of his hand-long fingers, as pale as the rest of him. But he knows, even without looking properly, that there is nothing natural in Mrs. Cole's stillness, something more than fear or surprise keeping her rooted to the spot. He can almost taste that something in the air.
汤姆没有把目光从陌生人身上移开，只注意到他手长的手指轻微移动，和他其他人一样苍白。但是他知道，即使没有仔细看，科尔太太的寂静中也没有什么自然的，除了恐惧或惊讶之外，还有什么东西让她扎根在原地。他几乎可以尝到空气中的东西。

“Who are you?” he repeats. A demand, he’d wanted-Tom never asks, he demands. Only weak, vulnerable children ask. But his voice betrays him, he can hear the wonder inside it.
“你是谁？”他重复道。一个要求，他一直想要——汤姆从不问，他要求。只有弱小、易受伤害的孩子才会问。但他的声音出卖了他，他能听出里面的奇迹。

“Come,” the stranger asks before turning on the spot, a flawless, elegant gesture.
“来吧，”陌生人问道，然后转过身来，一个完美无瑕、优雅的手势。

The room is empty, besides Mrs. Cole. Tom looks at her.
房间里空无一人，除了科尔太太。汤姆看着她。

Her eyes are wide, alive, full of dread but the rest, a statue. As soon as he thought it, she stumbles forward, gasping, opening her mouth for a scream that never comes. Her eyes glaze, she calms, looks around her with a bemused expression.
她的眼睛睁得大大的，活生生的，充满了恐惧，但其余的，是一尊雕像。他一想到这里，她就踉踉跄跄地向前走去，喘着粗气，张开嘴发出一声永远不会来的尖叫。她的眼睛呆滞，她平静下来，带着困惑的表情环顾四周。

“Mrs Cole?” Tom asks, standing. His hands are shaking and he grips the book tighter, to stop them.
“科尔夫人？”汤姆站着问道。他的手在颤抖，他把书握得更紧，以阻止他们。

She can’t hear him, can’t see him.
她听不到他的声音，看不见他。

The stranger turned the corner and Tom runs after him.
陌生人转过拐角，汤姆追着他跑。

“Wait,” he calls, once he reaches the stairs. “Wait!”
“等等，”他一上楼梯就喊道。“等等！”

The man does not stop, but walks slower until Tom catches up with him.
男人没有停下来，而是走得更慢，直到汤姆追上他。

He wants to ask where will they go, why. Who are you? He wants to know, he fears, he hopes.
他想问他们会去哪里，为什么。你是谁？他想知道，他害怕，他希望。

“My things-I need my things.” Tom has very little, but they were all gained, all his, treasures and reminders that he is superior, that no one will bully him. That he’ll always come out on top.
“我的东西——我需要我的东西。”汤姆拥有的很少，但都是他所有的宝藏，提醒他他是优越的，没有人会欺负他。他总是名列前茅。

“You do not need them.” The stranger stops abruptly, and Tom almost knocks into him. A pale hand extends and Tom flinches because he noticed the sleight of hand before, and Mrs. Cole had-

Nothing happens. The palm is up, waiting. Tom searches his face again, those high cheeks, that sharp nose, the strong jaw. He takes his hand and he’s swallowed up by darkness, a pressure so great in his stomach, suffocating him. He opens his eyes and they’re in front of a house-a mansion, really. He’s nauseous and disoriented and he grabs those cold fingers inside his own, but the stranger snatches his hand away. Tom reddens, ashamed for showing vulnerability. Hurt to be rejected. No, his mind corrects. Tom knows rejection well, a constant companion. Tom doesn’t hurt. He mustn’t. Tom is destined for great things.

He follows the stranger down the pathway, in silence, having to almost run to keep up with the long stride. Everything around him screams wealth.

This is where you’re meant to be. The double iron doors open before they reach it, into a long hallway, illuminated by candles flickering on the walls. Tom swallows his fear. Predators do not feel fear, he reminds himself, but he clutches 'Frankenstein' closer to his chest.

“Sit.” The room is grand, as everything else, golden chandelier sending sparks around the polished furniture, the cushion of the couch comfortable underneath him.      

"Who are you?” he asks, again. “Sir,” he hastens to add, politely. First impressions are important. Tom needs this man to like him, to want him, to not take him back to Wools. The stranger sits in the armchair facing Tom, regards him with those strange eyes, searching Tom’s own face. “You are my father?” Tom means to say, into the heavy silence. He clearly is. That familiar feeling in his gut from earlier had been hope, at long last met. Tom knows that face, because he sees it in the mirror. Older, whiter, waxier, but so very similar. It comes out as a question and he squeezes the book again, because he can’t look weak. This man will not abide weakness. Tom needs to be to be approved off.

A second. And then the man laughs, as softly as he speaks.

“You always did wait for your father, didn’t you? Years on end, even if you knew it is but a childish fantasy.”

Tom feels his cheeks flush again. But he’d been right to wait, it seems. Not so childish. He always knew, deep down, that his father will come. That somewhere, someone wants Tom. He’d looked out the window, as fathers walked with sons besides them and he craved it so hard, it bled him from within.

Tom is special-what he wants, it comes true.

“How right it is,” the man speaks, his head crooked slightly, regarding Tom closely. “I am the father you deserve.”

Tom doesn’t know what to make of that, but he likes the sound of it. Tom is deserving. He is. He always knew, even when no one else saw it, when he was pushed away. Rejected. Freak. Will his father think him a freak? But no, no-that’s why Tom came, despite the fear. Besides the face, Tom recognised that something, sweet and powerful and unnatural. Mrs Cole had called it demonic and the priest had agreed.

“What are we?” Tom asks, and a dangerous smile spreads slowly on the man’s thin lips.

“We are magic.” He snaps his fingers and a tray with steaming tea appears on the coffee table, startling Tom.

He’s elated. His heart is light and carefree and everything will be all right, from now on. He usually needs anger, he needs fear to make it work, but now, with this man here, with his father, Tom extends his hand and a cube of sugar lifts, shakily and drops into the cup. He looks up and the man is smiling at him, perhaps a bit sinister, but genuine. Something flashes in those red eyes and Tom feels lightheaded. There is no fear, no disgust in the way he looks at Tom-in his whole life, no one has ever been proud of him. Met with disdain or caution, everywhere he went. No more.

Tom is home.

Chapter Text

     His room is nearly as spacious as an entire floor at the orphanage. A grand bed dominates it, the finest bedding on it, soft carpet underneath his feet. A fine wooden desk, with a leather chair as he’d only seen once, when Mrs. Cole dragged him along to meet the director of a factory, asking for donations. She’d hated Tom, but he was the most charming child, well spoken and polite, unlikely to throw a tantrum at the wrong moment.

    “You don’t need to pretend, with me,” the red eyed man had said, the night before, when Tom had been mindful of his “please” and “thank you”, had been hesitant to speak about what exactly he did with his magic. But the man knew already, knew about the stolen trinkets, about Billy’s rabbit; and what he hadn’t known- when Amy had ripped Tom's book in two, when he’d imagined needles piercing her eyes and she’d screamed and wept with blood-he’d smiled at, a halfway surprised look on his face, a spark of recognition, as if he’d known, but forgotten. Tom had only kept silent about the snakes. It was clear how wealthy the man was, how educated. Everything he’d seen of the house had been neat and tidy and Tom doubts he’d like to hear that he sometimes brought his snakes, his only friends, back into his old room.

    Yet now he’s studying two snakes eating each other, carved into the armoire that hides clothes of the highest quality. All for Tom. There’s nothing childlike inside the room-the bathroom is just as impressive, claw footed bathtub, a sink so high Tom had to stand on his toes to wash his face properly. In his fantasies, he’d imagined his father would hug him, would present him with toys- he’d seen, in his mind, a colourful room, filled with trinkets and laughter. But that had been long ago-Tom doesn’t want to be touched now, anyway. Touch always came with pain- Billy’s hard shoves, Mrs. Cole’s cane. Besides, he’s flattered to be treated like an adult. Tom is not a simple child.

    Dozens of books line the shelves, with strange titles stamped into fine leather. Tom runs his finger down their spines, inhales that smell that always promises new knowledge, an escape from his reality. Only now Tom doesn’t want to escape it as badly.

    He hardly slept- it was late when he’d been led to the room, the sun long set but he’d climbed into bed and stared at the intricate canopy for hours, too excited to sleep, fearing that he will awake to find out it had all been a dream. When the sun had risen, he’d taken a bath, glad of all the pressure in the water, how hot it came. He liked the privacy the most-no other wet, crying children around, filthy little animals that needed beatings or bribes to get clean.

    He dons a suit, and he notices, as he dresses, that everything is a bit odd- the colours, the symbols on the cufflinks and buttons. The fabric itself seems alive. In the armoire there are strange capes, black and dark green; he runs his fingers on them, wondering. He combs his hair to perfection, studies his face until he subdues all the expressions on it into nothingness and hides Frankenstein under his bed.

    “You have no need of muggle books,” the man had said when he’d told Tom he’ll take him to his bedroom. He’d explained what muggles are and made it clear, his contempt for them. Tom hates them too, had hated them since before knowing there were wizards  out there, a world filled with his own. Tom cannot wait to see it. Still, he’d grabbed the book, in the last moment, when his host had turned his back, hid it under his shirt because it was the only thing Tom had, of his own, at that moment. Even now, he won’t let it go-everything could be taken away, at any second, Tom won’t let himself lulled by the happiness he’d felt, by all the good fortune that finally seemed to come his way.

    He waits until the clock on the wall, with little hands that point the hours in the shape of snakes, reads five minutes before eight; he departs, careful not to make any noise, retracing his steps from the night before, down the long hallway, down the grand staircase, to the left into the living room where the man already awaits.

    Instantly, he notices he’s wearing one of those capes that Tom saw in his armoire. He has so many questions, is brimming with them, but he restrains himself, sits where he is shown and waits. Food appears on the table -a feast. He’d never seen so much food at once in his life. For a few seconds, he can only stare, not knowing where to start. He lunges for the pastries first and only reminds himself in the nick of time there’s no other children there to steal them, no need to shove everything down as fast as he can. So he uses his cutlery, fine silver all of them. Still, he eats fast, and tries everything, surprised to find so many flavours. For a while, he’s so distracted he forgets where he is and with whom. When he lifts his head, the man is looking at him with his eerie gaze. There’s no food on his plate, only a cup of tea.

    Unsure, Tom places the cutlery down.

    “Eat,” the man says, amused.

    Well, then- He resumes the feast. Eventually he stops. He could keep going; he’s full but so much food laying on the table shouldn’t be ignored yet he forces himself to stop.

    “Thank you,” he says, when he’s done and this time it’s not even just a pleasantry. Tom has a very special relationship with food, even if it’s sparse. His favourite past time, outside reading, is eating though he rarely has the chance to do either as much as he’d like.

    “You don’t mind minced meat?” the man asks, a small frown between his eyebrows.

    “Should I?” Tom minding any sort of food is ridiculous.

    “Hmm.” He stands. “I shall be away, for the day. On your right, there is a library, though I selected the books in your room specifically for you to start with. When you are hungry, call for Bitsy.”

    “Bitsy?” Tom asks and with a pop, a creature manifests beside him. He flinches, hard.

    “Bitsy is here to serve you, young master.”

    Tom looks at it, half petrified. But it doesn’t look menacing-the furthest thing from it. Big, droopy ears, round wet eyes, skinny limbs and a tea towel? wrapped around it. When he looks around, the man has already departed.

    “What are you?” Tom demands.

    “Bitsy is a house elf, master.”

    Tom has no idea what a house elf is, but he really likes being called master.

    He learns, what a house elf is. He sits at his desk, reading, book after book, devouring them with as much gusto as he devours the food Bitsy keeps bringing. She, for it is a she, gives little squees of joy, every time Tom asks for something. And then he finds 'Hogwarts, A history' and he forgets about everything else. The man has mentioned, the night before, the existence of magical schools but this- this is almost too much. The Houses, the subjects, the description of the castle-all magical indeed. He knows already where he will go-the green silver crest captures his attention far before he even reads about Salazar Slytherin, about the qualities one needs to get sorted in his House. Tom is cunning. Tom is ambitious. Tom cannot wait to go there.

    Eleven. Two and a half more years. He reads about wands, about charms and potions. So much, he has so much to learn, so many things to catch up on, he feels a little despair.

    “Master requires your presence in the living room, young master,” Bitsy pops up to tell him.

    A robe, Tom thinks as he watches the man sit down in an armchair. That’s what it’s called. Pure black. But some in his armoire are green. His beddings are green, too.

    “Were you a Slytherin?” Tom asks, unable to wait any longer, to contain his excitement.

    A smirk. “I am. And so are you.”

    “Where can I get a wand?” he asks, hastily, greedy. “Sir.”

    “I am to assume you already read wands are bought on your eleventh birthday.” The smirk is still in place. He must know Tom wants one now.

    “That seems silly,” he counters. “I can do magic now. So I can have one-”

    “There are rules.” The man speaks and Tom pushes away the irritation he feels at being interrupted. That was for before, he tells himself. Muggles were my inferiors. This man is not. He’s older, wiser, powerful. He is my father. “I know you have a hard time accepting that, and it will get harder still, but there are rules that you will, at the very least, pretend to follow. The ministry keeps an eye on these things, and we cannot stand out. Not yet,” he adds when Tom’s eyes widen. He always wants to stand out.

    “You never told me your name,” he says, instead.

    The man looks at him, in that curious way of his. “You already know my name, child.”

    Tom, after his father, his mother had told Mrs. Cole. “Should I call you Mr. Tom, then?”

    A shadow crosses his face. “No.” A pause. “I do not go by that name, any longer. I am using your grandfather’s name.”

    “Oh,” Tom exclaims, softly, sitting down. Grandfather. He has a whole family, somewhere. He has a past.

    “Marvolo,” the man says and Tom frowns. Marvolo, after my father. Did that awful cow, Mrs Cole understood it wrong? He opens his mouth but doesn’t get a word out. “Your maternal grandfather.”

    But why would a man choose his wife’s father’s name? Where they even married?

    “Ask, child, what you are burning to know.”

    So many things, he doesn’t know where to pick from. The question comes stumbling from his lips, quite before he’s even aware of it. “What was her name?”

    “Merope.” The man sound so cold, no expression whatsoever on his face.

    Merope. Was she as beautiful as her name, Tom wonders. Is there a picture? He’d imagined her face, so many times. Would she hate Tom? You killed your mother to be born! Freak! They had yelled at him, in the yard. Does Tom hate her? Does the man hate her? What happened? But there’s danger in the air, a finality to the way the man spat out her name and Tom hesitates. He must be liked. He cannot be thrown out now. He must stay here and please this man.

    “Am I a bastard?” he asks only that. He was called a bastard plenty of times, too.

    “No.” He clearly hates talking about it. Was it Tom’s fault, what had happened? Does he hate Tom? Is that why he was abandoned?

    A box comes flying, lands on his lap. “Open it.”

    A jolt passes through him. A gift? He so rarely got gifts-even then, when rich donors came for Christmas, and he’d be handed a box with a bow, it wasn’t really for Tom. All the children got one, similar if not identical objects inside. He takes the lid off. He knows what it is, even if he’d never seen one in his life. He clutches it and power rushes through him, out of the tip of the wand, sparks flying everywhere. Is this love? Can Tom fall in love with a piece of wood? It must be- he never wants to part from it.

    “I thought-” He says, mouth dry. “Rules.”

    “You must be careful to be seen respecting them. For a while. That does not mean they cannot be bended, discreetly. You shall only use it in this house, under my supervision.”

    “Wasn’t I supposed to try several?” Tom asks, caressing it. “For it to choose-”

    “You will. When you will turn eleven. This one will work for you quite well, I assure you, but it is not your wand.”

    “It is! It’s mine!” Tom growls, clutches it tighter, all instinct. It can't be taken away, he won't allow it. Tom glares at the man and the man glares back, eyes redder then usual.

    “You do not do well with authority. You do not like orders,” he says, voice dangerously low. “I understand. And yet, I do not suffer disobedience, nor rebellion. You will do as I tell you. You will listen.”

    Tom waits for the “or else” but there is none. There’s no need for it, he supposes. He needs not word a threat. The man is a threat, just by existing.

    The only thing Tom fears, however, is being thrown out. “I apologise,” he says, using his best tactics, eyes wide and shy. “It’s just that I never had something of my own and-”

    “Spare me. It won’t work. Do not try to manipulate me, child. Do not try and lie. You will only embarrass yourself and anger me.”

    What weapons does Tom have, then? He flounders, lost. Scared. Predators feel no fear, he reminds himself but in this house, he’s not the predator.

    “I shall teach you how to use it. You will go through your Charms textbook, tonight, and we will talk in the morning.”

    “Yes, sir,” Tom says, calming. He’s not being thrown out. Not now. He has time to learn how to deal with this man. And he will be taught magic.

    “You are used to knowing best,” the man speaks, when he stands. “But I know best. Two years from now, when you will hold your true wand, you shall remember this moment.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    Tom doesn’t sleep, again. How could he? When he’s done with his Charms textbook, he is tired. Drained. But there are so many of them, and he grabs the Defence against the Dark Arts. Sounds like something he should know how to do. Before he's ready, the sun rises and he showers, brushes his teeth and puts on a robe. A green robe, over his suit. He’s as pale as the man, almost, when he looks into the mirror , dark circles under his eyes. Will they turn red, in time? The resemblance between them is clear enough. A handsome man, Marvolo is, even though there’s obvious signs of wear and tear. Why would a rich man look so -Tom isn’t sure how Marvolo looks. Not tired, no-there’s an immense energy around him, a quickness to his movements that only matches his elegance. But there is something, something that had turned his skin so white, almost waxy. Something that had turned his eyes red. Are all wizards like that? Does magic change their bodies?

    The first spell he’s shown, is the knockback jinx. Shown is overstating it. Marvolo demonstrates the wand movement once, fast, but doesn’t cast. Tom imitates, saying the words and the fireplace explodes.

    “Always been powerful,” Marvolo says, almost to himself, waving his wand and returning the fireplace back to normal. “Now, do it without the movements.”

    So Tom does, though the book insists they should be used, and in such particular order. He simply points his wand at the table and utters the words and it has the same results. He frowns.

    “A lot of what you will read in your text books, is pure filler. A wizard does not need words, does not need wrist movements. Does not even need a wand. You already have what you need, inside you. I am sure it is not the first time you blow something up.”

    “It’s not." Things exploded around Tom, when he'd been angry or afraid."But never so- spectacularly.”

    “The wand is a conduit. The better the wand, the stronger the match with the wielder, will help you channel your magic. But never forget, that it is your magic that does it, nothing else. However, you will go to school, and you will have to be seen doing it “the proper way”, so you will learn the motions that are only there for weaker wizards and witches.”

    “Yes, sir.” Tom has expected more praise. He’d read he’s not to be discouraged if he doesn’t get it from his first try, or even the tenth. And he did it. But Marvolo will clearly be a hard man to please. However, the elation of using magic, of gripping that wand and having it flow from his body so easily, quiets down any concern.

    Marvolo mentions spells Tom had already read about, makes Tom explain what they do, before he casts them. All of them are a success, from his first try.

    “You will sleep tonight,” Marvolo instructs him when he takes the wand from Tom, who’s loathe to part with it. He's tired but would prefer to go on, rather then stop and give it away. “You will work on your accent.”

    Tom hides his flaming cheeks. He already talks much better then all the others, he’d always tried to imitate the upper class people he’d spied on, in Soho.

    “Yes, sir,” he says, resentful. Who’s fault is it I don’t have your perfect accent? Who left me there? But, of course, he doesn’t say it. Still, the anger is enough to make him ask, just as Marvolo is heading out. “Was my mother a witch?” Surely, she must have been, with her weird name and Marvolo disdain for muggles.

    “She was.” Again the flat, warning tone.

    “Then why did she die?” Tom wonders out loud, and Marvolo looks over his shoulder at him with an expression Tom cannot identify.

    “Because she was weak.”

Chapter Text

    Wizards and witches do die, Tom learns as he reads his way, steadily, through the library. He’d been shocked to find out-surely, with magic, nothing is impossible. Yet it seems some things remain outside the reach of magic.

    Because she was weak, Marvolo had said. Perhaps he’d meant that his mother could have survived something as easy as childbirth, not that only weak magical folk die, as Tom first interpreted it. He doesn’t ask for clarifications, however. Marvolo teaches Tom with a patience he’d never encountered in any of his muggle professors. Explains everything, slowly, with passion. Logically, when the books make it convoluted. No question is stupid, he’d assured Tom, in their lessons and Tom takes advantage of that. But outside their lessons, Marvolo is very reserved. He eats with Tom, every breakfast he’s home for. Well, he drinks his tea and reads the newspaper as Tom eats. Sometimes they do the same for dinner. Other times, he disappears days on end. Tom doesn’t mind; not really. He’s always been self sufficient and he has Bitsy to feed him, he has books and warm clothes, no one is around to annoy him. Only, if Marvolo’s gone too long, he worries he won’t come back.

    Tom is entrusted with his wand, just two weeks into his stay, when Marvolo is convinced he won’t accidentally set himself on fire. Tom yearns to try spells on his own, things he reads in books far too advanced. But he gave his word he won’t, and while his word doesn’t mean anything, in general, Marvolo is an exception. Tom isn’t keen on upsetting him, his instincts warn him to play nice.

    Tom finds out why, very fast, as he reads about Dark Magic. About how dangerous it is. How dangerous the ones that use it are. Tom wants to learn it, but there are books in the library that will burn him if he tries to touch them. The history books don’t burn, however and Tom reads about the destruction dark wizards are capable of.

    “You’re a dark lord,” Tom states/asks, the way he does, with Marvolo. The menace that surrounds him, the red eyes, the way he carries himself, the vast amounts of books Tom cannot touch in the library, the creepy artefacts that adorn the whole house-it all points to it.

    “Yes,” Marvolo answers, simply and doesn’t elaborate.

    Dark lords, especially, can do horrible things. And they don’t seem to like children, from all Tom has read. Without fail, a dark lord here or there is described as using innocent babes in rituals, eating children hearts-it’s just safer not to upset Marvolo, he figures.

    He’s not supposed to like Bitsy- Marvolo didn’t outright say it, but the house elf doesn’t exist, as far as he’s concerned, so far beneath his notice. He snaps orders at her, without even looking her way and that is that. But she’s a well of information and Tom is alone, so he talks with her. She feeds him and calls him master, bows before him every time, cleans or fixes whatever he breaks and Tom-well, Tom doesn’t hate her, even if she’s just a creature, so insignificant.

    The grounds are large, lush with green, so much place for Tom to roam. Old trees with thick branches, where he likes to read. Snakes find him, as they always do, whisper to him.

    Almost three months after his life changed, Marvolo sneaks up on him as Tom is laying in the grass, two adders curled around his limbs.

    “It’s unbecoming to lay in dirt," Marvolo says, but he has that very rare, very tiny smile on his face as Tom yelps in surprises and hurries to stand.

    “I didn’t hear you,” he says, stupidly, because he never does, when Marvolo doesn’t want him. Tom is excited to see him, after a few days of absence, relived to see him returned.

    “Clearly. Your warming charm is improving, I see.”

    “Out of necessity,” Tom admits, trying not to preen under the praise.

    “It’s warm inside the house,” Marvolo points out.

    But December is upon them and Tom pities the snakes, who always complain about the cold, so grateful to climb on his body and steal its warmth.

    “Fresh air and all that,” he says, though he knows it’s useless to try to lie. Marvolo sometimes gets annoyed when he does it, sometimes he’s amused. He laughs now.

    “Come inside.”

    Tom’s heart bursts with that warm feeling again. “You speak.”

    “Speaker,” the adders hiss, crawling towards Marvolo, who ignores them.

    “I did tell you we are Slytherins, did I not?”

    He had, that first day at the mansion. Only Tom imagined he meant they belong in the House.

    “You were foolish to try to hide it. Why did you?”

    Tom is not certain. Something to do with how Marvolo knows everything about Tom and Tom knows nothing about him. Something about fear of rejection. Freak. Still, after everything, it rings in his head, from time to time.

    “They’re meaningless, filthy animals,” Marvolo hisses, even in english as his anger rises.

    Right. Tom forgot about that, forgot about Legilimency and eye contact. Marvolo had warned him, impressed on him to not look wizards in the eyes, when he lies, because some are skilled enough to reach into his mind. “Do not repeat their nonsense. Forget it.”

    Tom tries, he always tries.

    “How do we descend from Slytherin?” he asks, later, as he eats, but making sure he swallows before speaking. Marvolo seemed to have calmed down, slightly.  

    “Through the Gaunts.”

    Tom has no idea who those are, but doesn’t dare upset Marvolo again. He nods and finishes his dinner, excusing himself.

    He usually tries to prolong it, to have Marvolo's company as much as he’s able, hoping he’d be invited to the living room, where he’d be told some wizarding things he doesn’t yet know. Like when he’d been told about other magical schools, or when he’s been told about Asian magical creature; he listened, enraptured, sipping on something hot. But now he just goes to the library to find a story he can learn on his own. Somehow he ends up reading Ministry regulation from the last century, so boring even he has trouble focusing on it.

    “Come,” Marvolo orders, just when Tom gives up and is about to head to bed. Marvolo lifts his wand, points it at Tom, who barley has time to get alarmed before a strange sensation fills him. When Marvolo shimmers, distorted for a moment and disappears from view, Tom looks at his body to learn he’s invisible too. A hand grabs him and he melts into it, to his surprise. He never liked being touched but when Marvolo does it, very rarely it feels-

    He shoves the feeling aways as he’s lead outside the house, down the pathway. Excited, he stays quiet. He’d never left the house, since he arrived. The horrible sensation of disappearing doesn’t get any better. But he has no time to worry about it when he sees Wool’s orphanage.

    “No!” He yells, desperate, so afraid, so crushed.

    “Silence,” Marvolo orders.

    Tom is shaking; he’s so torn, he doesn’t even care he’s crying. He can’t remember last time he cried, but he can’t stop it now. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, why-

    Screams. He looks away from trying to gauge Marvolo’s form, uselessly. Wool is suddenly on fire.

    Shock makes his mouth gape open. Within a minute, children are tumbling out of the front doors, screaming and coughing. Tom can only watch. Satisfaction rises inside him. Yes, yes, let it burn. If Wool’s doesn’t exist, he can’t be returned here. Hurry! He pleaded the flames.

    It’s beautiful. The flames advance fast, orange and yellow dancing merely into the night, the groaning building so loud it covers the screams. He sees Mrs. Cole coming out, a toddler in her arms, a shawl covering half her face, but he’d know her anywhere, even covered, even from a distance. People show up, chaos is around them, but Tom feels at peace. He hadn’t let go of Marvolo, holding his arm tightly, securely, even if he doesn’t see it. It takes him a while to notice the lone figure coming their way.

     Eventually, Tom realises it’s Billy, eyes empty, movements robotic.

    “They’re no one. Nothing. Insignificant bugs. You can control them, hurt them, order them to hurt themselves. Do not ever let their words make you doubt yourself. You’re better than that. Look at him!”

    Billy stopped right beside them, a peaceful expression on his face.

    “Do you want me to hurt him? Do you want me to torture him until he becomes a blubbering mess? Until he’s the freak? Do you want me to kill him?”

    Tom watches Billy closely.

    “Just a flick of my wand, a flick of your wand, and it’s over.”

    “Will you teach me, how to do it?” Tom asks, after a few seconds.

    “When you are older.”

    Tom will get older. For a time, he hadn’t though he will survive. But he had. He’s safe now. He’ll grow and he’ll know how to hurt, properly hurt, how to kill. How to keep himself safe. “Let him go.” He says softly and Billy’s face fills with confusion and fear and he starts crying, running back to the group, arms flailing.

    When they appear back at the mansion, when they become visible again, Tom looks up at Marvolo.

    A sureness settles in his bones, a bright, powerful feeling, even more powerful than magic. A protector. Someone who cares, who will keep Tom safe.

    “Do you know about the priest?” Tom asks, so very quietly. Marvolo freezes. Tom averts his eyes, looks away in shame. Hot tears spring back into his eyes. A week ago, he’d have thought Marvolo couldn’t possible know that, even if he seems to know everything. Wouldn’t have taken Tom if he had. Who would? He flinches when strong, long fingers cup his jaw, drawing his head back. Red eyes shine brightly in the dark.

    “I do.”

    Tom shivers.

    “Can you-” A sob comes, stuck in his throat. He swallows it. “Can you-”

    “I’ve killed him already. First thing I did, when I came back.”

    Back from where, Tom doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Another sob comes and he can’t swallow this one. It rips out of him, shakes his whole body. He feels so many things, that he’d forgotten, that he’d buried so deep, under the stories in the books, under his fantasies and his anger. They’re all back now, the fear, the pain, the shame and disgust. Above all, reigns relief. It’s all too much. Tom doesn’t know how to deal with it, he’s going to shatter, he’s lost and he needs an anchor. For the first time ever, the anchor is there, in front of him.

    Before he knows it, he throws his arms around Marvolo’s waist, buries his head in the soft robe and weeps. For the longest of times, Marvolo stands frozen like a statue, still in Tom’s desperate, clumsy embrace. But then, slowly, a big hand rests on Tom’s shoulder.

    “Let the past go. It no longer ties you down. It is over.”

    “Can you still teach me how to kill?” Tom asks, when he can talk again. His voice comes muffled, lips pressed to the robe. “The priest is gone, but when I’m grown enough, I’ll kill all the priests in the world.”

    Marvolo grabs his arms, pushes Tom away. Gently. He lowers his tall body, until they’re eye level. He wipes away Tom's tears. “When you grow up, we’ll kill all the muggles in the world.”

     Tom calms. “So you’ll keep me, then? Even if you got to know me?”

    A phenomenal rage courses through Marvolo, but Tom’s not scared, even as trees are ripped from their roots, even as the ground shakes. Because it’s not rage directed at Tom. It is for Tom.

    “I’m not going anywhere,” Marvolo says when he’s in control enough to speak. It comes out like a growl. “I’m immortal. You will be immortal. Not even death can rip us apart.”

Chapter Text

    “Happy birthday,” Marvolo greets him, at breakfast and Tom controls the wide smile that threatens to explode on his face. He’s been very careful, since that night, a month past when he’d been so weak. Marvolo doesn't like weakness and tears and obvious displays of emotions. Neither does Tom. They don't mention it again.

    Yet now, when Tom wakes from his usual nightmares, he sees a pair of red eyes glinting in the shadows of his rooms and he closes his own again, and calms, sleep claiming him easily.

    “Happy birthday, young master.” Bitsy appears, a rare event when Marvolo is present. She avoids him like the plague. “Master.” She bows so deep her face touches the floor at Marvolo’s feet. “May Bitsy bring a special breakfast, master?” Tom has been teaching her proper grammar, her broken english grating on him. It’s a slow going process, and she insists to punish herself whenever she slips, but she’s showing progress.

    Marvolo blinks at her, like he forgot she existed.

    “For the young master,” she says, agitated, squirming in the silence. “Bitsy dares, to please hi-”

    “Yes, yes. Go.” Marvolo dismisses her. “Such strange creatures.”

    “They like to serve. Makes her happy.”

    A sneer passes on Marvolo’s features as he opens his newspaper. The special breakfast appears on the table. Tom’s eyes widen at the spectacle. A waffle, dripped in every sauce possible, filled with every candy he enjoys.

    “I may vomit just looking at it,” Marvolo comments, even though Tom has no idea how he can possibly see it, through the paper. Tom’s mouth waters and he demolishes it in record time. It tastes divine. When he’s done, Marvolo looks at him, surprised, like he sometimes does, as if Tom had done something very unexpected. “You like sweets,” he says, and even his voice has an inflection of surprise.

    “They weren’t easy to find, with the Muggles,” Tom explains. Of course he likes sweets. Once he came to the house and Bitsy offered, with his snacks, he always demands them. “You don’t eat,” he remarks, because he’s been dying to say it for months now. Tom’s afraid that wizards stop eating eventually. He’s not yet ready to imagine an existence without food.

    “I don’t require sustenance,” Marvolo answers, still looking at Tom oddly. “Not often, in any case.”

    “Is that just you, or wizards in general?”

    “Just me.”

    Tom breathes a little easier. It makes sense, after all. If Marvolo is immortal, he obviously can’t starve to death. But still, why he won’t eat, baffles him.

    For once, Marvolo doesn’t leave Tom alone, after he’s done with breakfast. He will, tonight, some New Year event he has to attend but for now he leads Tom to the living room. Under the Christmas tree that Bitsy had put up, because Tom had asked her to, sits a large box, wrapped in green. Joy fills Tom, as it had done at Christmas, when he’d been baffled to find gifts underneath it. He’d felt badly, afterwards, because he hadn’t even thought to get something for Marvolo. He never gave anyone a present, because he’d been an orphan with no money who hated and was hated by everyone. He doesn’t hate Marvolo, but he simply hadn’t thought about it. Besides, what was he supposed to get, if he never leaves the house?

    It’s always hard to contain himself not to rip through the packaging. He’s getting good with spells now, with recognising them and he feels a stasis spell fall as he opens the cardboard box to see an aquarium underneath it. And then something moves, something glorious and beautiful, green and black -

    "Hungry," it hisses.

    “Aren’t they always?” Marvolo comments, amused, but Tom only has eyes for the king cobra, that rears up, hood out, when he takes off the lid.

    “Back away!”

    “I mean no harm,” Tom assures the snake.

    “A speaker.” Always glad to find one, Tom discovered.

    “Two,” Tom corrects but Marvolo doesn’t say anything.

    “Hungry,” The cobra repeats, now that its not afraid. “Long journey.”

    Tom names him Atlas. Tom’s not supposed to remember or acknowledge his past with the muggles, but some of the stories he’d read, especially greek mythology about gods and heroes stick with him.

    “Thank you,” Tom says, after he asks Bitsy for mice and Atlas is fed, coiled in front of the fireplace. Tom kneels at its side.

    Marvolo nods. For once, he doesn’t tell Tom to stop pretending that he’s polite. Possibly because he’s not pretending, not for a while.

    “When is your birthday?” He’s determined to give a gift of his own, has this need he’d never felt before, to give something in return, to offer the older man something that will bring a smile to his face.

    “Immortal men do not have birthdays.” Marvolo doesn’t look up form his book. His book, as in written by himself. Reclaiming Old Magick. Tom cannot wait to read it; a copy had just been sent to the house, with a note it will be published shortly. He’s read the other two heavy tomes authored by Marvolo, but to his despair, Tom cannot understand much of them, the theories far too complicated for his current level of knowledge.

    “You just made that rule up?”

    “Careful,” Marvolo warns, still not looking up and Tom bristles, but settles down, runs his fingers on Atlas’s smooth scales.

    “How old are you?” he tries again.

    “It is considered socially unacceptable to inquire about someone’s age so bluntly.”

    And Tom is not supposed to pretend to be nice, with Marvolo, but he’s expected to be polite and act proper with others, when he’ll eventually meet people.

    As if reading his mind, Marvolo puts his book away. “I will take you to Diagon, next week. You know enough now to blend in.”

    Tom gets dizzy with excitement. “Yes, sir. I won’t embarrass you,” he promises, hotly.

    “I’ve no doubt. You’re to call me father, in front of others.”

    Tom’s stomach rolls, his heart thunders inside his chest. He looks away, fast, not to give Marvolo time to catch his eyes and see all this weakness inside him.

    “Yes, sir.”

    “I am known as Marvolo Gaunt. “

    Tom looks up. There’s that name again. He’d seen it on the books, already. Who does it belong to? Had Marvolo borrowed it from Merope’s side, as well as his first name? Or was it always his?

    “We can pick a first name for you, as well.”

    Tom blinks. “I’ve already got one.”

    Marvolo sneers. “A better one.”

    “What’s wrong with Tom, anyway?” he asks, getting upset. “You never call me Tom,” he adds, for whatever reason. It’s always “child”.

    Once more, Marvolo looks surprised. “You do not like it,” he says, certain.

    Tom likes his name. He always did. It was his father’s name, after all, and he’d waited for his father to show up. And now he had, and even though he goes by a different one, Tom is his name too and that only makes Tom like it more- Too late, he feels the tale tale signs of Legilimency. He averts his eyes. A very long, heavy silence falls over them. Atlas feels the tension, raises its head to look at them. Tom feels very uncomfortable. He’d like to find a way to leave, some excuse-

    “My father’s name is Tom Riddle,” Marvolo’s voice pierces the silence, startling Tom, who feels even more uncomfortable, despite the peak of curiosity. Marvolo never talks about their family. “A muggle.”

    Even if he’d just promised himself he’ll never meet Marvolo’s eyes again, Tom’s head snaps up, in shock, and does just that.

    “Hate is a very mild word. I despise him and everything that has to do with him. You cannot imagine it.”

    Tom looks away again. Hadn’t his mother known that? Why would Merope name him after a man her husband hated? To make it easier for him to find me, he reassures himself. But he still doesn’t know, why his mother ended up giving birth and dying in a muggle orphanage, why Marvolo had waited eight years to come for Tom.

    “That is why I changed my name.”

    Tom is very pleased he’d chosen Marvolo. After all, it’s also Tom’s name. He bites his tongue to keep from smiling. “And Gaunt is-”

    “Merope’s maiden name. Your name too, from now on.” A brief pause. “You can keep the other, if you want.”

    Tom really does want. He wants them all. He clings to them- Marvolo he shares with his father now, and his grandfather. Gaunt with his father and mother, once. And Tom-well, even if Marvolo doesn’t go by it, they still know they have it in common.

    “I do.” He pushes away the guilt. It’s not his fault for how he was named. He’ll keep Tom. “If you’re a half blood, and my mother was a witch, then what does that make me?” He’s read about blood status and its importance. There’s a war brewing on the continent, a dark lord who’s determined to establish a hierarchy, with Muggles at the very bottom.

    “How do you know I’m a halfblood?” Marvolo asks, eyebrow raised. “My mother could have been a muggle, too.”

    “Oh yes, you’re descend from Salazar through muggles, sure.” Tom rolls his eyes. But then-”Wait. How are you a descended of Salazar’s?”

    Marvalo smirks at him. “Through the Gaunts.”

    “But my mother was a a Gaunt-”

    “She was.”

    “And your mother was one too?” If Marvolo’s father is a Muggle-

    “She was.”

    Tom narrows his eyes. “How closely related are we, really? Except the obvious relation?”

    Marvolo laughs, deep, rich. It lights up his whole face, the eyes spark brown, for the briefest of seconds.“Very closely,” he says, pointedly.

    Tom hopes Marvolo and his mother were only cousins.

    (-)

    Diagon Alley is straight out from a fairytale. Tom knows better than to stare, striding along Marvolo as if he’d seen all of it before. The stores are fascinating, their windows bursting with so many interesting objects Tom can barely identify. As for the wizard population, it takes him all of five minutes to realise they’re not much smarter than muggles. Different clothes-robes of all colours and pointy hats but the same smiles or angry looks, people minding their business. So far, they all look like idiots. Marvolo is so impressive that Tom had believed it was a wizard’s trait, to be intelligent and sophisticated. Clearly it isn’t. Some men and women wear tattered robes and he knows how poverty looks, had lived in it for eight long years. How does one stay poor, when there’s magic at hand, he cannot comprehend. Tom only sees a couple of children, after all most of them are off to Hogwarts. As obnoxious as the muggles at Wool’s, crying or demanding things from their parents. A few men tip their hats to Marvolo, bowing slightly. Marvolo acknowledges them with sharp nods but no one stops to talk to them.

    The goblins are ugly and greedy and much more unpleasant than house elves, like Bitsy had warned him. They don’t go down to a vault and Tom is disappointed -he’d read Gringotts hosted dragons.

    “What would you like to get?” Marvolo asks and he’s not surprised when Tom says books, already leading him to Flourish and Blotts. A bag of coins is pushed in his hand. He knows all about wizard’s currency -galleons, sickles and knuts. Seems demented to him, but such are things. He’s starting to understand magical people are not too concerned with logic.

    “Stay here. I will be right back.”

    Tom has read about Knockturn alley, and how close it is to Diagon. Not the place young children should be seen in.

    He would buy all the books, if he could. He probably can, he thinks, remembering how rich Marvolo is. But that would be bad manners, so he only chooses twelve, though it’s a struggle to pick from all the many options. He passes by a shelf showcasing games and he stops, making sure no one sees him. They all look exciting. Tom reaches out, before remembering he has no one to play with, anyway. Of course, that’s how Marvolo finds him. Tom hastily moves away, to the counter, where a young, bored witch bags his purchases.

    “I only looked at the silly games because I thought it’s something a child raised by wizards should have knowledge of, in case it would come up,” he says, when they’re back at the house.

    Tom is to pretend he’d always been with Marvolo, raised somewhere in Norway. His mother had been a witch, but she’s died when he’d been very young and if anyone inquires for further details about her, he’s to say he doesn’t like discussing it. Tom is teaching himself norweigian, latin and some french, with very little help from Marvolo, who seems to expect Tom can do anything on his own. Which, he does. Only he’d appreciate the help, not because it would make it easier, but for the company.

    “What did I say about lying to me?” Marvolo asks and Tom grits his teeth.

    Something softens in that hard face. “You are a child. I forget it, on occasion. That you might enjoy simpler things.”

    It sounds like an insult, but one that Tom cannot rebut, with the no lying rule. “I don’t know if I would,” Tom spits. “It’s not like I ever played a game.”

    “That is why you destroyed the games the others played,” Marvolo says, and Tom had never said that, but Marvolo knows everything. He sounds slightly surprised now, as if he’d just remembered.

    Tom wants to deny it. It wasn’t jealousy, Tom never wanted to have anything to do with those stupid muggles. They were just loud and obnoxious and it distracted him from his books. He shuts up, though, less he gets accused of lying again.

    The next day he wakes up to find games at the foot of his bed. Some are solitary ones and Tom enjoys them in peace, figuring them out. When Marvolo goes away for a few days, Tom orders Bitsy to never, ever mention it to Marvolo, on pain of death, and then he plays with her, explaining the simple rules for Exploding Snap.

    Eventually, he finds the name Gaunt, while he researches history books and stumbles on the Sacred Families. Of which the Gaunt are apart of.

    “May I?” Tom asks, when Marvolo is done with the paper in the morning and he’s allowed.

    Tom reads, pays attention to politics and he learns.

Chapter Text

    “Why, but he is a dear!” The woman pinches his cheeks and Tom barely holds back from breaking her fingers, keeps his smile in place. “You hid him from me!” She points a fat, short finger at Marvolo, in mock admonishment.

    “We hide our greatest treasures, don’t we, Hepzibah?” Marvolo smiles and Tom is enraptured by how different he presents himself. Of course he’d see right through Tom’s lies and the disguise he’d built at the orphanage. Mavolo is a master at this craft. He seems so polite now, so charming and sociable. “Until we can trust someone enough to show them.”

    The woman blushes, pleased beyond measure. A small house elf returns with the flowers they brought, arranged now neatly in a vase. They’re served cakes and tea. Tom watches the house elf curiously, tries to compare it to Bitsy. He eats the cake, delighted as always at all the flavour. He’d always been tall for his age, but he feels he’d grown even taller in the last months. He can’t be sure since his clothes are charmed to fit him, no matter a few extra inches.

    He remains polite and quiet, only answering direct questions. The woman rapidly loses interest in him though, eyes set on Marvolo, small and greedy.

    Tom hates it-he hates her.

    Towards the end, she enquires, quite bluntly, about Tom’s mother. “She’s no longer with us, is she?” Her voice is hopeful.

    “No,” Marvolo answers and he looks mournful, like he’s hurt by it. Tom knows better. The only thing Merope’s mention provokes in him is a cold anger. “Not for many years.” Hepzibah cannot hide her pleased smile, though she tries.

    “Oh you poor, poor dears.” Again, his cheek is pinched. Marvolo suffers the same fate. Tom watches the woman’s generous cleavage, very on display, threatening to burst free from her corset as she bends.

    Disgusting.

    “Tom, why don’t you go to the garden for a little while, play around?” Hepzibah suggests and Marvolo gives a short nod, so Tom departs.

    It’s a small garden, as cluttered as the rest of the house. Tom is reminded of the story a veteran used to tell them, of land mines in the Great War, as he’s forced to watch his step.

    “Is young sir needing of something?” The house elf pops up, after a while.

    “What is your name?” he thinks it’s a she, as he watches the big ears straighten, full of white fluff. Old, Tom thinks-more frail than Bitsy.

    “Hokey, sir,” she says, smiling a toothless smile. “Sir is good to ask.”

    “How do you stand this mess?”

    Her ears drop, hands twitchy. “Hokey tries, sir. She does. But mistress has too many things, mistress wants them in places she chooses. Hokey is trying-”

    “It’s not your fault,” Tom says, hastily because the poor thing is distraught. Tom hadn’t meant to upset her. Something about how helpless house elves are, in their servitude, disgusts him- he abhors meekness - but it also make it easy for Tom to compare them to animals, which he has a soft spot for.

    “Would sir want more cake?” she asks, hopeful.

    “Why not?”

    A little while later, Hokey lets him know he’s being called inside. He has to suffer a kiss this time, sloppy, wet and revolting, right on his cheek. Even worse, he has to watch Marvolo get one.

    “What’s the matter?” he’s asked, when they’re back in their own grand gardens, where everything is orderly, clean and airy.

    “Nothing.” Tom squeezes his fists, jaws locked together.

    “That is not an acceptable answer.”

    “Why do you go there? Why take me?” Tom asks. He knows Marvolo visits often. He’d started complaining about it, when he returns home, about having to suffer “the old whale”.

    “There is something she has, that I want.”

    “Obviously.” Tom rolls his eyes. He didn’t imagine it was for the company.

    “Do not talk over me. Do not roll your eyes. Mind your tone.”

    “I don’t like how she looks at you.” His voice comes out higher than he intended. It happens a lot, lately-saying things he shouldn’t, forgetting to keep his guard. Tom is relaxing as the months pass and he’s still there, still fed and clothed and offered knowledge and gifts.

    Marvolo frowns. He must be relaxing as well, a warmth in his chest tells Tom, because for a while now, he talks more freely, has a couple or so expressions on his waxy features.

    He looks at Tom as he sometimes does, as if trying to remember something, as if Tom had acted in a manner he hadn’t expected.

    “She desires me,” he says, as if Tom could have possibly missed it. He well remembers how men had looked at the easy women, in London’s less reputable alleys. He remembers something else, that makes his belly hurt, makes it hard to breathe.

    “You should kill her!” he insists. “Tell me what she has that you want, and I will steal it for you.” He is a very accomplished thief. Hokey is old and half blind and Hepzibah is too busy staring at Marvolo with her greedy, ugly eyes.

    “She will give it on her own,” Marvolo says and he lowers his tall body until he’s eye level with Tom. The glamor he wears in public, that makes his eyes a rich brown, exactly like Tom’s , has faded. Red sparks again. “Killing isn’t always the best solution, even if it is the easiest one.”

    “You should!” Tom says and he has the urge to grab Marvolo, to keep him close. “She’s a threat!”

    Marvolo laughs. It angers Tom, terribly. The fountain head explodes as magic rushes out of him, without his control.

    “Don’t laugh!” He’s yelling now, can feel his face scrunching up. “You don’t know-you -nothing good comes when someone looks at you that way!” he says, desperate to make Marvolo understand. The prostitutes in London sometimes ended up dead. Sometimes they’d cling to life and Tom would see their bruised, broken bodies, as he wondered around, aimlessly.

    He hurts, inside, feels an oppressive, phantom touch on the back of his neck. The priest had looked at him, that way and-

    Marvolo’s own rage lashes out, swallows Tom’s. Nothing explodes but natures itself goes still, quiet. Dead.

    “Let him go,” Marvolo says, voice soft and level. “He is no more. He cannot touch you . You will grow, and you are handsome. People will look at you with desire and it will be in your advantage. You will have to learn to use it against them.”

    I’ll just make them do what I want with my magic, Tom thinks, stubborn, hands still shaking, still struggling to breathe.

    “I’ll change my face!” Tom says, certain. He’s reading about transfiguration, and he’s only just begun. Marvolo showed him how to change mice into teacups. Surely, one day, he can turn his face , his beautiful face - such a pretty boy, you are-into something that inspires terror and dread in others, makes them stay away from him. “They’ll fear it!” he whispers, strangled. “They will. Just you wait!”

    After the priest, he’d tried to cut his face, to damage it, make it unpleasant, but he always woke up with it healed and as perfect as always. And then he met Marvolo and Tom had forgotten how much he hates his face, what with Marvolo wearing it too. He’d seen the fear it inspires, even as handsome. But now, now that woman looked at him with no fear, with desire, she’d touched Marvolo and Tom is reminded what a danger a pretty face can bring.

    “I do not know how to help you,” Marvolo says, sounding frustrated and Tom looks up at him, shocked. Marvolo knows everything. He can do anything. He’s immortal.

    Besides, Tom doesn’t need any help. He’s fine.

    (-)

    His back supported by the thick oak in their yard, Tom is reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Atlas curled around his legs. It’s one of his favourite books. It’s nowhere near as interesting as the other he owns, there is no knowledge to gain from its pages , but he treasures it because Marvolo had given it to Tom, for “light reading.” It’s clearly meant just to amuse Tom, something he can enjoy, bed time stories, and it’s very similar to what a parent would give to a child.

    Sometimes, as he lays in bed, trapped between awareness and dreams, Tom likes to imagine Marvolo reading these fairy tales to him. He’s far too old for that, he knows, but he can’t help but want it, secretly.

    It’s summer when Marvolo presents him with another gift. There’s something in the air, as he hands it over, an eagerness he so rarely displays as he watches Tom’s face, with anticipation. This is something big, Tom knows and he stills himself, he focuses, because it must be very important and he needs to show the proper reaction.

    A locket. Beautiful and shining , gold and heavy, with green jewels arranged in the shape of a snake. It calls to Tom, somehow.

    “Open," he commands and it clicks. He sees Marvolo’s picture first. It’s black and white, but Tom can tell this is before whatever change he’d suffered. He can tell the eyes are brown, a healthy aspect to him. He’s smiling, slightly and that is odd, Marvolo had never smiled so easily.On the other side of the locket, a young woman watches Tom shyly, with slightly crossed blue eyes, dull hair falling in her face. She keeps arranging it with one hand, and with the other she clutches nervously at the locket around her neck, fingers flexing, nervously around it. The same locket Tom is holding.

    That’s his mother, he knows. Something inside him stirs, a pain beneath his ribs as he cannot look away from her.

    “This is Salazar’s locket, passed down, generation to generation.” Marvolo’s voice reaches Tom, from somewhere far away. It register in his mind, the importance-he’s read about the very scarce heirlooms the Great Founders had left behind, all supposedly lost now. And yet here the locket is. He comes from such great lineage-he will care, later. He will feel pride. But now, the tiny picture of a shy girl means more to him than his bloodline.

    So many years, he’d pictured her face, before sleep. When he’d believed in God, when he’d learned about angels, he’d had fancied she was one, watching over him, beautiful and powerful. That notion went away, fast, when it became clear God hated him and no one is protecting him, he had to do it himself. He’d still wondered, if he looks like her. Mrs Cole had said that no, his mother hadn’t been a beauty but Tom had refused to believe. That cow hated him and she’d just say that to upset him, he’d figured.

    He looks up, speechless for once. He doesn’t know what to say. Old questions come back, but he knows he won’t get any answers. One day, Marvolo might tell him, but only when he decides. It’s not fair; Tom deserves answers. Who would deny a child information about his dead mother? But he bites his tongue and the gratefulness he feels towards Marvolo erases anything else.

    “For me?” he asks, unbelieving he’s been given such a treasure.

    Marvolo watches him closely. “It is yours, after all. It belonged to your mother. You should have always had it.”

    Tom agrees. He should have gotten everything. The locket, his father and mother, the beautiful house, filled with riches and safety and- He swallows. He has Marvolo and he’s real and there, not a fantasy. He’s much more then anything he could have conjured up in his imagination. Marvolo is everything Tom wants to be, one day.

    “I forgot that was inside,” Marvolo says and he bends-before Tom can stop him, his picture is ripped out of the locket and thrown into the fireplace. Tom watches it burn and he doesn’t understand, he’d wanted it, his parents together in a locket- as he watches, he realises it’s a muggle picture. That’s why it was odd, he tells himself. That’s why those frozen eyes didn’t look as intelligent as they are in reality.

    “I wanted it here!” he protests.

    “I will give you a better one,” Marvolo says, voice gentle. It surprises Tom, soothes that pain under his ribs. It makes him want to go over and hug him. But that’s not something Marvolo would want. Tom doesn’t understand why he wants it, either. He still hates people touching him, when he’s out in Diagon Alley, or on other trips Marvolo is taking him. He hates the handshakes, hates even the most accidental brushes on the street. But he remembers that one time, when he’d pressed himself in Marvolo’s chest and he had felt safe.

    “Alright,” he says, crushing these childish desires. He takes another look at his mother and closes the locket. Later. He carefully places it around his neck. It had seemed to be heavy, suffocating for the girl in the picture. But for Tom- it makes him sit straighter. The cold weight on his chest is reassuring.

    “I-” he falters. He doesn’t know how to thank him for it, for something as monumental. Sure, it was always his, Marvolo has said so, but that doesn’t change the fact Tom would never had held it, if wasn’t for this man.

    “I know,” Marvolo says, saving Tom from having to find words with enough importance for the event.

    Days later, they pose together, for a photograph. Tom is siting on a chair and he relishes in the weight of Marvolo’s hand on his shoulder, as he stands behind Tom.

    He carefully puts the picture in the locket, afterwards. They look so much alike, handsome and proud. Nothing like Merope. It’s stupid, childish, but it pleases Tom, the vast discrepancies between his parents. She- ugly and shy and looking poor in her tattered clothes. He- regal and powerful. His mother must have had something very special about her, for his father to want her, despite these differences.

    Love is useless and a weakness, Tom knows. He found out very early on. He’d at least seen it in others, because no-one ever loved him and he never loved anyone. People in love looked stupid, Tom hated them and their smiles, the way they touched each other as they strolled on the streets, so happy it made his stomach twist.

    But, deep inside, he fancies Marvolo must have loved Merope. Of course, he wouldn’t have acted as those foolish muggles, he’s too dignified for that. But he must have loved her, to be with her despite her apparent lack of anything remotely attractive. Perhaps that is why he cannot talk about her. Perhaps that is why Marvolo hates her for dying. Because it hurts.

    Tom understands that’s why he hates her so much, for abandoning him, because he somehow misses her.

    Love hurts and it’s uncomfortable. Tom doesn’t like it. Not at all. In the dead of the night, in his huge bedroom, filled with his books and his clothes, toys and pictures and it looks like it belongs to him now, like he has a place here, had left his mark, he has to admit that he loves Marvolo too.

    It will destroy Tom, to have the man abandon him again.

Chapter Text

    Marvolo pinches the bridge of his nose. “I forgot about Quidditch.”

    Tom looks at him, over a steaming pile of omelette with bacon. He’d read about Quidditch, of course he had. It sounds interesting. Fun. That is why he never brings it up around Marvolo, who mislikes anything to do with fun.

    “Sir?” he asks when Marvolo doesn’t follow it up with anything.

    “They’ll expect you to know Quidditch. They'll ask you to play.”

    Suddenly, Tom cannot wait to go meet these children that he’s been preparing for in the last week. He hadn’t wanted to but Marvolo needs to introduce him to his colleagues, says it’s good to have connections before Hogwarts. Yet if it’s an opportunity to fly-

    “I know about Quidditch,” he says, trying to sound casual. “I know the rules and such but to play I’d need a broom.”

    “Yes, yes.” Marvolo is so put out he doesn’t even snap at Tom for trying to manipulate him.

    There’s no need for it, anyway. Later that day he returns with a broom, one that Tom had eyed, very carefully, when he’d been to Diagon Alley the last few times. Top of the line, the newest model.

    “You’re supposed to mount it and-” Marvolo frowns, looking at the broom as if it offends him.

    “You don’t know how to fly?” Tom asks, amused.

    “Of course I can fly. I just don’t require the assistance of a broom,” he doesn’t elaborate any further.

    Tom shrugs, straddles the broom and goes off. He’d have been afraid to try it, some months prior . It seems prone to injuries. But Marvolo is right there and nothing can happen to Tom in his presence.

    He loves flying, it’s clear from the get go as he lets his instincts take over, cutting through through the air. It’s wonderful. Laughter climbs out of his throat, quite without his permission, but he doesn’t care. It is fun.

    “It's not that hard,” he says, winded, when he’s back on the ground.

    “Nothing will ever be hard for you.”

    Tom’s heart warms with pleasure at the praise.

    Malfoy Manor is even more impressive than their own. Tom knows enough by now, about the noble families of the wizarding world, so he’s not surprised Septimus Malfoy and Arcturus Black don’t look like the usual riff-raft that wanders around Diagon Alley. They are smartly dressed, have aristocratic features, cold eyes and arrogant expressions.

    Tom and the other boys, all of them imitations of their fathers stand straight for inspection as the older men introduce them. As soon as they’re sent outside, Abraxas and Orion relax, become whiny and bratty to Tom’s disappointment. There are other children in the garden, two more Blacks. Alphard and Walburga.

    Tom knows how newcomers are usually pushed aside. He’d seen it at the orphanage. And these magical children clearly all know each other, since three of them are related. But they look at Tom’s locket, they remember he’s an important guest and no one tries to bully him.

    The discussions are lacklustre, but he’d expected that. Tom had always been smarter than those around him. Walburga is older than Tom, by a year, but none the wiser. Alphard and Abarxas are his age; they’ll attend Hogwarts together. Arrogant, both of them, without much reason. Orion is younger by a few years and the loudest of the group. Even so, they’re far more tolerable than the muggles at the orphanage.

    When they do ask if Tom wants to play Quidditch, a part of him is surprised, even though Marvolo told him it will happen. He’d never been asked to play anything, in his life.

    It’s different, to be part of a group. Tom isn’t sure if he likes it-perhaps he would, if he’d relax, but he’s too focused not to embarrass himself. Luckily, Abraxas’ parents do not allow him bludgers and the quaffle is easy enough to catch and pass, once Tom finds balance on the broom. He watches in amazement as Abraxas and Alphard dive after the snitch, with dizzying speed, shoulder to shoulder. Tom is not ready to injure himself just to catch a shiny ball with wings, not until he gets more practice, at least.

    “It wasn’t so bad,” Tom admits, shrugging, when they’re back at their own house.

    “Don’t shrug. It’s unbecoming.”

    Tom clenches his jaws at the admonishment but makes an effort to relax, after a few seconds. “They were all very polite. I liked that. I liked having them agree with anything I suggested.”

    “Of course they did. You’re the Heir of Slytherin. Their fathers must have stressed how important it is to please you, lest it gets back to me you were treated badly.”  

    “Do you like them? Malfoy and Black?” Tom asks, curious. Marvolo never brought home any guests and he seems as discontent with people as Tom is.

    “No. But I must suffer them. They have their use and as far as company goes, they are the best the wizarding world has to offer. Always surround yourself with rich, powerful purebloods. In public. On your own, you can decide if there is a halfblood or a mudblood that seems worthy of your time. Collect valuable pawns and learn who to associate with, in public or in private.”

    Tom nods. He understands. He’s been reading the newspapers carefully, he’d listened to Marvolo’s teachings, about politics and hierarchy.

    “May I have an owl?” he asks, for once directly. It’s hard for him to ask for something. He prefers alluding to it, stealing, manipulating. But he’s getting out of practice, only in Marvolo’s company, with whom such methods never work. “They all have one. They want to write. I suppose I should have one.”

    “You may.”

    As the summer passes, a small part of Tom, that he takes great care never to reveal to Marvolo, enjoys corresponding with the others. He tells himself it’s just because they always ask for his opinion; when they’re physically together, at Malfoy Manor or the Black one, they always listen to him. They all have wands, even if no one should. Tom feels great satisfaction knowing he’d had his the least amount of time, he’d only found out he was a wizard months before, and yet he’s still better than them. Of course, the others on occasion do impart knowledge that he lacks and he absorbs it, making sure to pretend he already knew it.

    He likes Abraxas and Alphard the best, because they provide the most competition. After the first and only time he was beaten at Quidditch, Marvolo watches him, a frown on his face, as Tom spends hours on the broom, with Bitsy charming the balls he’d asked to be given, dodging bludgers and trying to catch the snitch as fast as he can.

    “I need to be as good as they are,” Tom explains.

    “It’s just quidditch. It doesn’t matter. Insignificant.” 

    It might be insignificant to him but it’s not for Tom. He likes it. He doesn’t say it. “Even so, I like to be the best.”

    Marvolo gives a small sigh. “That, I can understand.”

    “It didn’t bother you, that you weren’t? At quidditch?” Tom asks, guessing that Marvolo cannot play.

    “No, because I never played.”

    From what he gathered from the others, it’s very unlikely for a wizard to go through life without having played quidditch. It seems especially important at Hogwarts. He knows Marvolo hadn’t gone to Hogwarts, but to Durmstrang. Tom doesn’t know why, since Marvolo is not only of the Slytherin line but is clearly partial to Hogwarts, when he tells Tom about all the magical schools across the globe.

    “Never? Surely, they play it at Durmstrang-“

    “I was raised by muggles,” Marvolo offers and Tom perks up, so eager to learn everything he can about him. “I only found out I was a wizard when I turned eleven. I didn’t own a broom, never mind knowing how to use one and no one was inclined to show me.”

    Tom listens, quietly, hoping for more.

    “Riddle is not a magical name, and they caught on to it, very fast. They didn’t want to associate with me, because of it, in the beginning. By the time I proved my worth, I was old enough to not care about childish things, like sports.”

    Tom files this information, along with all the scrapes he gets, on occasion. Marvolo is such a mystery to him, but he’ll crack it, sooner or later.

    As he lays in the grass with Atlas curled around his limbs, Tom ponders that could have been his fate, without Marvolo. He’d have grown up at the orphanage, arrived at Hogwarts clueless, with a muggle name, sorted into Slytherin with an uncertain, unsure lineage. No one would have taught him quidditch. He can imagine Abraxas’ and Walburga’s reactions faced with a boy in second hands clothes, a muggle name, a Cockney accent and he shudders, a rush of gratefulness for Marvolo. Perhaps a rush of love, he’s still not certain how that is supposed to feel.

    (-)

    He’s been with Marvolo a year to the day, when he first wanders into Knockturn Alley.

    Tom meets with Abraxas and Walburga at Florean Fortescue Parlour, Bitsy having taken him to the Leaky Cauldron. The weight of the golden coins in his pocket is novel and reassuring. He’d always desired to have his own money and this time he didn’t even have to steal, Marvolo had simply handed the coin purse to Tom, without being asked.

    Mrs. Malfoy is supposed to watch them, but she heads over to Twilfitt and Tatting’s early into the meeting.

    “I’m bored,” Walburga says, playing with her ice cream. Tom knows her well enough by now to anticipate trouble after that particular statement. A bored Black is never a safe thing. Alphard is absent, having been grounded for talking with a muggle boy and he is the only one to temper his sister.

    “I dare you to go to Knockturn!” she says, throwing her hair back. 

    “I’ve been already, with father,” Abraxas brags.

    “Perfect, you can show us around!” She stands, pulling on her gloves.

    Abraxas pales. “I’m not supposed to go alone-“

    “Scared, are you?” She smirks. “ What about you, Tom? Are you afraid?”

    Tom stands. “Lead the way.”

    “I’ll keep watch,” Abraxas says, when they reach the intersection between the two streets. “You know, in case mother comes looking for us-“

    Walburga laughs, grabs Tom’s hand and pulls him along. Tom pushes her, without too much force, just enough to let her know she shouldn’t take liberties with touching him.

    Reluctantly, he admires her bravery; the looks they get from the very dubious characters moving in the shadows have no effect on her, as they head deeper into Knockturn. It doesn’t affect Tom either, but he was never one to be afraid. She walks proudly, with her head held high, like she owns the street, Black princess that she is.

    But she’s too recognisable. It keeps them safe -no one in their right mind would harm someone from the most noble and ancient house of Black but it also keeps anyone from selling them anything. Tom manages to steal a book regardless, from a street vendor with no teeth and smelling strongly of garlic. Blood curses.

    Marvolo finds him reading it, later in the afternoon. He snatches it from Tom’s hands. “Too young,” he declares and it joins the other books in the library Tom’s not allowed to touch yet. He doesn't admonish Tom for stealing, when he makes Tom say how he got it, nor for sneaking into Knockturn.

    “You’re not to touch anything there, objects might be cursed. Just observe,” he says, the next week before dropping Tom at the Leaky Cauldron, to meet with Abraxas.

    Tom doesn’t get to go to Knockturn again.

    He’s walking with Abraxas and Alphard, ignoring their bickering when Hepzibah stops them in front of Ollivanders.

    “Oh, look at you! You’re growing so tall” His cheek is pinched and Abraxas sniggers beside him. Tom wants to hurt them both, tightens his fingers into fists. “You liked my gift?” Hebzibah asks and Tom is so surprised to hear this news that he doesn’t even break her hand when she touches his locket, displayed proudly over his robe. “I thought you would. Your father was so delighted to see it.”

    Next he sees Marvolo, still shocked and distraught, Tom hugs him. He can’t help it-it’s overwhelming, the warmth he feels-the love, that Marvolo suffers that horrid woman and her greedy stares just to give something so precious to Tom.

    It doesn’t last long. Marvolo stands still, stiff and Tom lets him go immediately when he realises what he’d just done. Embarrassed, he runs away and avoids the older man for a few days.

    (-)

    He finds a kitten, at the edge of their property. It looks exactly like Snow and despite his better judgment, despite the pain that flares in his chest, he hols her up and once he pets her, it’s impossible to just leave her. He builds her a small shelter, makes Bitsy bring him a blanket, food and water.

    “You can’t tell him,” Tom warns and she nods and goes to burn her hands in the oven, for keeping secrets from her Master.

    "She’s not food," he tells Atlas until the snake understands.

    Days later, he wakes up drenched. He sits, abruptly and he throws the blanket away, expecting to see Snow’s blood all over him. It’s just sweat. Breathing heavily, he looks up and sees the red eyes in the shadows. He calms, somewhat.

    But for the first time, Marvolo steps forward, out of the shadows. Tom pulls the blanket back to his chin, feeling small and mortified. He likes that Marvolo comes, when he’s having a bad night, but he likes to pretend it’s not real. He likes to pretend Marvolo doesn’t know how weak he is.

    “Animals die,” Marvolo says in the darkness. “Everything dies. Best not get attached.”

    Tom uses anger to hide his shame. “How can you read my mind while I sleep? I don’t like it!”

    “I’m not reading your mind. That’s a muggle expression,” Marvolo chides him and Tom bristles.

    He lets the blanket drop and stares at Marvolo, defiant.

    “Thank you for the lesson in semantics. Best time for it!” he snarls.

    “I would suggest you keep your tongue in check,” Marvolo carries on, unaffected.

    Or what? Tom wants to ask. What could Marvolo possibly do to Tom, if he disobeys? He can’t very well return him to Wool’s. People know Tom, the press had written about Mr. Gaunt, a very important, if newer, member of the Wizengamot and of his son. So disposing of Tom doesn’t seem a likely option. Marvolo had never hurt Tom, in the year they’ve spent together. And part of Tom doesn’t think that will ever happen. The other part, however, is not so certain, so he doesn’t ask “or what?”

    “When you are afraid, your fears are broadcasted. I can grasp fragments of them even if your eyes are closed.”

    “I’m not afraid,” Tom insists, uselessly.

    “I don’t understand why you persist in trying to hide things from me. Did you believe I wouldn’t find out about the cat? Did you believe I wouldn’t let you have it, have you asked?”

    Tom isn’t sure. “You know then, about Snow?” he asks, remembering the beautiful white kitten, with its blue eyes and soft fur, how Tom had loved to run his fingers through it.

    “I do.”

    How? How can he possibly know? “Then you know about Billy’s rabbit,” he whispers.

    “Yes.”

    “I hung it,” Tom goes on, even if Marvolo knows. He wants to say it, out loud.

    “I know.”

    Should Tom speak further? Does Marvolo know how Tom had felt, besides the events themselves happening? If he doesn’t know, should Tom tell him? What would Marvolo think? But he wants so desperately to say it, to confess.

    “I wanted to cut it open. To leave it dead, on Billy.” The same way the older kids had killed Snow, Tom’s first real friend, on Tom’s bed, as he slept. The horror he’d felt, watching her limp, pathetic body, her blood still hot on Tom’s shirt-

    Billy had laughed, when Tom got punished for killing Snow, no one believed he hadn’t done it. Billy had been the one to tell the other kids Tom had a pet, hidden outside.

    “But I couldn’t,” he forces the words out. “I couldn’t bare it, to stick the knife inside. I didn’t want to see the blood.” The rabbit had looked at him with its black eyes, trusting. Animals always trusted Tom; they always liked him. And the rabbit had no clue as he was nuzzling Tom’s hand, that Tom was planning how to kill it. “Does that make me weak?” Tom had cried, when the rabbit’s neck snapped. Tom had run in the yard and vomited, dry heaved for hours.

    “You were very young,” Marvolo says. “You have to let these things go. Stop being so hard on yourself. “ He sounds frustrated. “I forgot how-” he stops. “How it is, to be a child. Not long from now, it won’t matter, your past. It will go away.”

    Tom has a sneaking suspicion it never will. But Marvolo should know better, right? He knows so much, after all. About life, about magic, about Tom.

    “Can I bring her inside?” he asks, shy.

    “May I,” Marvolo corrects. “And yes, you may.”

    “You like cats?” The question is impulsive, driven by curiosity. He still doesn’t know much about Marvolo.

    A long, heavy silence.

    “I used to.” More silence. “It’s in my past,” he says, with finality. “Things die, as I told you. No need to get attached. The cat I liked, died. I never got another.” A longer pause. “But you’ve got this one, now.” His voice gets that curious like quality, his eyes search Tom as if he’s a puzzle.

    Tom is still felling sick, all wrong and agitated so he pulls the wand from under his pillow, casting Lumos. He summons a third year textbook, the Hogwarts curriculum, from the shelves across the room but Marvolo catches it, extinguishes Tom’s wand with a flick of his wrist.

    “I can’t sleep right now,” Tom says, wary.

    Another book comes flying out of the shelf, straight in Marvolo’s hands, as some candles light, dimly.

    “Lie down,” Marvolo commands and Tom does, fear already forgotten, replaced by joy and surprise as an armchair appears out of thin air, for Marvolo to sit on, besides Tom’s bed.

    He can hardly believe it, he’s dreamed of this for months and it’s actually happening. The Tales of the Beedle the Bard is opened and Marvolo starts reading.

    "There were once three brothers who were travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight — "

    “It’s my favourite!” Tom whispers, so happy.

    Marvolo smirks. “I deduced. I wish I would have read it, when I was younger. Would have spared me a lot of trouble,” he says, almost to himself and then he keeps reading. Tom drifts off to sleep with the sound of Marvolo’s voice in his ears and nothing had ever felt so safe.

    Tom names the cat Morgana. Marvolo pretends she doesn’t exist. It’s an animals’s nature, to try and make itself liked, accepted. So Morgana tries her hardest, with Marvolo, who is so determined to reject her, he almost seems afraid of her.

Chapter Text

    Tom has his very first birthday party when he turns ten.

    It is a complete surprise. Mrs. Malfoy, dressed splendidly for the evening, takes Tom aside as soon as he and Marvolo step inside the Manor, leads him to a smaller dining room than the one in which the New Year is being celebrated. All the children are already gathered there; his usual entourage and a few others, sons and daughters of important people.

    Tom only understands what’s happening when he sees the cake, silver and white, with snakes made out of frosting slithering above it. For a second, he almost gets emotional, before he imagines Marvolo’s face upon learning Tom got that excited over a silly party. The thought helps his face remain neutral. The others sing happy birthday to Tom. He likes it, likes all those eyes focused on him, singing for him. He bends over the cake, when it’s over, eyes closed and blows his first ever birthday candle, makes his first birthday wish.

    Let Marvolo stay with me, forever, he asks the universe that had not been kind to Tom, for the first eight years of his life. But as he opens gifts, surrounded by a mountain of them, children clapping excitedly as he reveals them, Tom thinks he’s prepared to forgive it, all of it, if only he gets to keep Marvolo.

    It’s this mindset that allows him to give something in return, one of the gifts, to small Orion who is fascinated by a game of spinning tiny balls, chasing each other in the air. Tom feels generous. He enjoys the adoration that comes with it, when Orion looks at him with wide, innocent eyes, all happy.

    Tom can afford to not hoard things now-he has plenty. Whatever he needs, Marvolo provides, without Tom having to ask, most of the time.

    Once the cake is eaten, they join the adults in the ballroom, filled with the best people wizarding Britain has to offer. Even some foreigners are in attendance, Tom catches snippets of conversation in French and German as he mingles around, Abraxas at his side.

    “You are unreasonably cheery,” Marvolo remarks, shortly after midnight, when Tom is to retreat with Abraxas to the upper floor, to sleep.

    “Mrs. Malfoy organised a birthday party for me.”

    “So?”

    Tom shrugs. Marvolo narrows his eyes at the gesture so Tom resumes a stiff posture.

    “It was nice, is all.”

    “The whole world is celebrating your birthday,” Marvolo says and it’s Tom’s turn to narrow his eyes, because that’s exactly what he used to tell himself, back at Wool’s, watching the fireworks from the window in his room and pretending they were in his honour.

    “I got gifts,” he says, aiming for a casual tone. “I like gifts.” Tom also liked having so many people focused on him, wishing him a happy birthday, the thought Abraxas obviously put in the gift he gave to Tom, the way Walburga must have spent hours, to create her well wishes card. He likes that he matters as much to them that they’d go to all this trouble.

    Marvolo wouldn’t understand. Tom is burning to know, why the man despises birthdays so much, he refuses to acknowledge his own. Tom tried to find out, when Marvolo was born, to no success.

    Marvolo identity is fake, from his name to his glamoured eyes and the mask he wears in public, the charismatic, enchanting politician. Everything people know about him, is a lie. Marvolo’s wife and Tom’s mother had been called Bella. Marvolo’s father was Marvolo Gaunt. Marvolo and Tom had lived in Norway, without once being separated. At this rate, Tom searching for official documents to find a date of birth seems rather silly, since that too would most likely be a lie.

    Tom retreats to Abraxas’s room where an extra bed had appeared for him and he spends the night listening to Abraxas's soft, even breaths, thinking about Marvolo and the web of lies and deceit surrounding him, which Tom must find a way to penetrate.

    (-)

    No matter how Tom insists or what approach he takes, he’s still not aloud to read many of the books inside the library. It’s impossible to touch some interesting titles from the Black and Malfoy Manor, but Tom finally steals a tome from Knockturn Alley, as Walburga and Alphard distract the owner of the secluded bookshop.

    It’s a game for the others. They are not really interested in the knowledge, they just seek the thrill of doing something illegal and getting away with it. Even so, they all gather around the book, when Tom show it to them, back in the safety of Malfoy Manor.

    Spells of Destruction sounds interesting enough to attract everyone’s attention, but once they open it, they lose interest, because it’s far past their abilities to understand the intricate theories.

    It’s hard for Tom too, but he knows that once in the peace of his room, with his undivided attention, he’ll make sense of it.

    It’s doesn’t happen; Marvolo takes the book from him before Tom even reaches his room.

    “But you’re obviously a practitioner!” Tom complains, frustrated that he’s not allowed any access to dark magic.

    “Don’t whine. You’re always at your most childish after you return from spending time with your friends.”

    “I am a child,” Tom reminds him, exasperated. It's not that he doesn't like Marvolo treating him as an adult but sometimes it gets a little overwhelming when Marvolo expects things out of Tom that are unreasonable to demand of a ten year old.  “And don’t change the subject!” The red eyes flash. “Sir,” he ads, hastily.

    “Dark magic comes with a price,” Marvolo says, after he stares Tom down, until Tom averts his eyes. “You are far too young to pay it. It will destabilise you. Patience. When you’re old enough, you'll have the privilege of the greatest dark lord that ever was or will be, teaching you instead of stumbling your way through it, blindly, making mistakes that will come back to haunt you. I’d have killed, to have your fortune. So quit your whining and be grateful.”

    “Alright,” Tom accepts, mollified. “I apologise.”

    “Stop preten-”

    “I’m being honest!” Tom snaps. For a while now, only with Marvolo, Tom says 'thank you' or apologies only when he means it. But Marvolo refuses to believe him, always reminding Tom there’s no need to pretend. “I am! I just wanted an answer, sir, why you wouldn’t let me.”

    Marvolo grabs his chin and Tom shivers at the contact, melts into his fingers as he meets those red eyes. He can detect him now, inside his head, the tale tale signs.

    When Marvolo sees Tom is honest, he lets him go, a bewildered expression on his usually stony face.

    Morgana breaks a vase and the moment is over as Tom heads to repair it. He does it, wordlessly. It’s only the second time he does a spell without speaking out loud.

    “Good,” Marvolo comments and that is high praise coming from him.

    (-)

    When Marvolo has to travel he’s not left alone with Bitsy anymore. The Malfoys or Blacks are, in turn, very pleased to receive him.

    Tom watches the dynamic of a normal family. He’d done that on Diagon too, watching parents interacting with children. Of course, peasants on Diagon are very different for well bred, hight class nobility. And yet one thing remains the same. They are closer then what Tom experiences at his house.

    Arcturus Black is stiffer than most fathers Tom observed at Florean Fortescue. But he occasionally pats Orion’s back, ruffles his hair in an affectionate way. He even holds the boy in his lap, on occasion.

    Septimus Malfoy spoils Abraxas rotten. He plays Quidditch with his son and sometimes takes Abraxas along on business ventures. He also strikes Abraxas with a belt when he misbehaves more then usual. Besides crying and hiding for a day or two, Abraxas doesn’t seem to hate him for it. In private, at dinner, Abraxas calls Septimius “papa”.

    It’s not that Tom is jealous. He wouldn’t trade Marvolo for either of the other patriarchs. It’s just that- Tom wonders, why he’s never patted on the back, or held or played with. He wonders why he has to call Marvolo "sir". Is it Tom, that’s faulty in a way, something about him that repels intimate gestures ? But no, he doesn’t think so. Mrs. Malfoy always fawns over him, likes to kiss his cheek or hug him tight, to Tom’s increasing discomfort.

    Or is it Marvolo? Tom watches the older man’s interactions with other people like a hawk, trying to gauge if there’s anyone out there that Marvolo bestows affection on. To his relief, it doesn’t happen. Marvolo is far more polite in company. Friendlier. He smiles on occasion, when the social situation demands it, but even so Tom can see that he holds himself at a distance from others, like an invisible barrier that separates him from the world. Other people see it, too, the most observant ones, at least.

    There’s a camaraderie between Mr. Black and Mr. Malfoy, conversations that flow easily, without care for wording or appearances, when the two families are in private, at one of their residences. Tom notices all the relaxation fly out the window when Marvolo is present; they seem to choose their words carefully around him, sensing there are boundaries that should’t be crossed.

    Tom likes it very much, seeing Marvolo intimidating even men as important and powerful as Black and Malfoy. Likes to witness how silence falls, for a few seconds, when Marvolo enters a room; how everyone takes notice of him, either on the streets or at political events or official balls they have to attend.

    One day, Tom vows to himself, he’ll be just like that.

    At least Tom gets to refer to Marvolo as "father" in front of others. He has to. So he always finds ways to bring him up, just so he can say that word, out loud. It feels good.

    Tom saves his pocket money, spends on nothing, until he can afford an exquisite chess set, made of marble pieces, hand carved board with each square depicting an important magical historical event. He could have stolen the money, Abraxas is clueless with his, but he hadn’t wanted to, even if he’d have gotten the chess much sooner. However, he doesn’t want to spoil this gift, with theft.

    Marvolo eyes him suspiciously when Tom presents it. It’s starting to bother Tom, that all his attempts to get closer are met with mistrust. Marvolo is stubborn, as stubborn as Tom so he won’t be convinced. He’s forcing Tom to not be honest, to employ tactics that are back on par, after using them continuously on the other children and adults he meets.

    “I want to learn chess,” he says. “Gentlemen of high birth should know how to play.” And isn’t Tom brilliant? This isn’t a stupid insignificant game. It’s an intellectual pursuit. Marvolo can’t sneer at it.

    “You already know how to play chess,” Marvolo says and how does he know about the old muggle in the park, that had taught Tom.

    “Yes. But not very well. And certainly I have a lot to learn from playing with someone like you.”

    Out of reasons to reject him, after almost two years of living in the same house, they finally do something together, that doesn’t involve teaching and learning magic.

    Of course, Tom gets destroyed in less than five minutes. He’s angry about it, he could never deal with losing but then Marvolo laughs-his true, rare laugh, that he’d only heard once or twice, not the sinister one. It’s rich and deep and all at Tom’s expense, but Tom forgets his anger, upon hearing it, upon provoking such amusement.

    Marvolo doesn’t feel joy in his life. Tom knows very well, because that used to be him. But lately, Tom has moments of happiness and he’d like to give some back.

    It will be a long, hard, battle to accomplish it. Marvolo is even more resistant to good cheer then Tom used to be.

    (-)

    Tom’s potion is in good shape, an antidote for common poisons. At least Marvolo says so. It’s not like Tom is about to poison himself to see if it truly works, but he suspects that if he were to screw up a potion so simple, Marvolo might poison him.

    “What will I even do, at Hogwarts, if I already know all this?”

    “I’ve no doubt you’ll find ways to occupy your time. Observe those around you. Befriend the right people. Cultivate relationships with your peers.”

    Morgana jumps and settles on the armrest, beside Marvolo who absentmindedly pets her. Tom hides his smile.

    “Most are idiots,” he complains. He is accustomed now with the Blacks and Abraxas, almost enjoys them on occasion, but he’s met several other children, at gatherings Marvolo had taken him along and he hates them all. But Marvolo insists he makes himself liked, so Tom is forced to play nice. Sure, things happen on occasion. Someone trips on something that wasn’t there, something breaks, but no one traces it back to him. No one but Marvolo, but he doesn’t seem to mind it, as long as others don’t discover it.

    Tom finds his way into some jinxes. It’s Walburga that steals the book from her older cousin’s trunk. Not dark, per say, but they certainly have interesting results. When Tom comes home with horns poking out of his head, it takes Marvolo half an hour to find a way to reverse it.

    “What was it?” he barks, when they’re finally gone and Tom’s forehead is as smooth as always. “When you duel with those brats, you all make sure you know the counter spell as well, before casting.”

    “Only the winner gets to learn to counter jinx.” Tom is still fuming.

    “You lost ?” Marvolo’s surprised face would make Tom laugh if Tom wasn’t feeling so upset and ashamed.

    “Waly read it far more times than I did!” he says, defensive. “She knows a lot of jinxes because you won’t let me learn! And no, I didn’t lose! I conjured a snake and it put her down but she insists that’s cheating, because I’m a parselmouth, and would not give me the counter spell.”

    “Walburga Black, besting you in a duel. That’s-”

    “Your fault!” Tom insists.

    “I suppose it is,” Marvolo admits, and it throws Tom off.

    “Will you teach me then, some special jinxes?”

    “I don’t have the time nor the patience for childish things. You’ll teach yourself,” Marvolo declares, but at least he allows Tom access to some of the books in their library.

    Tom will never lose another duel.

    (-)

    “We’re going to Ollivanders today,” Marvolo says and he looks so animated for once, it’s as if he’s the one that just turned eleven.

    Tom clutches his wand tighter. He doesn’t want to give it up. They’ve bonded with each other, it answers to him perfectly. But it would be no use to push the issue. He gently puts it on the table, already missing it as soon as he departs from the room.

    He’s accustomed by now to side along apparition, it doesn’t bother Tom at all- in fact, he likes it, despite the stomach turning sensation, because it gives him an excuse to touch Marvolo.

    Once in the shop, he’s measured from all angles and after that is done with, he’s handed so many wands, he starts getting tired. None work as the one back home. Perhaps, for once, he can prove Marvolo wrong. The dragon heartstring is his true wand, after all.

    And then a wand that looks exactly like Marvolo’s, pale and long, is placed into his hand and Tom-

    He almost kneels over at the feeling. The connection is instant. Nothing ever felt as right. He looks up at Marvolo, in shock, who just smirks at him.

    “Very powerful wand, Mr. Gaunt,” Ollivander says. ”Yew and phoenix feather.” Tom knows Marvolo’s wand is made out of yew, as well. He wonders if it also has a phoenix feather. He was always told to mind his business, when he’d asked about it.

    Tom caresses the shiny wood, refuses to give it back to be wrapped in a box. He doesn’t want to let it out of his sight.

    “I require one as well, as it happens,” Marvolo says, getting tense. ”Mine just broke.”

    A lie. It’s in his pocket. But Ollivander doesn’t know that and he inquires about Marvolo’s supposed broken wand, hands Marvolo dozens of them, that he rejects as soon as touching. He’s not even trying, Tom thinks, frowning. He’d never seen Marvolo as tense.

    “I wonder-” The old man says, almost an hour later, a pensive expression on his face. He darts back behind the shleves and returns with an open package.

    Marvolo grabs the wand up before Ollivander even has time to offer it.

    “Yes,” he says, staring at the wand so hard his glamour fades for a second, the red shines through the brown eyes.

    “Curious-” Ollivander says, but Marvolo ignores him, handles the wand with caution.

    “What is curious?” Tom asks.

    “Your wand and your father’s, made of holly, they’re brother wands. Made from the two feathers of the same phoenix bird. Such a bond, such an unique bond the two of you must have.”

    Tom likes hearing that. Marvolo seems to be shaken out of the state he’s been in.

    He pays the man and they head straight to the house, where Marvolo promptly breaks the holly wand, sets it on fire too, for good measure. Tom yelps, offended to see a wand treated as such, especially since it was connected to his own-

    “Don’t get sentimental,” Marvolo says, and he’s suddenly so pleased, so cheery it gives Tom whiplash.

    He pulls out his own yew wand. “Our wands are much closer than that could have ever been.” He offers it and Tom takes it, shyly, because he was never allowed to touch it before.

    The connection is as instant as with the one one in his pocket. The wand thrums in his hand, recognising him as owner, instantly. There’s a dark undercurrent in it, a pull that Tom had not felt from any other wand so far.

    “Dark magic leaves traces,” Marvolo says, when Tom’s eyes grow wide at the feeling. “Wands have memories, of sorts. Yours is yet untrained. You can take it either way. But a wand like mine, that’s been used for dark magic, will never work as well for a non practitioner.”

    “Does it have a phoenix core?” Tom asks, even though he feels it does. “The same phoenix? But he said there were only two, and the holly wand-”

    Marvolo ignores him. “What did I tell you, two years ago?” he asks, smug. “Do you still prefer your old wand?”

    “No,” Tom admits, drawing his new one. He compares it with Marvolo’s, weighting both in his hand. Identical. “No,” he whispers again. “You were right.”

    One day, Tom will unravel all these little mysteries that keep piling up.

Chapter Text

    Hogwarts is breathtaking. Even Abraxas, who has already seen it in a visit, is wide eyed besides Tom in the boat.

    Albus Dumbledore waits for the first years at the head of the stairs. Be careful around him, Marvolo had said. The Deputy Headmaster is wearing bright colourful robes, clashing with his auburn hair and beard, his smile is wide, his blue eyes shine with merriment. He doesn't look as someone deserving a warning from a man such as Marvolo, but that only tells Tom that looks are deceiving. He leads them through the hallway towards a Great Hall with an enchanted ceiling, candles floating in the air, ghosts flying around everywhere. It’s beautiful, magical. If only there wouldn’t be so many children, Tom would like it even more.

    Everyone looks at the first years standing in line, as the Sorting Hat sings about the four Houses. Walburga waves at them, from the Slytherin table.

    Abraxas shuffles his feet, nervously. Tom had teased him throughout the summer that he’ll end up in Hufflepuff. He’s certain the other boy doesn’t believe it, but the pressure to end up in Slytherin is so great, Abraxas worries all the same. Tom had figured out that while Septimius might love his son, that love is very conditional and will be taken away if Abraxas doesn’t turn out a loyal copy of his father.

    “What would you think, if I don’t end up in Slytherin?” Tom asks Marvolo, a few nights before departing.

    “You are a Slytherin,” Marvolo answers, without looking up from his book. “Not just by blood; you’re the embodiment of ambitious and cunning.”

    “Yes, but what if?” Tom insists. Because he really likes reading, he craves knowledge and Ravenclaw doesn’t sound like a bad fit at all.

    “There is no point in wandering about “what if”.”

    “Still. What would you think?”

    Marvolo looks at him, finally. “You’ll be in Slytherin, where you belong.”

    Tom eyes the hat as Dumbledore lifts it and calls Alphard’s name. Silence has descended into the hall. The mudbloods are easy to spot in the line of first years, anxious and lost, huddled together. Lestrange sneers at them, a look of distaste on his face.

    “Slytherin!”

    Tom wouldn’t have been awfully surprised to see Alphard head to Gryffindor, rash as he is, but he joins his sister, in a row of applause from the silver and green table.

    Two Hufflepuffs and a Gryffindor later, his own name is called.

    It takes a grand total of three seconds. He sits, the hat is placed on his head, barely touching it-

    Welcome, Heir. “SLYTHERIN!”

    Now it’s easy to spot the purebloods, from ancient lines, that had recognised his surname. Older students from Slytherin stand to shake Tom’s hand as Walburga rolls her eyes and scoots over, making room for him to sit between her and her brother. Lestrange follows him and immediately after, a relived Abraxas. Nott goes to Ravenclaw after a sorting so long, people start to whisper.

    “His father will murder him,” Abraxas comments with glee.

    Nott’s father is an idiot if he hadn’t expected the boy to be in Ravenclaw. Tom met him a handful of times, during the last year and it was pretty obvious.

    The food is good, everything is perfect, only-

    Only it will be so long, before he sees Marvolo again. He’d come to drop Tom off, at the train station, and Tom had stood before him, surrounded by weeping parents hugging their children.

    “You’ll do very well,” was all Marvolo said and Tom climbed the stairs and stared out the window at him, until the train departed.

    What if he won’t want me anymore, come Christmas? Marvolo does enjoy his solitude, after all. Tom had done his hardest to dig himself a spot inside the man, and he’d somewhat succeeded, Marvolo had become more receptive to him, but now he’s going to be away for so many months and what if Marvolo decides he likes his life better without Tom in it?

    “Such an honour, to have you here!” Slughorn, his head of House, shakes his hand, down in the dungeons. Tom smiles at him, politely.

    “But don’t expect preferential treatment, you hear?”

    Tom expects just that, and not only from Slughorn, who strikes Tom as exactly the kind of man to treat people differently on account of status, judging by the way he takes his time to greet Alphard and Abraxas and Tom, while ignoring the less noble family names.

    Tom expects everyone to treat him as he should be treated-not only because of his lineage but because Tom is better, Slytherin’s blood in his veins or not.

    A Prefect leads the first year boys to their room and Tom picks his bed, without anyone trying to argue with him. They do bicker among themselves, over the other beds as Tom carefully unpacks his things and arranges his books neatly on his nightstand. When the excitement of the day catches up with them, they all quiet down.

    Tom misses the privacy back home already. He misses Atlas and Morgana-he’d briefly consider bringing her along, before deciding against it. He still carries with him the lesson Snow had taught him. It’s never a good idea to show others any weakness. And caring about someone or something makes one vulnerable.

    Most of all, he misses Marvolo -not just him, but the sense of security he’d provided. Tom is no longer safe, among so many people. He cannot afford to be relaxed anymore.

    (-)

    He does get terribly bored during classes as the weeks drag by. History of Magic is the most disappointing of all. Tom likes history, but Professor Binns is so old, the only exciting thing during the class is waiting for the man to drop dead. The Defence against Dark Arts professor looks like she’d been a force to behold, long before, and she’s still sharp enough to teach without putting students to sleep, but it’s stuff Tom already knows.

    Only Slughorn and Dumbledore notice just how bored Tom is, and they give him extra assignments to keep him somewhat interested in their subjects.

    Tom discovers a secret room, hidden under a trap in the Common Room fairly soon into the semester. It happens quite by accident. He likes showing off, answering the various snake sculptures in the dungeon that hiss at him and a trap just springs up from the floor. It’s not much-it’s empty and dusty but people are rightfully impressed by it, especially older students that threaten the rest to keep quiet about it, using it to stash several illegal commodities, from books to hard liquor. They depend on Tom to open it and close it and Tom indulges them, seeing the use of getting on the good side of the older boys.

    The constant company becomes tiring, very fast. He likes Alphard and Abraxas well enough, but it’s one thing to spend a day or two with them during the summer and quite another to have them around, all hours of the day. Eventually they catch on and give him his privacy. Walburga is harder to shake off, even when he outright tells her to get lost. At least they don’t share classes together.

    Even in the library, where the other first year Slytherins don’t follow him, there’s Nott ready to engage Tom in some debate or another.

    Tom writes to Marvolo obsessively and spends his days watching the sky, fearing there will be no answer. The fact that he always gets one, never alleviates his fears when the next is due. Marvolo is even more reserved in writing- his letters are short and stiff in contrasts with the long paragraphs Tom sends out every week, but as long as something comes, he’s alright with it.

    (-)

    “You’re probably aware that I am also a descendent of the founders,” Smith, a fourth year says, stoping Tom in the corridor leading to Herbology. “It’s good to have another heir around.” His voice is full of self importance.

    Tom keeps his face in a polite mask, hiding his sneer. Walburga is besides him and she doesn’t care how she’s perceived.

    “You’re not a real Heir, don’t be ridiculous.” She throws her long black locks over her shoulder. “You are so distantly related that I’d have the same right as you to call myself Hufflepuff’s Heir.” She makes a face. “Not that I’d want to, of course. Hufflepuff, really.” She scoffs and Tom sometimes hates that arrogant look on her face, the way she feels superior to everyone, even him on occasion, but he likes it well enough when it’s directed at this idiot.

    “Tom’s a true descendent, from the direct Slytherin line.” She holds up her head, very pleased with herself and marches on, shouldering Smith out of the way, even if she barely reaches his shoulder.

    “All the school will hate you soon, if you carry on like this,” Tom comments when he catches up with her.

    Walburga never keeps her opinions to herself, fast to voice them and pick on everyone she mislikes. And that’s almost everyone she encounters. Some of the Slytherins would like nothing better than to drown her in the Great Lake, if only she weren’t a Black, protected by her ancient name and her family’s fierce reputation.

    She shrugs. “Let them.”

    (-)

    Marvolo hadn’t expected Tom to return home for the winter break and he couldn’t be clearer about it.

    “Why didn’t you stay?” he asks when they’re just returned from King's Cross. Tom watches him hungrily, making sure nothing changed in his absence. “Surely, you like it there.”

    “I do.”

    “It’s your home-” Marvolo goes on.

    Tom cuts over him, harshly. “This is my home.”

    A long silence settles between them. Tom doesn’t back down, doesn’t look away.

    “Yes,” Marvolo says, mostly to himself, a while later. “Yes, of course it would be different.”

    “What would be different?”

    “Never you mind. Go change.”

    His room is clean, everything is in the same place as he’d left it. Both Atlas and Morgana are curled on the carpet in front of the fireplace, sleepy and content.

    Marvolo doesn’t seem to hate him, to Tom’s relief. He acts as he always does when Tom goes down for dinner, and after it he even offers a game of chess of his own volition, which has never happened before.

    “You should really meet Slughorn,” Tom says, pondering on his moves. “He’s a bit tiring in his flattery but he’s very well connected, seems to know everyone of importance in our world.”

    “You’re his crowning jewel. The Slytherin Heir.”

    “Oh, yes. He adores me already. He asked if you’ll be at the Malfoy’s charity ball, before Christmas. Said he’d really like to meet you.”

    “Should be amusing,” Marvolo nods and commands his bishop to destroy Tom’s horse. “Tell me about Dumbledore.”

    “He’s alright. Good teacher. Bleeding heart and all that, mudbloods’ Champion, and he definitely favours his lions over the rest of us, but to be honest I don’t understand your warning.”

    Dumbledore’s biggest sin is that he lets his Gryffindors get away with behaviours that he punishes if it were to come from Slytherins. Though, if Tom was honest, most of the times the Gryffindors truly are just trying to pull harmless pranks while some of the Slytherins...

    Still, Dumbledore should at least try to be impartial.

    “How does he treat you?”

    “Well, actually.” Tom is the wonder student and while Dumbledore doesn’t fawn over him like the rest of the staff, he’s always nice to Tom. “Abraxas and Lestrange got into a brawl with the Gryffindors and I had to pull them apart. We all ended up in Dumbledore’s office, even though it was clear I had done nothing wrong. After he was done with the others, he kept me longer to tell me he’s glad to see that I don’t let the fame get to my head.” He’d offered Tom a lemon sherbet candy. It was quite good. When Tom had said so, Dumbledore gifted him the whole bag. “He said I’m very gifted and studious and his office is always open if I have any curiosities. He too would like to meet you. Was impressed with your books and especially with your discovery of the twelfth use of dragon blood. He said he was working on it for around a decade and was just about to reach the same conclusion you published."

    Marvolo smirks. “He must have been so upset.”

    Dumbledore didn’t look upset. The man was always so nauseatingly kind and friendly.

    “Remember, he’s a great Legilimens. Never make eye contact.”

    “I won’t,” Tom assures him, once more, though he doubts a teacher would violate a student’s privacy that way. It’s illegal, in case morals wouldn’t stop the professor, and he does look like the kind to be stoped by such things. “Many people keep asking me about the Chamber of Secrets. Even Slughorn. I thought it was a myth, but even he seems to belie-”

    “It’s not a myth.” A true smile graces Marvolo’s thin lips.

    Tom drops his queen. She shrikes and scowls at him. “You mean to tell me it’s actually somewhere in Hogwarts? And all these teachers have no idea where? No one found it in the last one thousand years? “

    “Slytherin’s descendeds found it.”

    “Where?” How would Marvolo know, he doesn’t ask. Marvolo just knows things, Tom had long since accepted it.

    “That’s for you to discover.”

    (-)

    On the morning he turns twelve, the Daily Prophet is screaming about murder.

    Apparently the whole house of Potter was slaughtered during the night. The culprit is unknown and still at large. The Aurors are on high alert and there’s already speculation that this could be Grindelwald related, as the dark lord is becoming more and more active on the continent.

    “I urge you to remain calm. These rumours are unfounded and there is no proof that Grindelwald has any supporters in Britain, as of now. We will catch the responsible party-until we do, please contact the Ministry if you have any information.” Minister Fowley  is quoted, under a picture depicting him in his office.

    “Were they important people?” Tom asks, not having heard about the Potters, outside of some vague knowledge one of them invented a hair potion.

    “No,” Marvolo answers, turning the page and sipping his tea.

    Tom finds the Quidditch section and makes a note to write to Abraxas to let him know he owes Tom ten galleons, since the match had ended exactly how Tom predicted. There’s no need. An owl comes, not much later, and besides Abraxas’ gift for Tom, ten shiny gold coins rest besides it.

    During the day, more presents arrive. The one from Marvolo already awaits under the Christmas tree, but Tom saves it for last, because he always gives the best gifts.

    And indeed, the cloak is soft and shimmery, unlike any other Tom had ever seen, and he’d seen plenty invisibility cloaks in the Malfoy and Black Manors. This one is special, Tom feels it’s magic, strong and old.

    “You can not imagine, how precious that is. Never lose it. In fact, don’t take it out of the house, until you’re much older.”

    “I won’t,” Tom promises, running his fingers over the material.

    (-)

    Apparently the Potters had been a Gryffindor family throughout generations. The lions are more subdued, once the semester begins, especially since the youngest victim, Fleamont, had only graduated the year before and he’s still remembered by his friends.

    “Blood traitors, the lot.” Abraxas whispers to Tom. “Father says the world is better off without them.”

    “Even so, they were purebloods,” Alphard counters. “It’s scary someone killed off an entire family and they don’t know who did it or why.”

    “It’s not like we’re in danger.” Abraxas shrugs. “Our residences are safe, protected by magic so old no one could penetrate it. Father says so.”

    Tom isn’t worried either. He has Marvolo to keep him safe over the summer and Hogwarts is the safest place on earth.

    It’s a much discussed topic, for the next months. Tom searches for the Chamber of Secrets, to no success. He figures it’s most likely in the dungeons somewhere, but by the end of the year, he’s forced to accept it’s not there.

    To no one’s surprise, he gets top marks on all his exams.

    At the end of the first week of summer, Tom’s already done with all his homework.

    “I’m bored,” he complains over breakfast.

    “Read something,” Marvolo suggests.

    “I already read all we have that I am allowed. If you’d let me have the rest-”

    “No. Go spend time with your friends.”

    “I just got away from them. Besides, they bore me too, most of the time.”

    “Shocking.”

    Tom skims the newspaper as he eats, and there’s still a small article about the Potters.

    “Abraxas says Grindelwald must have killed them. Or his men.”

    “What do you believe?”

    “There’s no sign as of yet, from my understanding, that Grindelwald is active in Great Britain. Besides, the Potters would make poor targets, anyways. Purebloods, not heavily involved in politics, not amazingly rich. Why would he kill them?”

    “Dark lords kill for various reasons, not just the obvious ones.”

    Tom regards him closely. “What will happen when he eventually does make his way here? He seems to be gaining ground in Germany, every day a little more.”

    “He’ll be very surprised to find another dark lord waiting,” Marvolo answers with a little smirk.

    “Will you join forces?” After all, Marvolo and most other influential families from the Sacred Twenty Eight hate the muggles as much as Grindelwald seems to.

    “I will not share power.”

    Tom knows Marvolo doesn’t mean the public power he holds like his seat in the Wizengamot or his office at the Ministry.

    No, Tom suspects Marvolo holds a different kind of power, in the shadows.

    (-)

    Marvolo takes Tom to Paris, at the end of July. Tom loves it, even the Muggle side. He likes to experience the different foods, different fashion and architecture.

    The wizards are agitated , on edge and they regard foreigners with suspicion. Grindelwald’s revolution is clearly prospering in France. The British Minister, Fowley is still insisting the dark wizard is a minor threat, to the growing frustration of the public, but here the presence is hard to ignore.

    “For the Greater Good” graffiti shine on walls, in several languages.

    “The muggles seem weird, too,” Tom observes, when he convinces Marvolo to stop and eat at a caffe. French food is delicious. “I mean, weirder than usual. Tenser.”

    “War is coming,” Marvolo says, pushing a muggle newspaper towards Tom. “The German Chancellor,” he adds when Tom narrows his eyes at a photograph of someone named Adolf Hitler. He reads as he eats his croissant and indeed, the situation seems rather dire. Tom is happy about it. Let all the muggles suffer.

    (-)

    At Malfoy Manor, Tom finds a newly updated and detailed book in wizarding genealogy. His mother is there, though there is no date of death, just 1907 written under her name. His grandfather has his, just months after Tom knows Merope’s death had been.

    Marvolo is also written in, a single line descending just from Marvolo Gaunt I, with no mother. But Merope had a legitimate brother, Morfin, and if the book isn’t wrong- and it could be, seeing his mother has been dead for quite some time- the man is still alive.

    Tom peruses the whole tree, trying to find Marvolo’s true mother, because even if he pretends he’s Marvolo the First's  son, so he can have the Gaunt name, he’d told Tom, long ago, that he descends from Slytherin through his mother, in truth. Only Tom cannot find a plausible candidate.

    At the very end of the page, there's his own name, though of course Marvolo had to have his way and it’s “Thomas Marvolo Gaunt”, instead of Tom. To this day, Marvolo had not called Tom by his name, not even once.

     A shiver goes down his back, as he runs his fingers on the letters and traces the line back to Marvolo, back to his grandfather, his great grandfather, up and up all the way to Salazar Slytherin himself. He’d known, of course, he wears the locket around his neck all the time, but having it right there, black on white, available for everyone to see, able to trace his ancestors so far back, he who for the first years of his life hadn’t even know his own mother’s name, it’s quite something.

    (-)

    “I found out I have an uncle,” Tom says carefully as they both read in the gardens, Atlas and Morgana chasing a mouse Tom had conjured for them to play with.

    Just with those words, the atmosphere becomes tense.

    “Best forget about him,” Marvolo say, voice dangerously low. It’s a clear warning for Tom to drop it.

    He can’t. “Why? He’s family.”

    “He’s subhuman trash and you’ll never enquire about him again, you understand me?”

    “No.” Tom’s old anger is bubbling under the surface. “It’s not fair!” he continues, when Marvolo levels him with a glare. “You at least have to tell me why-”

    “I have to?”

    A shiver of fear travels up Tom’s spine, but he refuses to back down. However, he can rephrase it. “I mean-please, I’d like to know why I can’t meet him.”

    “Because I say so. That is reason enough.”

    “It’s not.” Tom’s really trying to keep his voice level, to be reasonable. But it’s hard. “I want to know about my mother, too. I want to know more and surely you can understand that-”

    “You want to know about your mother?” Marvolo stands and he’s really angry, Tom can see it in his eyes. He always responded very badly, throughout the years, whenever Tom attempted to bring her up. “Your mother was a stupid, weak girl that chose death over m-you. Morfin has one brain cell that bounces around his deformed skull. Useless wastes of oxygen, the whole lot of them. I worked hard to bring glory to the Gaunt name after they trashed it through the mud during the last centuries and you’re forbidden to talk about them, ask about them, think about them. Do not test me, child. You will not like the results.”

    He storms off, leaving Atlas hissing angrily after him. Tom clenches his jaw, squeezes the book tightly, trying to control his anger, turn it into a cold determination.

    This time, he swears to himself, Marvolo will not have the last word.

Chapter Text

    Germany invades Poland as Tom is abroad the Hogwarts express. He sits in a compartment shared with the Blacks, Abraxas and Lestrange and stares out the window, ignoring the others.

    Bitsy was the one to drop Tom off at Diagon Alley, early in the morning. From there, he made his way to King’s Cross, alone. As he was forced to use muggle transportation and be surrounded by the animals, he realised Marvolo wouldn’t even care he’d left on his own.

    They haven’t spoken in almost a week, since their fight in the garden. Though, to call it a fight only overestimates Tom’s involvement in it. To have a fight, Tom would have had to fight back and he hadn’t.

    But he will. It’s so frustrating the way he’s dismissed, without a reason. Unjust. He deserves to know these things. They concern him directly. He’d given Marvolo plenty of chances to answer Tom's questions, over the years, had said and done nothing when he was constantly rejected. No more.

    He focuses on his surroundings once they arrive at Hogwarts, feeds off the misery and anguish coming from the mudbloods, when news of the Muggle war starts spreading.

    Dumbledore addresses it with permission from Dippet, who clearly can’t be bothered to learn enough about Muggles to make a speech about it. Dumbledore talks of hope and courage and all sort or platitudes.

    “Look at it crying. How embarrassing,” Walburga sneers at the Gryffindor Prefect, a pale girl shaking in the arms of a friend.

    “Clutching at their stupid necklaces with that lad pinned to the cross,” Abraxas shakes his head.

    “Crucifixes,” Tom corrects, instinctively. “The man is Jesus.” He still has nightmares, on occasion, the priest and his crucifix. Tom still knows the Bible by heart.

    “Why do they even need magic, if they have their precious god?” Abraxas hates muggle religion, since he lost some family members during the Inquisition, burned at the stake. Of course, that was hundreds of years before, so it’s nothing to the hate Tom holds against the Church.

    “Watch this,” he says, recklessly. He stares at the Hufflepuff table, where a golden cross shines proudly on an older’s boy chest. Tom’s been raging for a week now, more and more everyday, so it’s as easy as breathing, to manifest it, even if his wand is untouched, in his robe pocket. The crucifix catches fire- the boy yells, and he’s not the only one, as people around him notice.

    “Merlin!” Abraxas eyes widen.

    “Act normal, you idiot!” Alphard admonishes Abraxas, though he sends Tom impressed looks.

    The teachers make a superficial effort to find the culprit. Of course, everyone’s first choice is Slytherins, but they are focused on the older students.

    “It wasn’t me!” Mulciber, a fourth year yells at Dumbledore. “But maybe they shouldn’t carry that thing around, anyways. Isn’t it enough they robbed us of Yule and Samhain, rebranded them and change them to suit their christian sensibilities? What’s next, we’ll have to bow to their god soon?”

    “Now, now. Settle down. Detention, Mulciber,” Slughorn intervenes, sending him to the dungeons.

    Later, when they’re all in the Common Room, when no one comes forward, Vaisey takes credit for it, winning applause and pats on the back. Tom elbows Abraxas when the other seems ready to speak and correct them.

    “But how did you do it?” Alphard asks, in their dorm room. “Your hands were on the table-

    “I don’t need a wand to use magic, obviously,” Tom boasts, though that is a very big stretch. It was easy to do it, as a child, but once he got a wand, Tom hardly ever is capable of doing magic without it. But the others don’t know that and Tom sees no need to inform them. He quite likes the awe struck looks he receives.

    He draws the curtains around his bed and opens his locket, to look at his mother. He does that, from time to time.

    From all Marvolo said, what bothered Tom the most was the way he’d spoken about Merope.

    (-)

    “Professor, I was wondering-” Tom starts but trails off, going for a shy boy impersonation. He bites his lip and looks down, waiting for it.

    “Go on, Tom,” Slughorn encourages, very predictably.

    Tom had offered to help him rearrange the potions cabinets. He doesn’t even mind, even if he only wanted an excuse to talk to the man in private, without seeming as if Tom is looking for one-on-one time. The cabinets are in a state of disarray, ingredients and books all over the place and Tom cannot stand it, every class he goes to collect ingredients, it drives him mad to see it so out of order. He makes sure to label everything precisely, to arrange the vials and ingredients in alphabetical order.

    “It’s just that you know everybody, sir,” he goes on. “And I was wondering, if you’d met any of my family members? Besides my father, that is.”

    “I’m afraid not, Tom. You’re the first Gaunt we've seen at Hogwarts in many generations.”

    “I know,” Tom says, disappointed. “I was hoping perhaps you’ve met them outside the school.”

    “Can’t say I have.” Slughron scratches at his beard. “But I heard, long ago, rumours that the Gaunt family had fallen into -ah-well, that they kept to themselves.”

    “I see.” Tom’s interest is picked. “I know I have an uncle. Morfin. Father doesn’t seem to enjoy talking about his brother so I don’t push him. But I’m curious, sometimes.”

    “I don’t know anything about a Morfin, but I did hear about your grandfather. I think he was arrested, long ago. Something about a disagreement with Ministry officials.”

    Tom has more questions then ever. Why can’t Marvolo just answer them, why is he so tight lipped?

    “Ah, Tom.” There’s something like pity in Slughron’s voice as he slaps Tom on the back and Tom feels the desire to curse him. “Don’t look so sad. It’s true that they had a bad reputation, people said they’re almost squibs and living in poverty but look at your father! Such a great wizard, he’s doing so much for our Ministry! And look at you! I’ve never met a student as talented and intelligent! No one will question the greatness of House Gaunt now, I assure you.”

    Squibs? Poor?

    “Thank you, sir.”

    Tom arranges his face in a pleasant smile, turns his back to Slughron and keeps labelling potion vials.

    (-)

    “You’ve been a bit distracted, for a couple of weeks now,” Walburga says, lounging on a couch in the Common Room.

    “Perhaps because I’m constantly asked to write other people’s homework,” Tom says, crossing out an entire section in her Arithmancy essay. “In subjects I’m not even taking yet.”

    “Please, you love showing your big brains off.” She waves it away. “And I hate Arithmancy.”

    “Why did you chose it, if that’s the case?”

    “Because my parents made me take one elective. Ancient Runes sounds even worse, I hate animals so Care is out and that left me with Muggle studies or Arithmancy. So here we are.”

    “You got all of it wrong.” Tom banishes the entire parchment. “I’ll just write the whole thing over.”

    He actually needs her book and notes to do it, since it’s not a subject he’d studied before, only with a passing interest. He might complain but he likes the challenge.

    “My question stands, even if you tried to change the subject.”

    “There was no question.”

    “What’s going on with you?”

    Tom ignores her, opening the book and starting the easy anew.

    Once word spreads out among the Slytherins that not only is he the best in his year but very accomplished in subjects more advanced, more and more people ask him if he’d be willing to help them out. Tom does, because it gives him something to do, it increase his already growing reputation as a genius and most importantly, all these people will owe him favours. If he’d been poor, it would be an easy way to make money.

    It strikes him that had Marvolo not shown up and Tom would have come to Hogwarts a nobody, an orphan, he would be making money this way. Or perhaps he’d have stolen. He’ll never know, because Marvolo did come.

    Tom is the Heir of Slytherin, he's rich and popular, he doesn’t need to worry about returning to London in what is quickly becoming a world wide war because Marvolo had come for him.

    His resentment wanes but Tom is stubborn and refuses to let it go. He reminds himself that sure, Marvolo came for him but only after eight years.

    Even as he repeats that to himself, his mind doesn't want to accept it, doesn’t feel comfortable at all acknowledging that Marvolo had, in fact, abandoned him, just like the rest of his family, even if he had a change of heart later.

    Perhaps he hadn’t known. That feels easier to stomach. Yes, perhaps Marvolo hadn’t known Merope was pregnant. Or perhaps he’d known but couldn’t find Tom, perhaps he’d searched relentlessly for him, until he found him.

    Of course, Tom cannot know because the man refuses to tell him anything. Tom doesn’t understand how Marvolo can’t grasp how important it is for Tom, to learn what had happened, how he’d ended up in an orphanage.

    For the first years of their cohabitation, Tom had been so happy to be out of Wool’s, so excited and immersed in discovering a new world , so thankful that he’d forced himself to let it be, told himself Marvolo will tell him eventually.

    Not only Marvolo keeps his silence but now he’s forbidding Tom to find out on his own. It won't do.

    And even if it feels wrong to go against Marvolo, even if it comes with some fear, Tom asks Mulciber, who’s father also works in the Ministry, if he can find an address for Morfin Gaunt. Mulciber can hardly say no. Tom helps him with his homework, tutors him in Defence and opens the trap door for Mulciber’s contraband.

    “Sure thing, Tom. I’ll write to father right away.”

    (-)

    The owl comes just as he’s finishing breakfast, not a week after his conversation with Mulciber. It’s Marvolo’s owl and Tom’s heart flutters in his chest, swells with emotion because he’d so missed him, the lack of contact had been growing heavier on his mind, and thrice since he came to Hogwarts Tom had written letters and burned them just seconds after finishing them, refusing to be the one to initiate contact , when he’d done nothing wrong.

    He deflates when he opens the envelope. A single word, on an otherwise blank parchment.

    Desist.

    “Tom?” Alphard’s voice barely reaches him through the ringing in his ears. “Tom-”

    “What?” he snarls and looks up to see several people watching him. The table is trembling slightly, the silverware clanking against each other.

    Knowing it’s impossible to control himself, Tom grabs his bag and leaves the Great Hall before all his magic rushes out and gets him in trouble.

    (-)

    “Father says he can’t find anything,” Mulciber says, some days later, looking perplexed. “Which is very odd, he’s-”

    “That’s fine.” Tom cuts over him. Marvolo has a very long reach, Tom always knew, even larger than he'd anticipated, if he heard about this so fast. “It wasn’t really that important.”

    Tom is so angry he can’t sleep. He’s bursting with emotion, all consuming; it only mounts as the days pass and finally Tom snaps.

    He is hurting and Marvolo needs to hurt as well. Because no one, no one is allowed to make Tom feel this way, not even the man Tom cherishes above all things. And there’s only one way to accomplish that, just one option available to Tom to push back against someone so powerful.

    “Come in, Tom.” Dumbledore looks tired as Tom enters his office. The newspaper on his desk is screaming about the Soviets and Germans and worrying escalations. Good. Tom hopes all the muggles die in the war.

    “How can I help you?” the Professor asks, and tired as he is, he smiles at Tom in that obnoxious kindly manner of his.

    Tom still can’t figure out why Marvolo hates this man so much, why all the caution. But it’s the only vague weakness he’d shown to Tom, in the four years they lived together, the only subject to make Marvolo visibly uncomfortable, besides Merope. So he will use it.

    “Sir, Professor Slughorn is away-” he starts and trails off. He’d waited for his head of house to leave on his monthly run to buy ingredients.

    “I’d be glad to assist you in his place,” Dumbledore assures him.

    “I stumbled upon a secret room of sorts, sir. In our Common Room,” Tom says. He makes sure to never meet Dumbledore’s eyes, instead fixing his gaze on Dumbledore’s abnormally large nose. “I don’t think it’s the Chamber of Secrets, but I didn’t look too closely, in case it’s dangerous. However I did open it and I think it’s prudent a teacher examines it, sir. In case -I don’t know-”

    Dumbledore is already standing. “Lead the way.”

    It’s odd having a Gryffindor in the Common Room. Nott and a handful of other Ravenclaws are often found there, but that’s because their families are Slytherin, siblings still at Hogwarts. A Gryffindor is something else entirely.

    The Common room is empty, Tom made sure of it, letting them know in advance, asking everyone to retrieve whatever had been stored under the trap door.

    He hisses at the trap to open and Dumbledore stares at him, curious.

    “Fascinating.” They lower themselves inside it, Dumbledore first, wand at the ready. “An unique gift. And so rare,” Dumbelodre continues, as he examines the small room, hunching slightly to move around.

    “I’m glad you think so. Most of your students seem to think it a curse, a mark of evil,” Tom comments, innocently.

    It makes plenty of people uncomfortable and Tom relishes in it, conjuring snakes in the courtyard and hissing at them where he’s sure the idiots can hear him. It gives him immense pleasure to see the fear in their eyes, even if he never commands the snakes to attack or scare anyone, in anyway.

    Dumbledore sighs. “Prejudice is hard to unlearn. People fear what they cannot understand.”

    “Yes, sir. I figured.”

    “This is quite remarkable,” Dumbledore says when they’re out of the secret room. “As far as I am aware, no one knew of its existence, before now.” He smiles at Tom. “Well, I’m sure other Heirs discovered it, but if they did, they didn’t come forward with the information, not to the staff, at least. Not very Slytherin of you, Tom. You surprised me, I must admit.”

    “It was the responsible thing to do, Professor. My father always says safety comes over anything else.” Marvolo says no such things, but it sounds like something a father should say.

    “A wise man, your father.”

    “If I may say so, perhaps your students aren’t the only ones with a preconceived notion of how Slytherins should be. We’re not all irresponsible and sneaky and self centred.”

    Dumbledore looks taken aback, for a second.

    “I apologise-” Tom says, slowly, though he knows Dumbledore won’t reprimand him. If Tom was in his place and a twelve year old had mouthed off to him, he wouldn’t react well but Dumbledore is made a different way.

    His smile is there again, if a little sadder. “No need, Tom. You are right. We are all still learning, as long as we live. House rivalries stay with us for longer than I’d imagined, it seems.”

    As well they should. Dumbledore is exactly right in thinking Slytherins are, as a general rule, sneaky and self centred. But he’s wrong in thinking what Tom had just done is anything but that. It’s a very Slytherin thing to do, finding a way to lash out at someone and having others think it the right thing to do.

    Dippet is called and a score of other teachers and ministry men are paraded through the Common Room. Tom is given a special award, for services to the school and his name will be added in the next edition of Hogwarts, A History, crediting him with the discovery.

    Slughorn is strutting around the place, so proud one would think he’s the one to have found the room.

    There is no news from Marvolo. After the gossip fades down, along with Tom’s satisfaction of knowing he did something that sent Marvolo in a rage, he starts to feel guilty.

    He doesn’t care for this feeling, at all. The fear is even worse, as December is upon them. Had he went too far? He starts writing letters again, long and full of explanations and apologies. He burns every single one, unsatisfied, feeling more anxious after each.

    Eventually, in the middle of December, with just one week left before the term ends, he sends out just a short sentence.

    May I return home for the holidays?

    His answers comes through Abraxas, two days later.

    “Father wrote to say he’ll pick us both up from the station.”

    (-)

    Walburga watches him with something akin to concern as the train nears Kings Cross. She’s the most observant out of all his companions. But Tom is such a mess, even Abraxas asks him if something is amiss.

    The guilt and fear had only grown and they mixed until they’ve evolved in pure terror. He can’t even eat, once at Malfoy Manor and that never happened in his life. No matter what hardship he’d faced, during his life, Tom had always, without fail, valued his food. But now his stomach is all in knots.

    When Bitsy shows up, shortly after sundown, Tom’s heart is beating so hard under his ribs it’s painful.

    “Master awaits in the library,” Bitsy tells him once they Apparate inside the house.

    Marvolo has his back to Tom, when he enters the room.

    “Hello,” Tom says and his voice comes out rough and shaky. It seems to him an eternity passes before Marvolo turns to face him. Even with all the dread, it takes Tom’s breath away to see him. He missed him so much, he’s all Tom has, the man Tom works hard to become, one day. He’s the only one Tom respects and loves and it hurts so much Marvolo doesn’t return any of those feelings.

    “You went to Dumbledore." Marvolo’s voice is flat and cold, his red eyes piercing.

    And it doesn’t matter anymore, that Tom’s been wronged, that he has a right to know about his past and his family. Marvolo is his family and the past doesn’t matter so much, he decides. Only the future. And Marvolo is Tom’s future.

    “I’m sorry!” Tom says, honestly and his voice shakes even more. “I was-I-” Marvolo hates talk of feelings, but Tom forces the words out. “I was so upset and hurt so-” Tom stammers, his heart went past slamming against his chest and is now fluttering in his throat. “I shouldn’t have, I know that. But it doesn’t matter-not really, it was just a stupid room, nothing of importance and now Dumbledore thinks I’m this naive little fool with rainbows in my heart and won’t look twice at me when his Gryffindors take the occasional tumble down the stairs and-”

    Marvolo steps towards him and Tom closes his mouth. He grabs Tom’s chin, lifts his face up. As always, Tom is so starved for his touch, he leans into him, instinctively. He feels Marvolo in his head and Tom’s been reading on Occlumency, had nicked the book from the trap room before he asked the other students to clear it and had been making efforts to consolidate his mental shields. They spring up, defensive.

    With a sharp pain, Marvolo easily bypasses them. Tom doesn’t fight it, waits patiently, standing prone, meeting the red eyes without blinking. When he’s let go, the atmosphere in the room grows less tense.

    Marvolo pours himself a glass of firewhiskey. He rarely drinks, unless at social gatherings. He sits, beside the fireplace and after a second indicates Tom should sit in front of him.

    “You cannot comprehend the shock of receiving a letter from that old goat, singing you praise.” There’s a very slight smile on Marvolo’s pale face and all the tension dissipates completely.

    Tom burns with curiosity. There’s something different, deeper, going on with Marvolo’s hatred of Dumbledore, more than just opposed political views.

    “Praising me, as well. How well I raised you. What a good boy you are,” he snorts, a very unusual sight for a man so elegant.

    “I am a good boy,” Tom says, daring to smile, so happy Marvolo seems to have gotten over his upset.

    “You’re an ungrateful terror.”

    Tom shifts in his seat. “I am grateful, I am-”

    Marvolo lifts a hand to silence him. “It wasn’t a reproach. I expect you to be vengeful and petty. Though i do suggest you don’t try it with me again.”

    “I won’t,” Tom swears. “I promise.”

    Marvolo regards him, his eyes roaming over Tom’s face. “We shall see.”

    “Do you forgive me?” Tom asks, so quietly it’s a wonder he’s heard.

    Marvolo tilts his head to the side, still watching Tom attentively. “ We’re much alike,” he says and Tom loves hearing that. It’s all he wants, to be like Marvolo. “I too do not like information being withheld from me. I react impulsively at any perceived slight. My first instinct is to hurt. I punish those that try to hurt me. However, you’re a child, all -” He makes a vague gesture with his hand towards Tom as if hoping that suffices to describe what Tom is. “Hormonal,” he decides. “So I will let this transgression go. It’s fine.”

    Tom nods, relived.

    “I will teach you Occlumency. You’re doing good, but practical approach is a faster, better way to learn it. You have an innate talent for Legilimency, you were always able to tell when you are being lied to but there is much room for improvement .”

    He does just that, sitting down with Tom and asking him to forget all the theories he read in books about the subjects, as he teaches Tom a different technique.

    “May I come along?” Tom asks when Marvolo says he’ll be away for a few days.

    Marvolo regards him, considering. “I shall be very busy.”

    “That’s fine, you know I won’t bother you.”

    So they go to northern Scotland together. Marvolo books a room at a Muggle Hotel, which is a little surprising, but Tom doesn’t question it. He doesn’t wander far from the hotel, during the day, as Marvolo is away. The muggles are testy; rations were announced to be starting, come January, so food markets are empty, the people trying to stockpile it.

    Tom is no stranger to theft, nor to thieves. He is one and he’d been surrounded by them, growing up in London, so he can see even decent people, or as decent as muggles can get, are more easily tempted these days. He keeps to himself, visitings parks and reading. On a whim, he goes into a bookstore and he gets some books. Knowledge is knowledge, even if imparted by muggles. He hides them from Marvolo, though he knows is mostly an useless effort, to try to keep things from him.

    Marvolo comes to their hotel room rarely, at late hours of the night but he stays long enough in the morning to drink his tea with Tom. The night before they are set to depart for England, he returns injured.

    Tom senses it instantly, even though there is no visible sign, but he studied Marvolo so carefully over the years, he can tell when his demeanour is different. There’s a stiffness in the way he moves, towards the bathroom, a tension in his jaw. Tom gets out of bed and follows him.

    “Go back to sleep.” The bathroom door closes before Tom can even reach it.

    As if Tom could sleep. He frets outside the bathroom door, paces back and forth. Eventually, he sits and supports his back on the wall, reassured by the constant flow of magic coming from the bathroom or the sound of a potion vial opening. He closes his eyes. Just for a second-

    When he opens them, he’s in his bed. He jumps up, panicked, only to see Marvolo sitting in an armchair, by a fireplace, reading one of Tom’s muggle books.

    “You’re alright,” Tom half declares, half asks.

    “I told you I’m immortal,” Marvolo says. “I will always be alright.”

    “Who hurt you?”

    A terrifying smile, that Tom really likes even if it makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand out.

    “They are no longer amongst us.”

    Tom nods. “Good.” He hopes they suffered, before they died. No one should even look at Marvolo, let alone cause him any injury. “How are you immortal, exactly?”

    Tom has the impression it is a taboo subject in the wizarding world. No one talks about it, he can’t find any books on the subject and when he brought it up, in passing, with a fake casualness, he’s been told there is no such thing.

    “You will learn eventually, I expect.”

    “There are no books about it,” Tom insists.

    “There are.” Marvolo smiles again, less terrifying. “It will be a while before you get your hands on them.”

    Tom gives up. One more thing he has to find on his own, even though it would be so easy for Marvolo to just say it. But Marvolo doesn’t like anything to be easy.

    They return to England on Tom’s birthday. He receives more gifts then ever, what with his popularity increasing.

    “At least tell me when your birthday is,” he asks of Marvolo. “I’d like to give you a gift.”

    “I do not need gifts.”

    Don’t get mad. Don’t get mad. “I didn’t say you need them. I said I would like to give one to you.”

    “Then you are free to do so. Gifts can be given not just on one’s birthday.”

    In fact, Marvolo’s wearing the scarf Tom had given to him for Christmas. Tom likes it very much, seeing him wear something that Tom had chosen. It satisfies something inside him, that desire to claim Marvolo for his own, have the whole world see it.

    “Can’t you just tell me?”

    Marvolo looks at him again, with that pensive way of his. He’s quite like Dumbledore in that manner, with the unsettling way they both can stare at someone, as if they know everything there is to know.

    “Today.”

    “What?”

    “My birthday. It is today.”

    Tom rolls his eyes, sighting. “Fine. Don’t tell me.” It’s just how Marvolo is, he repeats to himself. No need to get upset.

    The rest of the term goes by in a blur. Tom excels in his classes, the Chamber of Secret remains elusive and his housemates continue to amuse him and annoy him, in turns. Tom likes Hogwarts, very much. But he always wants to return home, to Marvolo.

    (-)

    Contrary to popular belief, snakes don’t like heat much. Tom watches Atlas at the start of an unusually hot summer, as he slithers around, restlessly, alternating between finding a hot rock and then seeking shade, to regulate it’s body temperature. He hisses his displeasure as he returns to Tom’s spot under the tree, frequently.

    “Too hot. Not good for him. Move him with us,” Atlas says, hiding under a shelter Tom made for him.

    Tom smiles, watching Marvolo resting under the full glare of the sun. Marvolo never says so, but he’s constantly cold, always seeking warmth, whether glued to a fireplace or spending time out in summer days.

    “He’ll be fine,” Tom assures him.

    Atlas hisses once more and curls around himself. The snake views Marvolo and Tom as particularly inept reptiles. He often complains they don’t know how to hunt, that Tom shouldn’t eat fruits, that they spend too much time either in the sun (Marvolo) or in the shadows (Tom). There had been many offerings of dead rats left on their doorstep, by both Atlas and Morgana, whom Tom cannot speak with, but assume she too views them as a strange, stupid breed of cats.

    “He should look for a mate,” Atlas advises. “It’s time.”

    Tom frowns. He knows mating season has started for snakes, but he’s surprised how the suggestion instantly irritates him. He’s revolted by even thinking about Marvolo finding someone. He ponders why Marvolo doesn’t seem to have someone in his life, though. Tom is happy about it and wants it to remain so, but it is odd, isn’t it? He’s a handsome, rich, powerful man. Most of those are involved in some type of relationships with women.

    “Are you sleeping?” he asks, loud enough to be heard over the lawn.

    “You should know by now when someone is awake or not,” Marvolo answers, though he keeps his tone low.

    Tom is fully aware, he can never be fooled by people pretending to sleep or feigning unconsciousness, not when this skill was very necessary when he stole things back in London, from his fellow orphans or drunks passed out on the street. Besides, Marvolo almost never sleeps.

    Marvolo opens his eyes and looks at Tom. “What do you want?”

    “I was wondering, about Durmstrang. What electives you had there, the general curriculum.” Tom had choses all electives available at Hogwarts, to Slughron’s great delight. Apparently the last student to go for all of them had been Dumbledore.

    “It’s similar to Hogwarts, offers the same electives. With the notable choice of Dark Arts, of course, that they allow for students over sixteen. They’ve just introduce Divination, too.”

    “Divination? Really? What, tea leaves and crystal globes?” Tom asks.

    “It wasn’t taught during my time.”

    “Waly goes on about it. Insists on reading our teacups.” Tom rolls his eyes. “What a joke. She seems sensible enough and then she goes on with things like these, as if anyone with a brain can believe in prophecies and other nonsense.”

    Marvolo tenses up, for a second. And then he starts laughing. It startles Tom, because while in very rare occasions Marvolo displays true amusement, this is by far the most obvious he’s been about it. It looks a little hysterical, because he can’t seem to stop.

    “What?” Tom asks, smiling himself, because it does something inside him, hearing Marvolo laugh.

    It takes a minute or so for Marvolo to compose himself and become his usual emotionless self.

    “Centaurs are, on occasion, a somewhat reliable source.”

    “They’re disturbing,” Tom wrinkles his nose. He’s met some, in the forbidden forest, but they didn’t seem to like him and the sentiment was mutual. “Intelligent, though. I didn’t expect that.”

    “Proud creatures. Watch your mouth with them.”

    “I’m really liking Ancient Runes,” Tom declares, getting a head start on the subject, reading in advance. “I think it’s the best, so far.”

    “Incompetent teacher,” Marvolo says. How would he know, Tom doesn’t bother to ask. “You’ll be disappointed.”

    “Most my teachers are incompetent.” Tom shrugs. Except Dumbledore and Slughorn, but he knows better than to say that out loud. “I learn by myself, as you know. Or what you deign to show me.”

    Marvolo ignores the last sentence and the slight reproach it was coloured with. Outside of mind arts, Marvolo still refuses to teach him anything.

    “Runes are a very reliable form of magic. Efficient and precise. It was my favourite subject as well.”

    Tom smiles, files it away, adding one more piece to the Marvolo puzzle he’s trying to solve. It’s a small victory, every time he learns something about him, especially when the information is given voluntarily.

    “Britain had long since given up on using runes to their maximum potential, but other countries rely heavily upon them.”

    Tom knows that Marvolo did extensive travelling. He must know so many things; he says he will show Tom, once Tom grows older. Tom refrains from saying he’s thirteen, he’s old enough, because he realises how childish that sounds.

    “What was your least favourite subject?”

    “Transfiguration.”

    Tom frowns. Transfiguration is an interesting subject, useful too. Complex. Marvolo is extremely good at it, he can wave a hand over a rock and turn it into a comfortable lounge chair, like the one he’s sitting on, and often performs feats so advanced, Tom is certain Dumbledore would be floored to witness them .

    “How come?”

    “Terrible teacher,” Marvolo sneers, eyes flashing.

    “Ah, alright. I guess I got lucky in this department.”

    There’s something like a groan coming from Marvolo before he stands, finally, after hours on end of just laying under the sun. Tom doesn’t know how he doesn’t melt, especially clad in all that black. He’s not using a cooling charm, either.

    “I shall leave the day after tomorrow. It is possible I do not return for more than a week.”

    “May I join you?”

    “You may not.”

    “I behaved in Scotland, didn’t I?” Tom counters, getting angry to be deprived of Marvolo so soon after returning from Hogwarts.

    “This trip is more- demanding, shall I say. It would be unwise and unfruitful to have a child around. Do not argue it,” he adds, when Tom opens his mouth again. “You’re staying here, or you may go to the Black or Malfoy Manor, though I cannot fathom why you’d want to.”

    Tom does go to Abraxas, but after three days the other boy starts to annoy him, as Abraxas is prone to do, given enough time, so he returns home where no one can interfere with his studies.

    It’s been many years, since he’d been left on his own. After he turned nine, Marvolo always dropped him off to someone else. And before that, Tom had been too scared to disobey. “Don’t enter my quarters or the dungeons,” Marvolo had said, so many years ago.

    Tom is not eight, any longer. There’s still some trepidation, but he does go. However, when he gets in front of Marvolo’s room he’s sure he will not be able to enter, he feels the many layers of curses and protective magic hovering over the door. He takes out his wand and tries to guess at what they could be, but even as arrogant as he is Tom understands he is no match for Marvolo. So he leaves it be.

    However, when nine days had passed and there is no sign of the older man, he starts to worry. He can’t sleep, consumed by dark thoughts. What if Marvolo got really injured? What if he did die, despite all his claims of immortality. What if he just doesn’t want to return, got sick of Tom. And there is nothing Tom can do about it, no way to reach him.

    That is when the ideas comes to him. Surely, the wards will trigger something, will somehow let Marvolo know they have been messed with and he should return home.

    Fully prepared to suffer some great deal of pain, Tom takes a big breath and simply touches the doorknob, turns it-

    The door opens. Just like that. How can that be? He enters the room, that not even Bitsy is allowed to clean or disturb, in any way. It’s under a stasis spell, keeping dust or any sort of deterioration from happening. It’s extremely tidy, just like Tom keeps his own room. They’re both particular about what goes where. Everything has to be just in the right place, in the right order.

    Tom is constantly on edge in his Hogwarts dormitory. He’s not sure why the other boys mess angers him so, he understands it’s irrational, but often Tom barks at them to clean up. He hates the way Alphard arranges his books haphazardly, just stacked carelessly on top each other and it visually hurts Tom, who has to stop himself constantly for going over and fixing it.

    Marvolo’s room is exactly to his taste. It fills him with calm, how organised everything is. He goes over to the desk, where potion vials are neatly stacked in some boxes, each one labelled, though it’s clearly a code, because Tom doesn’t recognise their meaning. There’s a manuscript, for another book Marvolo has been writing. Once again, Tom notes how similar their handwriting is and ponders of the possibility to inherit it. Can handwriting be genetic? They’re both left handed, though they can use their right one, with little trouble.

    Tom, for once, is too excited to read something, so he just lets his eyes roam over the pages, before carefully replacing them in the drawer.

    The armoire is next. Similar to his own, it’s made of mostly robes, black and dark green only. There’s a suit or two and Tom finds himself running his fingers over the material, leaning closer. They smell like Marvolo and it calms something inside Tom, though at the same time makes him miss the other even more keenly.

    That’s where he feels another set of protective wards. Behind a fake wall, in the dresser, Tom reaches in to take it away and once more is surprised no curse attacks him.

    Perhaps it’s time delayed but doesn’t care much just then, because there is a simple box hidden there, with even more magic shimmering around it. He pulls it out, sits on the floor and opens it. He doesn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

    There are two rings inside. He grabs one, golden and with a heavy set black stone. There are symbols on it that are familiar to Tom- a triangle, a circle and a straight line but he can’t quite place them, because the other ring is calling to him.

    Mesmerised, Tom places the ugly ring back in the box and touches the wedding ring. It’s a simple, golden band. It’s like the ring is alive, in some way. Tom can feel the magic within, though not what type. He thinks it can feel Tom in return, like it wants to be taken. Like it belongs to Tom.

    He just likes feeling it and he spends long minutes on the floor, holding on to the ring, until he forces himself to put it back where he found it.

    It brings about even more questions. Marvolo cannot even stand to hear Merope’s name, calling her stupid and weak, waste of oxygen and yet he keeps his old wedding ring, safely guarded in his quarters. And why had it felt so good to Tom? Why had it attracted him so much? What sort of magic is that?

    Marvolo returns the next day. He goes upstairs to change but is immediately back in the library.

    “You have been in my room,” he says and Tom though he’d be angry, but Marvolo looks only surprised.

    Tom shrugs, defiant.

    “How did you get past the wards?” Marvolo asks. “It’s impossible you would have known how to dismantle them. There’s so many runes that you wouldn’t even begin to guess at, blood curses -”

    “Well there you go.” Tom raises an eyebrow. “I am your blood. The wards would recognise me.”

    “Perhaps, but the runes-” Marvolo begins but stops, abruptly, and his eyes widen slightly. “Of course,” he adds, more to himself. “Of course.”

    A long silence stretches between them. Seeing Marvolo isn’t inclined to lay into Tom, for disobeying, he speaks.

    “What’s going on with your wedding ring?”

    Again, there is a reaction, and once more it is not anger.

    “What is going on?” Marvolo asks back.

    “I don’t know. It’s -i don’t know. There’s something there. I felt something. And what’s the other ring? What’s its story?” Tom had only now remembered the symbols, so consumed he’d been with the wedding ring.

    “It’s a family heirloom.” Marvolo says, conveniently ignoring Tom’s first questions. “Peverell coat of arms. We descend from them, as well.”

    “No. I mean, I believe you, but I recognised the coat of arms and I never heard about Peverell before so that can’t be why it was familiar to me.”

    “You’ve seen it. In a book.”

    Tom sighs. “Fine. Perhaps I did.”

    The frustration is back with a vengeance, about all these questions Marvolo deflects.

    “You’re upset with me,” Marvolo says, though he looks uncertain about it.

    It’s ridiculous Marvolo, such an intelligent and rational man, can’t see why. He must be missing something, some sort of social skill or something alike. It’s the only explanation Tom can come up with.

    “You wouldn’t understands,” he answers, because it’s the simple truth.

    “Try.” Marvolo doesn’t look offended, though he is usually easily offended, even when Tom is not trying to offend him. 

    “I can’t,” Tom admits, after trying to put everything into words. Perhaps he’s missing something too. He knows he does, he knows that no matter how eloquent he is, how he can explain difficult theories to students years older than him, he has trouble expressing his feelings. He just barely got around to identifying some of them, so it’s not such a surprise he is incapable of voicing them, properly.

    “You feel too much,” Marvolo says, watching Tom boiling in barley suppressed frustration and agitation.

    That feels like an insult, even though there is nothing in Marvolo’s voice or expression to indicate it. There is only that slight surprise.

    Anger, Tom has never had trouble identifying or expressing. He stands.

    “You don’t feel anything,” he barks back and leaves the library, without looking back.

Chapter Text

    Tom grows, seemingly overnight. He likes it, likes being tall, having even more advantages over his peers. His intellect and superior magical strength are enough on their own, but Tom likes to dominate others, in every way that is possible. He knows it’s superficial, that what matters most is his mind and skill, but he can’t help but be satisfied with it. 

    He isn’t fond of mirrors or glancing too much at his own face in reflective surfaces but he’s forced to at least perfunctorily gaze at it to make sure he’s presentable, after his morning shower.

    His face is changing too, in more subtle ways. His cheeks are becoming sharper, his jaw more defined and once he returns to Hogwarts for his third year, he notices some of the girls watch him differently.    

    It makes him feels slightly uneasy, this new kind of attention. Reminds him of the way the priest had looked at him, but Tom pushes past it, reassures himself these are adolescent silly girls, they are no threat to him, in any way. 

     “Would you look at that?” Alphard nudges Tom, at the welcoming feast. As if Tom could have possible missed it. The Great Hall is loud with whispers and gasps. Because the biggest eleven year old Tom had ever seen, just entered through the double doors. 

    “This place is going to the dogs.” Abraxas shakes his head as people stare and point at the boy.  

    He’s very tall. Almost as tall as Dumbledore, who leads the students towards the Sorting Hat. Even the staff give him strange looks. 

    The boy does not like the attention. He shuffles on his feet, head buried between raised shoulders, eyes lowered. Eyes that are almost hidden by bushy eyebrows. A great mess of knotted hair rests upon his head. 

    “Must be a giant,” Lestrange mutters darkly. 

    “Don’t be an idiot,” Avery pipes in. “Giants don’t have magic, and besides, if you think this is big…it’s nothing to a giant.” 

    “He’s not naturally tall, what are you on about!? Look at the thing.” 

    “Part giant.” Tom cuts over both of them. 

    “Right, part giant.” Walburga laughs at him. “Who’d fuck a giant?” 

    “Language!” a Prefect nearby hisses, scandalised. 

    “Walburga, really!” her cousin, Lucretia, admonishes, two seats over. 

    Tom gives her a look. “The same people that procreate with goblins or house elves, I assume.” 

     Abraxas shudders. “There are a lot of sick people out there.” 

     “Fine, I’ll grant you there are twisted wizards.” Walburga says, throwing her hair back. “But what giant would look at a wizard and think “mate” instead of food. How would the logistics even work?” She doesn’t really care, if the boy is part giant or not, she just wants to argue for the sake of it. 

     They all ignore her. The hat sends the boy, Rubeus Hagrid, to Gryffindor. The red and gold table applaud, uncertain. 

    (-)

    At the end of the first week, the Daily Prophet brings news of germans bombing London. 

    They all look at the pictures, depicting part of the city in flames and chaos. Tom needs to explain bombs to his Slytherins though he’s not very clear either, on how exactly they are made. 

    The mudbloods look stricken with terror, fleeing from the Great Hall to no doubt write to their relatives. 

    (-)

    The next day, more bombs drop. 

    On the third, Diagon Alley is hit, killing three wizards, the muggle explosive apparently strong enough to pass through the enchantments. 

    On the forth, Tom sees Marvolo’s picture on the front page. A full article is singing him praise, for the apparently impressive shields he casts around Diaggon and Knocturn Alley. Curse breakers are quoted to say they had never seen spell work so complex, that it had been previously thought the magical society was years away from discovering a technique to sustain a protective ward that expands over such great expense of land, and in the middle of a technological advanced city such as London, that is interfering with the magical ways of life.

    Tom feels fiercely proud. When he looks up from the paper, many students are watching him. Marvolo is known in the Ministry and inside the Sacred Families, perhaps amongst avid readers of complicated magical theories. Yet the general population hadn’t heard much about him. They will now, Tom thinks.

    He glances at the Head Table, where Dumbledore is still reading, a slight frown on his ageing face. The Charms Professor looks equally bewildered. 

    The bombs fall on London, daily, but not a single one drops on Diagon or Knocturn again. 

    (-)

    Care of Magical Creatures is enjoyable. Tom was always curious about animals, especially the magical kind, and he feels more comfortable around them, compared to people. 

    After spending the last year writing Walburga’s homework, Arithmancy is not at all new to him. 

    Transfiguration gets more interesting, moving on to organic transformations. Tom is especially invested into Animagi, having read about them on his own, but usually Dumbledore always has something to add that cannot be found in books. However, this year he is distracted. 

    Dumbledore must be an even greater wizard than Tom had judged. It had always been obvious he was very intelligent and efficient, but now all the newspaper are starting to call on him to deal with the ever increasing threat that is Grindelwald. 

    Tom watches him, more attentive then before, trying to gauge why people think this teacher is the only one capable of defeating the most powerful dark lord to date. 

    There is strength, beneath Dumbledore’s kind demeanour, steel in his usually sparkly eyes when someone calls one of his Gryffindors a “mudblood” or goes a little too far with a prank. 

    Either way, he doesn’t seem inclined to go meet Grindelwald  any time soon, ignoring the whispers and the papers begging him to do it, at first, and then trying to bully him into it. 

    Dumbledore remains at Hogwarts, hiding, and Tom has to bite his tongue to not go up to him and say “Not very Gryffindor of you, Professor.” 

    His Ancient Runes teacher is as inept as Marvolo predicted. But Tom’s long used with incompetence, so it’s fine. 

    Towards the end of the first semester, he waits until class is over, to ask about some extra assignments. Tom doesn’t like him, but he sure likes Tom. 

    “Would protective wards recognise the caster’s relatives? Would they allow passage to someone from the same lineage?” 

    “No,” The man answers and he might be a bad pedagog, but he does have a lot of knowledge about runes. 

    “Are you sure, sir? I heard of this case, when a son bypassed some wards a father had placed on a room. Though, they might have been coupled with blood magic, maybe that was what-” 

     The teacher’s mouth drops open. “Blood magic? This must have been a dark family. Or perhaps an old one,” he says, eyeing  Abraxas and Alphard waiting for Tom by the door. 

    Tom blinks, innocently. 

    “Old or dark protective spells, often combine runes with blood magic, with the intent to  guard something. And blood magic would, indeed, allow anyone of that blood to bypass it. But the runes will not. The runes, if done properly, will stop anyone but the caster, blood or not.” 

    And yet Tom had had no issues barging inside Marvolo’s room, opening his treasure box. 

    “Would you write me a pass, sir? So i can read more about wards? I’m really curious.” 

    “Of course you are.” The teacher laughs and writes Tom his first ever pass to head over to the restricted section of the library. 

     (-)

    On his first visit to Hogsmeade, as Tom loads his bag with various sweets Honeydukes has on display, a weird sensation falls over him.

    It comes out of nowhere, surrounded by fancy, colourful candy. This must be what triggers it. 

    As a young boy, he’d roam the streets of London and would stop and stare through the windows of candy shops or restaurants, his stomach hurting with hunger, his mouth watering at the sights and smells. 

    For hours he’d look, until a waiter would come to shoo him away, as to not make the clients uncomfortable. 

    Tom had thought how unfair life was, how all those people, fat and rich, would leave half filled plates on the table, to be thrown in the garbage as he starved, outside. It awakened inside him an anger so deep, it sustained him, instead of food. 

    His stomach cramps, forcefully and he shakes his head, banishing the memory. He’s terribly hungry, all of a sudden, even if he ate a big breakfast not an hour before. The lights and colours, the laughter around him seems distorted, for a second. The memory had been so powerful, he could swear he’d just been back in London. 

    Tom always hoards food. At his house, even with Bitsy at his beck and call, there are always snacks stacked away in his nightstand. At school, he keeps sweets in his bag at all times. Tom always makes sure food is easily available, in case he should need it. 

    He doesn’t understand why this habit had grown worse, lately, why he still does it even after years of being taken care of, of not missing a single thing in the world and being served feasts at every meal.

    Yet that visceral hunger stays with him, unfulfilled. 

      (-)

    For his fourteen birthday, Marvolo finally lifts the curses on the books at their own house. Not all, but at lest half. 

    “Don’t practice, yet. Just study the theories,” Marvolo warns as Tom picks a book. He can almost feel the dark knowledge inside it. It feels heavy in a way a bunch of papers tied together have no right being. Tom cannot wait to learn all it has to offer. 

    He doesn’t even go to the Malfoy’s New Year ball, because he can’t take these books back to Hogwarts with him, and he only has a few days to read through as many as he can before he leaves. 

       (-)

    The Blitz, as the muggles had taken to calling it, is still going, has not stoped since September. 

    “Destructive savages,” Abaraxas comments, when they go to Diagon to refill their potions supplies, on the last day before taking the train to Hogwarts. Bombs go off above and around them, though no debris reaches them. There is nothing to be done about the noise and the screaming muggles just outside the shields. 

    Their house elves had taken them straight to the Leaky Cauldron. Tom cannot imagine what’s it like to live outside the magical shields, how it is possible that Londoners are apparently doing their best to cary on, despite the germans, attempting to work and live as if they are not being bombed. 

    “How much longer can they possibly keep this up?” Tom asks Marvolo back at the house, as he packs his books carefully.  “At this rate, there won’t be much of London left soon. Don’t we-I mean, British muggles have their own air force? Can’t they keep the germans at bay?” 

    “RAF is overwhelmed,” Marvolo answers. 

    “RAF-?”

    “The Royal Air Force. They’re doing their own damage in Germany, but I must say, it’s nothing like what the Luftwaffe is inflicting upon London. It will go on, for quite some time.”

    “What are the chances all the muggles manage to kill themselves and spare us of their presence?” 

    Marvolo laughs. “They are far more resilient than they seem, I’m afraid. Most wizards tend to view them like something akin to harmless, amusing pets, but that’s a crucial mistake.” 

    Tom is not Abraxas who hates the muggles but thinks them generally incompetent. He’s not like muggle loving fools that like muggles and stand up for them, though at the end of the day share Abraxas’ belief that they cannot possible pose a harm to the general magical population. 

    “I grew up with them,” Tom says darkly. “I’m very aware of what they’re capable of.” 

    He rearranges his books, not pleased with their location in the trunk. He knows he won’t be able to sleep if he doesn’t make it all symmetrical and in fine order. 

    “Kill!” Atlas hisses, angry as he chases after Morgana around the library. She’s stolen his prey, as she’s prone to do. Atlas often tries to kill Morgana, but to the snake’s constant surprise she’s much faster than he is and far more aggressive, when forced to engage him. 

    “It will be fine, you know,” Marvolo says, a while later. Tom looks at him. “London,” Marvolo clarifies. “Whatever is lost, will be rebuilt.” 

    Tom nods. He hates muggles, had many bad experiences with them and eight years of misery to back it up. 

      However, after he’d been old enough to sneak out, his only comfort had been wandering around London. He’d yearned to have something great to hold on to, some privilege that others didn’t and while he shared London with so many people, he still liked the feeling of being surrounded by the ancient city, grasped at the idea that he comes from greatness, that he’s as resilient as the streets he stepped on which had survived thousands of years, had birthed people that went ahead and conquered half the world.  

    He wouldn’t like to see it destroyed. 

    Morgana jumps on Marvolo’s leg, hissing down at Atlas, fur raised, tail trashing around, pawing at his head when Atlas tries to strike her. 

    “Leave.” Marvolo places a protective hand over Morgana. 

    Atlas slithers towards the doors, upset. It’s not fair, Tom well knows it. She’s the instigator, always. 

    “Come back,” he calls after Atlas, knowing how much the snake likes to coil itself around Tom. 

    “Not allowed,” Atlas hisses, before he disappears. 

     Marvolo smirks, petting an equally smug Morgana. Tom rolls his eyes, annoyed. Marvolo has much more power over Atlas, or any other snakes they encounter. They eagerly listen to Tom, but as soon as the older man speaks, Tom loses his hold on them. 

     It’s fine. One day Tom will grow up and he won’t be as easily bested by Marvolo in anything he tries to do. 

         (-)

    The Quidditch Captain corners Tom as soon as he’s back to Hogwarts. 

    “Vasiey graduates this year. We’ll need a new chaser and word is you’re good at it. Care to give a tryout?” 

    Tom does and he’s instantly put on reserve, guaranteed to replace Vasiey the following year. 

    Abraxas is not very happy about it, he wanted the position for himself. Slytherin friends aren’t like other friends, to applaud one’s success. They envy it. Which is fine, Tom wouldn’t trust anyone that stupidly lifts up anyone around them, wanting nothing for themselves. 

      (-)

    He could really use his extraordinary invisibility clock, but Marvolo doesn’t allow him to take it out of the house yet. 

    And Tom really needs to be invisible as he madly searches for the Chamber of Secrets, in the middle of the night. 

    Alas, he learns how to cast a Disillusionment Charm so strong that twice he runs into Slughron, down in the dungeons, and many other times into the Caretaker and neither look his way. 

     (-)

    “Just leave him be!” 

    Tom heads over towards the voices coming from the edge of the Forbidden Forest, returning from Hogsmeade alone, having managed to ditch his group. 

    Hagrid is hard to miss. He’s a head taller than the other two boys, also Gryffindors, but in their fifth year.  

    “Let it go, you idiot!” one of them says, wand out and pointed at Hagrid, but he keeps shifting his aim. 

    “You’ll hurt him if I do!” Hagrid complains. Tom moves closer, curious, and that’s when he hears it. 

    “Die! Die!” the snake hisses, highly distressed. 

     When Tom is close enough, he sees the adder already bit Hagrid’s hand, thrice. She keeps biting, desperate to be released, but there’s no more venom left. 

     “Hagrid, for God’s sake, let it go! You need to go to the Matron!” 

     “Why did you want to hurt him”? Hagrid yells back, voice booming. 

     “It’s a fucking snake-“ 

     “Calm down. He means no harm,” Tom hisses and all three students startle. 

     “He’s squeezing me! He smells of fear!” the snake informs Tom. 

     “Come here,” Tom extends his arm and he looks up to Hagrid. He hates it when anyone towers over him, but it’s especially humiliating when the other is a child. “Give her here. She’ll be safe with me.” 

     “Freak,” One of the Gryffindors mutters under his breath. Tom gives him a look, but doesn’t bother to do anything else. Not with witnesses around, in any case. He will remember and get his revenge at the opportune moment. 

     “Don’t insult him! That’s not nice!” Hagrid, who’s called “freak” more times than he’s addressed by his name moves in front of Tom, as if to protect him.

     For a second, Tom can’t speak, in utter shock at the absurdity of it. 

     Hagrid passes the snake over, who slithers up Tom’s arm, under his clock.

    “Bad humans.” She curls around Tom’s bicep, scared witless. 

     “Come, you truly need to see the Matron,” Tom says. 

     “We’ll take him,” the Gryffindors insist. “We’re not leaving him alone with a Slytherin-“ 

     Tom shrugs and departs, but Hagrid follows him. 

    “I don’t wanna go. What if they kill the snake ? He didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Was minding his own business when those boys tried to hex it, because he was just staying on the path. I grabbed him to keep him from harm.” 

    What an utter idiot. Tom appreciates the sentiment, but to grab an adder-

    “You have to go. It’s venomous-“ 

    “I’ll be fine. I-my blood is-I’m tough. Most poisons don’t bother me none.” 

    “Giants are immune indeed to most ailments that plague wizards.” 

    “I’m no giant!” The boy reddens, agitated. The snake hisses again, in fear. 

    “Clearly. Only a part one. You get the benefits without the drawbacks.” 

    “I’m just tall-“ 

    “Listen, that might work on your stupid housemates, but you’re not fooling anyone that has picked up a book, once in a while. Don’t deny it. I don’t care, anyway.” 

    “You won’t tell anyone?” How can someone so big be so shy and insecure? It disturbs Tom. 

    “People outside my house aren’t too keen on us Slytherins, as you saw. We don’t chat often.” 

    In the Hospital Wing, the Matron calls Hagrid’s head of house, not believing Hagrid’s version of events that an adder just happened to bite him, especially when he’s accompanied there by a Parselmouth. 

    Hagrid gives the same story to Dumbledore, who eyes Tom carefully. 

    “I see the snake is still with you,” he comments. 

    “She’ll be vulnerable, until her venom comes back, Professor,” Tom informs him, calmly. 

     Dumbledore doesn’t seem to believe Tom had anything to do with Hagrid’s injuries. He gently tells Hagrid he should know better than play with snakes. 

     Hagrid doesn’t want to snitch on his fellow classmates, preferring to take the blame on himself. Tom has no such qualms so he tells Dumbledore what had really happened. 

     “I cannot allow you to keep the adder in the school, Tom,” Dumbledore says mildly. As if Tom isn’t capable to summon snakes, whenever he wants. He does it quite often. “I give you my word, the Groundkeeper will take good care of her, until she’s recovered. Hand the snake over, if you will." 

     "Don’t bite. It’s useless anyway. You’re safe. You’ll be fed and kept comfortable," Tom hisses at the adder, transferring it to Dumbledore. 

     "Hungry. Mice." But she’s calm in Dumbledore’s hands, curled happily around him, trusting Tom’s words. 

     “She wants a mouse,” Tom informs Dumbledore, who smiles at him, eyes crinkling with amusement. 

     “Twenty points to Slytherin,” he says though he should also take points from his own house, because of Hagrid’s stupidity and the other’s incompetence. He doesn’t, as usual. 

      There’s a good-natured competition between the heads of house, for the house cup. Slytherin wins most of the time, which is to be expected, since they’re ambitious by nature. Dumbledore tries his best to stop that track record, without being too unjust. 

     “Wicked!” Hagrid says. “I’d love to talks to animals. Can you talk to a dragon? They’re reptiles, no? My favourite.” 

       (-)

    It gets a little busy, what with all the subjects he’s taking, plus Quidditch practices that he must now attend, even though he’ll only play the following year. On top of that, almost every night, after curfew, he goes searching for the Chamber of Secrets, with no luck. 

    To top it off, he often gets notes of permission for the restricted section and there’s a lot there, to read about. 

    Unable to spill his frustration on Tom, because Abraxas lost enough duels to him to know that would be unwise, he becomes more standoffish than usual, unloading his upsets on Alphard. Blacks aren’t know for patience, nor for taking slights lightly, so they have a great fight, that’s followed by constant bickering night after night. 

    Tom’s getting a bit tired, all things considered, and it’s a relief to go back for the summer, in the peace and privacy, the order that is his house. 

    The Blitz had finally come to a stop, so his outings in Diagon Alley aren’t constantly interrupted by noisy sirens and bombs. Not that he spends much time in Diagon, preferring to head on to Knockturn, under the cover of shadows, and spend his time there. The stores are far more interesting and now that Marvolo isn’t as strict about what Tom reads, another world entirely opens up to him. 

    London is still unstable, full of debris, thieves and murderers, but calmer than it had been in winter. As the muggle war seems to wane, at least in Britain, the wizarding one picks up. The British magical community doesn’t believe the Minister anymore, there’s a heavy dose of paranoia going around, a lot of whispers and rumours so Tom keeps his wand with him, at all times.

    He even uses it in Knockturn for small things, taking care not to be noticed. He likes knowing he’s doing something illegal and getting away with it, in a street full of people. Not that the patrons of Knockturn Alley are very concerned with the law. Everyone tends to mind their own business there. 

    After Abraxas relaxes somewhat and is borderline tolerable again, Tom lets him trail along on some of these trips. He’s almost as tall at Tom, they both look older than they really are and no one gives them any trouble, though the blond hair and green eyes are a dead giveaway for Abraxas identity, so they take care to conceal it.

    As obnoxious as Abraxas can get, he understands to need to be discrete. Walburga cannot be subtle if her life depends on it, so Tom never takes her along.

   She gets upset over it, throws one of her tantrums and Tom is just done. They keep getting into these little arguments, lately. Nothing major, but it becomes a constant occurrence, everything she does irritates him and while he can easily ignore the boys when they annoy him, for some reason, she gets to him. 

    “I see you’ve come to your senses,” Marvolo comments when Tom commands Bitsy to tell Walburga’s head, waiting in the fireplace back in the hallway, that he isn’t home. “Took you a while.” 

    Marvolo had never liked Walburga. He doesn’t like anyone, per say, especially children, but he seemed peeved by the girls’s mere presence, in the very rare occasions they were in the same room. He sneers often when Tom brings up Abraxas, but not with as much disgust. 

    As August rolls around, Marvolo starts teaching Tom some of the curses he’d read about since the restrictions against dark magic were lifted. 

    “These are harder to cast wordlessly,” he explains, when Tom gets frustrated. He has no problem casting, from his very first try, it’s just that he needs to say the words, needs to direct far more focus into it. He also needs to follow the wand motions, which was never a problem he had before. 

     At school, he always take care to cast out loud, and with the proper motions, less Dumbledore gets suspicious, as Marvolo puts it. But he never really needed all that, it was just for show. 

    He needs them, now. 

    Tom watches, with great jealousy, how Marvolo can cast without a wand. It’s one thing, to be able to perform wandless magic, and another entirely to master dark arts by simply waving a hand around. 

   “It is not recommended. It will drain a wizard, quickly. But I shall teach you, in time. You never know  when you find yourself without a wand.” 

    Tom has a knack for the Imperius. He’d heard about it before, one of the Unforgivable Curses. Once in a while someone would be arrested for it. From all the three, Tom always wanted to learn this one the most. 

    First, Marvolo insists Tom has to have it cast on him. It’s the only way to master it, he says. 

    Tom is a little anxious, but for no reason. He’s surprised how easily he resists it. He feels the pull yes, and the part of him that always wants to please Marvolo doesn’t help him, but in the end, he can shake the curse off. He’d expected Marvolo to be impressed, but he isn’t. He seemed to have expected it. 

    Tom practices on Bitsy, though he knows it takes hold easily, what with her simpler mind and her need to obey him anyways.  He cannot wait to try it on his roommates. 

    A week before he leaves for Hogwarts, to start his forth year, Marvolo takes Tom down to the dungeons, for the first time. 

    A muggle awaits there, simpering in fear, eyes wide and terrified.

    “It is easier to control a muggle than a wizard, but harder than a house elf,” Marvolo explains, as if this is nothing out of the ordinary.

    Tom’s heart is beating wildly inside his chest, his mouth dry. Marvolo watches him, expectantly. 

    “Please, sir! Please, let me go! I won’t go to the police-”

    It’s just a Muggle, don’t be silly, Tom tells himself. Just a muggle. He doesn’t know why he feels weird about it. 

    Pushing it away, he straightens his back, takes aim and casts. The curse take hold, instantly and Tom forgets the discomfort just as fast. The thrill it gives him, to control someone so thoroughly-Tom feels powerful. 

    The muggle is defenceless, obeys every single command, without hesitation, a glazed, lost look in his eyes. 

    “Magical folk resist better-some more than others. Depends on their mental fortitude or training. But that is no concern to you. You will be able to subdue anyone, no matter how strong the victim might be.” 

    Victim. Tom gets that rush again, his hair stands at the back of his neck. 

    “Of course, you are not yet matured, your magical power is still growing, so there are still plenty powerful wizards around you do not yet wish to upset.” 

    Tom nods, mouth still dry. “Will you teach me how to alter a memory? Seems like a perfect opportunity. After all, we can’t send him back with his memories-”

    “He will not be going anywhere, child.” Marvolo says softly, head tilted slightly to the side, watching Tom closely. “Did you not want to see the Unforgivable Curses in action?” 

    Before Tom can say anything, Marvolo points his wand and, just for Tom’s sake, utters the words. 

    “Avada Kedavra!” 

    Green light illuminates the dungeon. It lasts but a second and then it’s gone. 

    So is the muggle. Tom stares at the empty shell left behind. Not a single drop of blood, no obvious wound. Like a puppet, whose string has been cut. 

    He’s dead. Dead. Dead. His mind is stuck in a loop, over and over again and he keeps staring. 

Chapter Text

    Quidditch at Hogwarts is quite different than playing around at Malfoy Manor. It is far more competitive, which Tom enjoys. On the other hand, there is a Captain and Tom can barely pretend to listen to his teachers never mind a seventeen year old, but he makes do. There is also the matter that he is not really a team player and while it is not important, at informal games with his group, it is important at Hogwarts. Especially as a Chaser. He needs to coordinate with the other two, he needs to learn to pass the Quaffle to his team mates and it is irritating.

    Even with these inconveniences, it offers some release from his thoughts. It is unusual for him to prefer a physical activity- even when angry, Tom would choose to just sit somewhere and plot revenge or get lost in a book.

    But there has been a shift inside him. All of a sudden he has all this energy, he can’t seem to sit still long enough, his classes are boring and it is challenging to pretend they aren’t, he finds it hard to concentrate on his extracurricular studies. Quidditch is the only activity where he can get rid of that restlessness.

    It is not enough. Just two practices a week and not being allowed to be in charge of them serves to nullify the advantages of all that physical work.

    So he starts a very exclusive “study” group. Only his dormmates, alongside Walburga. Occasionally, he allows Orion to attend, when there’s not much going on.

    Orion, a first year, is a typical Black. Tom observes that being part of a large, prestigious family, while having its benefits, comes with a lot of drawbacks. He’s watched plenty younger siblings trying to rise up to their elder brothers or sisters reputation, and plenty of heirs trying to make the family proud. Abraxas struggles underneath all that pressure and he is not the only one.

    That is not Orion. Tom has often questioned the hat decision to place Alphard and Walburga in Slytherin; in time, it proved to be a good choice, for Alphard, who is maturing and losing part of his rashness. Walburga remains a strange abomination of a Slytherin-Gryffindor mix and Orion seems to follow her in that regard.

    The two are very similar and cannot stand each other. Which is unfortunate, since they have been engaged for a few years now, their fathers wishing to keep the bloodline pure and all the Black fortune in the family.

    Tom shows his group, during these sessions, what he had learned of the Dark Arts and they all pipe in with what little they have managed to gather from their own libraries.

    Surprisingly Abraxas is very adept both at casting and resisting the Imperius, the only one besides Tom to be so proficient at it.

    “We should try the Cruciatus,” Walburga suggests, always the sadist. She is not even finished serving a month worth of detention after cursing a Ravenclaw boy, leaving him howling in pain for hours in the dungeons before he was finally discovered. Well, plenty Slytherins discovered him but they just pretended they hadn’t. Eventually, it was Tom who brought Slughorn’s attention to the matter, because he is aiming for that Prefect Badge that he wishes to receive the following year.

    “No,” Tom says. He wants to, but Marvolo had been adamant he doesn’t try it before he himself teaches Tom. “We might get injured and then we will have to go to the hospital wing where someone is bound to figure it out.”

    Dumbledore is already starting to eye his group suspiciously when their usual pranks grow darker in nature. Tom often needs to reign them in, especially Lestrange, or to clean up after them. Even so, the old man is hard to fool and he’s starting to grate on Tom.

    Luckily things are also growing darker in the rest of wizarding Britain and Dumbledore’s distracted. Some disappearances or murders are obviously connected with Grindelwald’s growing influence, but others not so much. The papers like to blame the hungarian dark lord-he is the most convenient scapegoat. Yet Tom finds some of these crimes odd. Several older Slytherins seem to share his suspicion, since at least one victim had been a staunch Grindelwald supporter. There are a few Slytherin families that share Grindelwald’s ardour and some of them go missing or turn up dead and while the press wasn’t aware of these affiliations, Tom is.

    And apparently so is Dumbledore, whom at first looks confused by the titles in the newspapers. The confusion soon becomes concern, so easy to read in his eyes.

    Tom thinks he might know what is going on. I won’t share power. Marvolo had said, a couple years back. And while Tom always knew, in the back of his head, that Marvolo is a dark lord, he even admitted to killing people on occasion, it was hard to truly process it and associate a dark lord with the man that drinks tea with Tom and likes to spend hours under the sun, reading books about wizarding trials from the past century, so boring they’d put even Tom to sleep.

    It is easier to associate a dark lord with the man that killed a defenceless muggle in their house. There had been no hesitation, no expression of any kind on his face as he did it, nor after. Marvolo had casually, carelessly transformed the body into a feather and set it on fire, before he went up and had his afternoon tea, completing some Ministry paperwork.

    Tom dreams about that flash of green, often enough. He is scared of it, deep down, of how fragile life is, how fast it can go away. He had always been, seeing children carried away by the pox, a common cold or starvation, always fearing he will be next to die.

    Now, as a wizard, he knows the only true danger is that green light, that cannot be blocked or countered. He starts purging the restricted section on ways to become immortal. Marvolo had said, back when he offered to kill Billy for him, that Tom will one day be immortal too. Tom never thought much about it, but there is a little urgency now, to this plan.

    Beneath the fear, as he’s startled awake in his bed, Tom remembers how that green light illuminated Marvolo’s face. How indomitable he had looked, how sure of himself and everything around him. Power made flesh. Tom wants it badly, for himself, but he is not sure he can ever be as great and that scares him almost as much as dying.

    “You can not hesitate when you use Dark Magic. A stray thought, a second of insecurity and it will turn against you. Remember that, “ Marvolo had told him, very insistent, probably sensing Tom’s doubts.

    There’s always a price, Marvolo had also said, back when Tom had first asked to learn Dark Arts.

    Tom is starting to pay it, though it’s so subtle, he’d have missed it, if he hadn’t seen it in the rest of his group. They’re all highly strung, more aggressive, and at night everyone takes longer to fall asleep then they used to. The other boys silencing charms are not as great as Tom’s, so he can tell his roommates are plagued by the occasional nightmare.

    There is the old anger again, which is always with Tom, but it had been dormant for so long, only reared its head when he’d been provoked. Now it’s closer to the surface, simmering under his skin and he feels so ready to fall prey to it, to lash out at anyone.

    It could very well be the influence of practicing Dark Arts.

    Or, he rethinks it, it might just be biology. All these changes in their bodies, all this energy and restlessness. It could be as simple as hormones, he thinks, as he finds himself looking at a Gryffindor seventh year. It startles him, when he realises he's been staring at her for a full minute.

    Tom tries to stomp this new development in its infancy, but once he noticed it, it’s not that easy to dispel.

    He finds he is not as bothered with all the attention he’s getting from girls, when the year before, it had made him uncomfortable.

    It’s not that it’s comfortable now, he wouldn’t describe it as so, all these unwelcomed urges springing in his mind, distracting him from more important matters.

    It falls into place when he’s once again arguing with Walburga, over nothing of importance, as they have been prone to do lately and instead of her annoying him she awakens quite a different emotion inside him.

    So when the desire to kiss her instead of curse her strikes him, he just does it.

    It is all instinct and far more intense than he’d anticipated. It is hard for him to think and that should scare him, but his suddenly diminished cognitive abilities do not concern him as it should when he holds her close to him.

    Eventually he needs air so he draws back. She stares up at him wide eyed, lips swollen, her hair a mess and she looks so submissive for once in her life, she who always thought herself better than him. It is very satisfying. He kisses her again, holding her jaw tight between his fingers, pulling her hair to ensure her head is at the angle that will offer him most access.

    It is a good thing, a lucky thing, that there was no one around, because Tom had not stopped to check beforehand, had acted on impulse alone. A noise outside the Common Room penetrates through his hazy mind and he lets her go.

    They share one more look and, at the same time, they both turn around and head to their respective dorms, without so much as a word.

    Tom has never felt awkward in his life and he is not about to begin, he reminds himself as he dresses the next morning. Still, he isn’t entirely sure how he should act around her, what all of it implied, if it implied anything. It doesn’t help, at all, that for the first time in years, the priest had plagued his dreams during the night, reminding him how revolting human touch can be. And yet he’d felt the furthest thing from revolted, as he kissed Walburga .

    He can’t hide in his room, no matter how appealing the prospect is. Tom is the Heir of Slytherin, he doesn’t hide, he tells himself sternly and straightens his back, goes on with his day.

    The slight anxiety goes away when he sits at the breakfast table and Walburga doesn’t meet his eyes, turns a bright shade of red. It puts him at ease, seeing her shy, it gratifies him that he turned such a proud creature to someone that drops her fork three times in the spam of two minutes.

    (-)

    Tom refuses to allow his control to slip again, so he forces himself to focus on other things. He starts working on inventing some spells which do serve as a nice, if frustrating, distraction.

    Walburga doesn’t follow his group around as much and during their study group sessions, she is more subdued, less prone to fighting over every little thing. She still doesn’t look at him, or so he suspects, because he makes sure to not linger on her either. Sometimes she uses her Prefect Badge as an excuse to ditch some of the meetings.

    “Wasn’t she related to Grindelwald?” Lestrange asks, shoving some meatloaf in his mouth, dripping gravy all over the paper.

    Bathilda Bagshot, a famous historian had been found dead in her house and Aurors deem it suspicious, though they are still investigating it.

    “Was she?” Tom had not known about that.

    They all look at Abraxas, the expert in genealogy, the only one capable to retain information about everyone’s blood status and family members spanning centuries.  

    “I think he is her great nephew,” he says, a pensive look on his face.

    “Perhaps she’d known important stuff about him,” Alphard suggests.

    “I don’t know, but the body count in Britain is getting high and it makes me uneasy.”

    Tom stays silent, trying to figure out a reason why Marvolo would kill a historian. He cannot think of any. Perhaps this time Grindelwald is responsible. Perhaps Tom is just paranoid and had been wrongly laying dead bodies at Marvolo’s feet this whole time.

    (-)

    “Would you like to play a game?”

    “No,” Tom says, frightened.

    He steps back. He just wants to go back to his room.

    “You will like it,” the priest lies. Like it, like it, like it-echoes of the church’s tall walls

    “No,” Tom says, more determined.

    He doesn’t look away from the priest, but he can see Jesus, seven feet tall and made of marble, head bowed, arms extended, hands nailed to the cross. He looks ashamed, Tom thinks. He looks uncaring. He looks dead. Either way, he offers no protection.

    The priest advances, so much taller than Tom, auburn beard hiding most of his face, beside the blue eyes. Tom slowly backs away.

    “Such a beautiful boy, you are.”

    Tom shakes his head, desperate. Something solid makes contact with his back. Trapped.! Help me! Please, help me. Help me!  He prays, reverently.

    Jesus stirs behind the priest.

    “Shh, I promise it won’t take long, if you behave. But if you don’t-“

    The priest is so close now.

    Tom tries to summon that power he has, that opens locked doors, that makes it easier to sneak away, that shoved Billy away from him just the other day, but it will not come.

    “Please,” his voice cracks. “Please, I just want to leave.”

    “Not until we played our little game.”

    Jesus is off the cross. Blood drips down his pale, marble hands. Tom wants to see him, but he must look at the priest.

    “Now, Tom. I’ll ask one more time. Do you want to play a game?”

    “No,” Tom says. The priest is almost upon him, reaching out, he’ll touch Tom in a second-

    “I will play with you,” Jesus says, only his voice is so familiar to Tom. He’d heard it many times before.

    The priest turns his back to Tom, but Tom can still see his face. In fact, Tom is now looking down at him. He feels no fear. The power comes to him readily. His vision is bloodshot, but clear either way. He just sees everything in hues of red. He raises his hand, a long pale stick between his fingers.

    “No,” the priest says, and he’s afraid now.

    “Help me!” A little boy begs, hidden behind the priest.

    Tom does. “Avada Kedavra!”

    The green light is blinding. Tom sees the priest collapsing, from the front, and than from the back. He’s small again, but there is a knife in his hand. He falls on the dead body, stabs at his chest, over and over again, the floor fills with blood, Tom’s hands are stained with it.

    “Let him go, child. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

    Tom looks up. Marvolo is no longer made of marble. He wears his black robe, the Slytherin locket is around his neck -

    Tom stands on shaky legs. He’d prayed, he’d asked for help and Marvolo had come. His protector. His God.

    Tom hugs him, trembling in relief. Marvolo hugs him back.

    “Don’t ever leave me,” he begs, because he is only safe in Marvolo’s embrace.

    “I won’t.”

    "Avada Kedavra," someone whispers, a faceless enemy, from afar, and Tom shouts, horrified, the green light comes again-

    He wakes, gasping for air.

    (-)

    The Slytherin dungeons are always infested with a dim, greenish light-a consequence of living under the Great Lake. The all green paraphernalia doesn’t help matters either. The curtains, the house crest painted on every wall- Tom cannot escape the colour, it’s there to jump him at any turn.

    He spends more and more time in the library, researching ways to become Immortal. When that fails to yield results, he goes back to his inventions. After hours of singleminded focus, he manages to create a curse. Darker than he had intended. It fills him with pride, with confidence.

    Tom is not powerless.

    (-)

    Merrythought announces they will be dealing with Boggarts, because she’s just that senile, it seems.

    All the Slytherins step back from the closet, in what could look to be a choreographed move.

    Of course, the Gryffindors rush forward, fools that they are, no concern with having everyone present privy to their deepest fears.

    It has the potential to be hilarious, and also a sure way to collect blackmail material, but Tom is too busy thinking of ways to extract himself from the situation to pay much attention.

    Lestrange is bullying the Slytherin girls, as the line of Gryffindors diminishes, pushing them forward, sneering “ladies first” at them.

    “Touch me again and I’ll write to father, Rodolphus!” Lilian Pucey snaps at him, hitting Lestrange’s hand.

    “That’s alright,” Lestrange keeps pushing her. He might be a brute, but he’s not dumb. Better face Mr. Pucey than show all the class his fear.

    Tom would really want to know what it is that got him so terrified.

    “You are being a little silly,” Alphard rolls his eyes. “Here, I’ll go after the girls.”

    “What a gentleman,” Diane Flint hisses at them, having ended up at the front of the line.

    There are only two Gryffindors left to face the Boggart but plenty of time to go through the Slytherins.

    Lestrange pushes Avery right behind Alphard. And then he turns and looks at Tom and Abraxas, the only ones left. He seizes Abraxas up.

    Abraxas raises an eyebrow at him.

    Perfect, Tom thinks. “Why don’t you two get into a fight, when the time comes.”

    And so they do, an ugly one, curses flying everywhere, the other students either clapping and cheering them on or taking cover, old Merrythought trying but failing to break it off, because Tom had taught them to duel really well and she’s far too decrepit for this job.

    The bell rings and Abraxas and Rodolphus stop. They are taken to the Headmaster.

    When they return, later, Slughorn at their side, Abraxas announces they lost 50 points each and are in three weeks worth of detention.

    Slughorn eyes them, sighting. “You will still need to face it, on your final exams,” he warns.

    Lestrange looks up, surprised.

    “You’re not the first Slytherins that posses enough sense to not expose themselves this way.” Slughorn gives them a slight smile.

    As he lays in bed, Tom is bewildered. Thirteen students had faced the Boggart and not one of them saw their own dead bodies on the floor. How could that be? Is it not natural, to fear death? Because that is what he would see, if he would meet the boggart. His own dead body.

    And Tom can’t think of any way to make that funny.

    (-)

    Eventually, as the days pass, Walburga can look at him again and he keeps his composure. They pretend the kiss had not happened and carry on with their lives.

    Tom pushes himself even further, he reads more then ever, he practices Quidditch longer, anything to take his mind of these stray thoughts.

    Abraxas doesn’t help, pointing girls out to Alphard in a crude manner and Tom stares at his schoolbooks hard, determined not to look up.

    All this makes him think, however.

    He opens his locket often, at night, when he can’t sleep.

    Marvolo, in all these years, had never looked interested in any woman. And now that Tom has this new found appreciation for them, he thinks back to many beautiful women parading around Marvolo at different functions. And if those did not catch his eye, he’d never be interested in someone like Merope, bland and ugly and so afraid, Tom can tell just by looking at a picture, at how hard she clutches her necklace, staring out from under her limp hair that she is a terrified slip of a girl.

    There is just no way. Especially since Tom remembers Slughorn telling him the latest generations of Gaunts were not very magically skilled, nor too bright.

    He had observed these glaring differences between Marvolo and Merope even as a child, but he had been naive, back then, he had thought it simply meant Merope had had something very special about her.

    Now he knows better. People marry based on similar status, similar interests, similar personalities. Merope and Marvolo are so so far apart, in everything, they might as well be in different universes.

    If Tom and the other boys are so easily distracted by women, there are nightly conversations about them in the Common Room, how come a grown man shows no interest at all?

    Tom suspects Marvolo may not be his father, after all. There had always been this doubt, deep down, because Marvolo never actually said it, not even once, had simply let Tom to drawn his own conclusions, based on hope alone.

    Yet, what other conclusion could he have reached? Not only do they look so much alike but why would Marvolo, who despises everyone, take on a child that isn’t his?

    Perhaps they are cousins or related in another way. Perhaps that is why he’s so adamant Tom does not find his uncle.

    Tom reads the letters Marvolo sends him-they’re far longer then the few short sentences Tom used to receive, back when he first started Hogwarts.

    And every letter he writes back to Marvolo, Tom burns to ask about it. He doesn’t. He will never receive a straight answer.

    What does it matter, at the end of the day, what they are to each other? Tom asks himself, after obsessing over it, for weeks, barely sleeping. Six years had passed and Tom hadn’t been abandoned, he was never hurt, or went with a need unmet. Year after year, Marvolo is slowly getting closer to Tom and that is all Tom desires. To have him, in whatever capacity.

    It would matter, he knows. It would matter, because Marvolo, if not his father, had been lying to Tom for years. The fact that he never went ahead and said it only makes it more suspicious.

    “I am the father you deserve.” As an eight year old, excited to be out of Wool’s, he hadn’t given much thought to how odd of a response that was to Tom’s inquires.

    And yet, when Tom had asked for his name- “you already know my name, child.”

    Tom Riddle. Tom knew that name, because he had known from the orphanage that was his father’s name. That Tom was named after him. They are both Gaunt now, but once they were both Riddle and how can they not be father and son?

    So, he allows himself to operate under the assumption that Marvolo is, in fact, his father and pushes his doubts out of his head. His overcrowded head, there’s so much in it, he hardly needs any more.

    (-)

    When Slughorn tells them they are old enough to bring dates to his parties, Tom knows he’s expected to show up with someone. He hides under this excuse, that he’s somehow forced into it, comforting to societal expectations. It is a free pass to give in to his urges.

    He settles on a Hufflepuff Prefect, blonde, brown eyed, always smiling at him as they pass each other in the hallway. He thinks it through, this time. Clara is naive and easy going, a half blood that isn’t under such strict rules, bound by tradition and family pressure. Her reputation will not be ruined, life left in tatters, if she is caught kissing a boy.

    Walburga, like many other high born girls in Slytherin, had been promised away for marriage since before she started Hogwarts. There’s nothing Tom can find there, for himself, without consequences.

    Clara is nice, boring, obnoxiously cheery but she says nothing when some dates later Tom’s hands wander in place perhaps they shouldn’t. She’s pliable and eager to please him and that suits Tom just fine, though he makes sure she wants all he’s doing to her. It is very important to him and he stresses it several times. The priest doesn’t bother him again, back into the recession of Tom’s mind.

    Finding places to be alone is difficult, and they definitely need privacy for their activities. She’s a Prefect, allowed to wander the hallways for a couple hours after curfew, on her rounds, and Tom is so proficient at casting the Disillusionment Charm it is not a problem to sneak out, not with all his experience.

    The girls bathroom on the second floor is just on her route, and not too far from the dungeons, so they end up there, eventually.

    That is how Tom finds the Chamber of Secrets.

    (-)

    “Do you know,” Tom starts, watching Marvolo with anticipation. “What laid dormant in the Chamber of Secrets?” He pauses for a few seconds, for a dramatic reveal. "The King of Snakes.”

    Well, the Queen in this case.

    “Already?” Marvolo is surprised, but only a little. Definitely not as much as he should.

    “A basilisk! A fifty feet, one thousand year old basilisk!”

    “You woke her?” Marvolo looks a little concerned now.

    How do you know it’s a she, when she told me she has been asleep for one thousand years? Tom is getting older; it is not as easy for him to accept that Marvolo just knows things, things he has no business knowing.

    “Of course I woke her. You wouldn’t have?”

    Marvolo dismisses the question. “I wouldn’t have left, with her awake.”

    Tom rolls his eyes. As if he’s that stupid, to leave a basilisk roaming the school, with him gone. “I put her back to sleep. She kept insisting she’s very hungry so I thought it best this way.”

    Now it’s Marvolo that’s watching Tom carefully. “Will you wake her again?” he asks, after a few seconds.

    Tom isn’t certain. He says so.

    Marvolo doesn’t blink, doesn't even seem to breathe. Long minutes pass, the grandfather clock ticking them away, each tick louder than the last, it seems to Tom.

    “Don’t,” Marvolo says, voice low and soft. Pensive.

    “Why?” Tom asks just as quietly. Another long stretch of silence. Tom feels this is very important, Marvolo is tense, focused.

    “You think you can control her, but you can’t. Not really. She will slip away from you.” A shiver goes down Tom’s back. He can imagine it-what could happen if his arrogance gets the better of him. If he loses control of her. “Even for a Parselmouth, a basilisk takes a lot of experience to deal with. Trust me.”

    Tom had felt it-he’d never be in danger, she recognises his blood, she can’t hurt him. But it had been difficult to reign her in. She was very insistent on food -give me a mudblood, master- she was recalcitrant and that never happened to him, with any other snake. Tom looks at Atlas, curled on the floor, and he knows Atlas would starve himself, were Tom to demand it.

    “I trust you,” Tom says, perhaps naively. Marvolo is not trustworthy and Tom imagines dozens of people have said those exact words to him, before dying at his hands.

    He avoids Tom’s questions, he hides things and yet Tom knows, as certain as he’d been with the basilisk, that this man will not hurt him. He also knows he can’t control Marvolo, no more then he can the basilisk.

    “I will let her sleep.”

    Marvolo nods, once. The tension dissipates.

    “I do hope you will not go to Dumbledore with it, this time,” he says, voice full of sarcasm.

    “It was just a stupid trap door!” Tom exclaims, a little too hotly. “Of course I wouldn’t tell anyone about this.”

    “It would make you famous.”

    “I am famous. Besides, they’ll kill her if they find her.” Uncooperative as she’d been, Tom doesn’t want her harmed, for simply existing.

    “How did you find it?” Marvolo asks.

    “I just stumbled on it.” It is the truth, after all.

    Marvolo blinks at him. He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You just stumbled on the Chamber of Secrets?”

    “Pretty much.”

    “You are full of good fortune, it seems,” Marvolo comments. He looks peeved about it.

    Just as Tom opens up a book, when enough time had passed in silence that he’d figured they are done talking, Marvolo speaks again.

    “What were you doing in a girls bathroom?”

    Oh. Well. Tom feels some heat traveling to his cheeks. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, he tells himself.

    “You know... “ he says, hoping it will be enough.

    “No.” Marvolo frowns.

    Shouldn’t it be implied, Tom wonders. And I never told you the Chamber's entrance is in a girls bathroom. Perhaps Marvolo knows this from a long lost book or something. He is also Slytherin's Heir, even if he went to Durmstrang. Perhaps the Gaunts had always had this secret, passed down, generation to generation. 

    “What could I possibly be doing in a girls bathroom, in the middle of the night?”

    “I do not know.”

    Right. Marvolo, for all his intelligence, can be really clueless on occasion, on social matters.

    Tom sighs, pulls back his shoulders, sitting straighter. “I was with a girl.”

    Marvolo looks far more surprised over this mundane piece of information, than he’d been about an XXXXX class dangerous creature living in a boarding school.

    “You were with a girl,” he repeats, slowly.

    Tom nods, looking away from those red eyes and the intensity they carry.

    “What girl?”

    “Her name is Clara. She’s a fifth year Hufflepuff. You wouldn’t know her, her dad is a muggle. I know,” Tom raises a hand, defensive, though Marvolo is yet to reprimand him. “I know. Half blood, abomination and so forth. But it’s easier than seeing a Slytherin pureblood.”

    “I am a half blood,” Marvolo reminds him. Tom had half forgotten that fact, what with the fake story he’s been telling people and the way Marvolo can go on forever when he starts ranting against anything muggle. Tom realises he’s just called Marvolo an abomination, even in jest, and he cringes, inwardly.

    “Right. Yes. Well. That's -that’s Clara.” He hates stumbling over words. He’s not a nervous talker, unless he’s talking to Marvolo. “It just seemed an easier choice. Waly’s far more interesting, truth be told, but with Orion and everything-no point in taking it further than a kiss.”

    “Waly?” There’s big reaction from Marvolo. Tom has never seen him so animated. He looks downright incredulous. “Walburga Black? You kissed Walburga Black?” Marvolo’s shocked.“What’s wrong with you?”

    Tom gets a little defensive. “What? She’s a beautiful girl, you know?”

    Marvolo keeps staring at him, for once too out of sorts to talk. Tom keeps himself from shifting uncomfortably. This is, however, a prime opportunity, perhaps unique, to try and get some sort of answer, to take advantage of how unfocused Marvolo appears.

    “You don’t-” Tom starts, bites his lip. “I mean, I’ve noticed you don’t necessarily enjoy female company.”

    “How observant,” Marvolo drawls out, slowly, but his face starts resuming it’s usual blank expression. “And you enjoy it far too soon.”

    Are you my father?Tom wants to scream. How did you meet my mother? Are you capable of feeling something, anything, for anyone in this world? He stills his tongue.

    “After a while, dark magic takes away appetite for food or fine drinks. Dulls necessities like sleep or any other bodily needs,” Marvolo says, back in teacher mood.

    Perhaps Tom should reconsider this passion for dark arts, if that’s the case. He enjoys his food, his sleep and especially he enjoys Clara.

    A small smile spreads over Marvolo’s face, at Tom’s probably horrified expression. “It does not stop you, from any of those things. It is just not as...pressing, shall I say. “

    Tom breathes out, relieved, takes a sip out of his pumpkin juice, spiced with cinnamon, just to make sure he still likes it.

    “As it happens, the last woman I enjoyed was also a Black, by birth if not by name.”

    The juice turns sour in his mouth. He barely avoids spitting it out. Jealousy hits him hard and unexpected. He instantly hates this woman, that got to be so close to Marvolo, who keeps himself so distanced from Tom. It passes. A momentary madness. Curiosity comes next. He goes over the Black family tree, in his head, trying to find the culprit. There are several options, each more unlikely than the other.

    “Who?”

    He receives a smirk and realises Marvolo enjoys messing with Tom. “A gentleman never tells.”

    “You’re no gentleman,” Tom spits. Sure, Marvolo looks the part, out in society, but Tom knows better.

    “Do I need to teach you a contraception spell?” Marvolo asks instead.

    “Got it covered.”

    Marvolo nods.

    “Speaking of ungentlemanly things,” Tom says, annoyed to be refused again. “There seem to be a lot of suspicious deaths going around. Happen to know something about it?”

    The smirk doesn’t go away. “Do you not read the papers?” Marvolo counters, but there’s a satisfied tone in his voice.

    “I’m as convinced it was Grindelwald or his supporters as Dumbledore is. Which is to say, not at all.”

    “That meddling fool.” The smirk is gone, replaced by a sneer.

    “He is meddling,” Tom admits. “Lately, everywhere we go, there he is. Watching. He’s on to us, only he can’t prove it.”

    Dumbledore usually kind eyes are now filled with suspicion. He’s not yet sure, about Tom, though he’s colder than he used to be. But he is certain some in Tom’s group, Lestrange especially, are behind the little mishaps going on around the school. Tom’s starting to understand, where Marvolo is coming from, concerning the Professor.

    (-)

    “Have you heard of Lord Voldemort?” Abraxas asks, keeping his voice low even if they are alone, in the Malfoy’s Manor winter garden.

    “No.” The name prickles at his mind but Tom would have remembered something like this.

    “Father was talking about him, with Mr. Nott, the other day. Whispering. Seems like serious business.”

    Alphard nods. “You know, I think I remember that name. I’m not sure, by my father was telling Uncle Arcturus that this Lord would not be pleased upon learning something. I think it was Voldemort. But I can’t quite remember. It was a couple years ago.”

    “Perhaps a foreign wizard. We gave up on titles a few years ago,” Abraxas offers.

    “Clearly french,” Alphard points out.

    Flight of Death. Tom quite likes the name.

    “The french gave up on titles even longer than us brits. You should ask your father, Tom,” Abraxas says, extracting a bottle of firewhisky from his robe, that Tom assumes he stole from the New Year party taking place back at the Manor. “He tells you loads of stuff our fathers never would.”

    Tom refuses a conjured glass Abraxas offers him. Alphard gladly takes it.

    “You know who still uses titles?” Alphard asks, some half an hour later.

    “Russia, half of the countries in Africa, Iceland-” Abraxas starts enumerating.

    “Dark Lords.” Alphard cuts over him.

    Abraxas makes a face. “Come off of it. There’s already Grindelwald wrecking havoc on the continent. What are the chances two dark lords are running loose at the same time?”

    “Pretty high,” Tom answers, glancing at the Manor looming in the distance. “Don’t you read the newspapers? There’s one trying to rise in Grece.”

    Abraxas waves a hand, in dismissal. “A dark wizard. Plenty of those. Dark Lords, though, pretty rare.”

    “Why didn’t you take me with you?” Walburga yells as she approaches, pulling her clock tight around her. “Left me alone with those stuck up fools and blithering idiots. Are you drinking?”

    Alphard groans. “Well, it is Tom’s birthday. We’re celebrating him. How many times does a lad turn fifteen, after all?”

    (-)

    “Three-two-one!”

    Cheers go up in time with fireworks exploding in the sky.

    “To a great year!” Abraxas says, mildly drunk, patting Tom and Alphard on the back.

    Alphard, not very sober himself stumbles into Rodolphus, who was trying to catch an older girl under a conveniently placed mistletoe.

    People are hugging and kissing everywhere, men are shaking hands. Well wishes are made, magic high in the air.

    Marvolo stands alone, at the end of the terrace, looking at the sky. There’s always been a distance, between him and others. Tom never fully appreciated it as he does then, stuck in a cheery, loud crowd seeing Marvolo so separated, even if he’s only some ten feet away.

    Tom knows Marvolo prefers it this way, that Marvolo is losing patience with every ball, every function, it’s harder and harder for him to pretend he desires any sort of interaction, his fake smiles are even rarer, his tone gets more clipped at each event.

    It makes Tom sad. He’s not a people person himself, but he grew accustomed to having others chatting around him, he partakes in their inane conversations on occasion and even though he still needs plenty of space and gets tired of them after prolonged exposure he still wants them to be there, when the fancy strikes him.

    Marvolo, standing to the side, divorced from the rest of the crowd reminds Tom of himself, back at Wool’s. It had been his choice, or at least he likes to think so, but he remembers that crushing feeling that he does not belong anywhere.

    Tom extracts himself from Mrs. Malfoy’s arms and walks over to Marvolo, stoping when he’s so close, a deep breath would make them touch.

    “Happy New Year,” he says, honestly, wanting deeply for Marvolo to be happy, even for a second.

    Tom would do anything to bring some joy into this man’s life.

    Marvolo regards him in silence. And then, a small smile.

    Tom smiles back, the fireworks still lighting up the sky. Maybe this year, he’ll get his wish.

    (-)

    “How do I trick a boggart?” he asks Marvolo who doesn’t even look up at him, writing down some symbols on a map.

    “With Occlumency. Shield your mind, dull your senses and allow it to latch onto an invented fear.”

    Tom nods, relived. He can do that. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

    Marvolo draws a straight line. Tom tries to get a better look, but he doesn’t recognise what the map is supposed to be of .

    “It would have come to you, I have no doubt.”

    Tom turns to his notebook, that holds all the spells he is working on as well as the plans for the “study” group meetings. They need to find a permanent place to meet in. It’s tiring, having to sneak around all over the castle, and more and more dangerous, with the way Dumbledore is sniffing around them.

    “People have stupid fears,” he says some time later, when no idea comes to him. ”Everyone in my class, that got to face the boggart- Snakes or clowns or cursed objects, being poor-all things that could be conquered easily with magic.” He’s still miffed no one fears death, the only enemy it seems impossible to fight against. Is he weak? But no-no, everyone wants to live, surely-

    “These are mostly spoiled children,” Marvolo speaks and this time he is looking at Tom.

    He’s immortal. He conquered Death. And he will one day, presumably, teach Tom to do the same.

    “Even if not rich, they have been coddled, protected from harsh realities. They had not been exposed to death.”  

    Of course Marvolo would know that’s Tom’s biggest fear. Tom looks away. And then he speaks, against his will, the words just come out in an attempt to justify it, to make Marvolo understand.

    “There was this boy, at Wool’s. Jimmy.” Tom can still see his face. “He was sharing my room. An influenza epidemic started, as it did each year.”

    Every winter, like clock work. Tom would start to feel the dread as soon as august ended. Sat waiting for that first cough.

    The universal sound of death.

    “Every year someone died. But that particular year, it was worse than ever.” Tom had been six years old. Jimmy had just turned eight, an obnoxious boy, meek and soft spoken, too cowardly to fight for his food. “The whole orphanage was so still. So quiet. All we heard was the cough. I saw, from my window, how they’d get the dead ones out the door. The priest was walking around, giving last rites.”

    The priest hadn’t done anything to Tom, at that time. He seemed kindly, with his blue eyes, with his long auburn beard. Sometimes he’d sit at a child’s bedside, say a preyer and the child would get better. Tom had still believed in God. Had believed in the power the priest had, to keep him alive.

    He shakes his head, dispelling the thought. “Jimmy got sick. And I was trapped there with him, they wouldn’t let me out of the room, trying to stop the spread, that cow said, even if there were few healthy left to infect. So I watched him as he got weaker. I listened how he fought for breath, at night. The medicine wasn’t helping him any. He got so hot I could feel him from my bed. The priest came but didn’t cure him. One night, Jimmy tried to sit up, clutching at his chest, breath rattling in it. I could hear the water in his lungs. He looked at me-"

    And Tom had looked back, petrified. Jimmy’s eyes were wide with terror. He tried to reach out for Tom. His skin was getting blue-

    “He died.” Tom feels cold, even if he’s sitting with his back to the fireplace. Atlas looks up, tongue flickering, probably smelling the fear coming from Tom.

    “Muggle ailments cannot kill a wizard.” Marvolo’s voice snaps Tom out of a trance like feeling.

    “I know that now.”

    Marvolo watches Tom, for a very long time. He seems fascinated. He’s even leaning forward, in his chair, closer to Tom. The flames from the fire dance in his eyes. In that light, Tom can almost see some brown mixed in all the red.

    If he hadn’t come for Tom, there would have been three more winters, to go through. And by that time, he’d have already learned the priest had no power-well, he had power over Tom, but he didn’t have a godly power to cure. Even that small hope for divine rescue would have gone away. World War Two would have started, the Blitz-

    “I will not let you die,” Marvolo says, heated.

    (-)

    “I’ve brought a boggart for you to practice with. It’s in the dungeon,” Marvolo announces two nights before Tom is set to depart for Hogwarts, to finish his fourth year.

    Tom nods, a knot in his throat. He doesn’t want to go face his own dead body. Especially not in the dungeon. But he has to. Better to fail here, in his own house, in case his Occlumency is not up to par, than in front of his class and teacher.

    “Do you require my assistance?” Marvolo asks, a little awkward, and at the last second, just as Tom was heading down the stairs, as if it only then it occurred to him.

    Tom would like that, yes. But he’d rather have his teeth pulled out than to say it. To admit that at fifteen, he’s scared of a boggart.

    “It’s not necessary,” he lies.

    It is cold in the dungeon; as soon as he steps inside it, he remembers that flash of green, the empty eyes of the Muggle- He ignores it, focuses on the cabinet that’s rattling around in the corner. Tom is apprehensive. He empties his mind, or tries to. He never has problems with it but of course, there is a first for everything, and it had to happen now.

    Eventually, he feels confident enough to open the small doors, a clear picture of Slughorn telling him he got an "A", in his otherwise shielded mind.

    And there Slughorn comes, paper in hand and Tom is so ecstatic, so relived that it had worked-his shield cracks and -

    There’s a dead body on the floor, he can see the robe, the feet -

    Tom covers his face, like a child, not wanting to see further. He breathes out, hard. He wants to run away back upstairs but no, he can’t. It’s just a stupid Boggart. Marvolo will think him weak. He tries to bring back his shields, but his mind is filled with those dead legs, so afraid to see the rest.

    Calm. You can do anything. Tom breaths, in and out. But his Occlumency is failing him. Changing tactics, Tom tells himself he’s a man, soon to be an adult. Certainly, he can face his own fear. That should make him fear it less, right? That’s what Dumbledore says.

    Tom opens his eyes and sees nothing, because they’re still covered by his hands. Slowly, he lets them move away.

    The dead body is still there. Tom looks.

    Marvolo’s red eyes are empty, opaque, absolutely nothing behind them.

    Tom cannot think, cannot look away, paralysed with terror. A distant voice in his head yells at him to turn and run but he can’t move. Time stops meaning anything. It feels like he has been there forever. Like he was born there and he will die there.

    Someone lifts him up and only than he realises he’d been kneeling. He turns and looks into red eyes, filled with life and intelligence and Tom shudders in relief.

    But the eyes aren’t focused on him, they’re looking behind Tom, so many emotions in them, it’s impossible to catch them all.

    He leans in, wanting to be close, needing to be close. It’s not an embrace. He just walks right into Marvolo. Tom doesn’t close his arms around him and Marvolo certainly doesn’t do it either, though Tom would really want that. Had wanted that since he was a child. However, it’s fine. He can feel Marvolo’s heartbeat this close, slow and steady and that’s all that matters. Marvolo alive and there, with Tom.

    Magic rushes in the air, so familiar to him, as familiar as his own. Marvolo steps back.

    Tom pulls himself together. He turns, weary, but there’s nothing there anymore. “You should have told me you can just get rid of it,” he says, and he’s proud his voice sounds normal.

    “Your teacher would demand to know how you learned to do that. It is against the law. You need special authorisation to discard of Boggarts.” There are no inflections in his voice either.

    Tom nods. He wants to go upstairs. He could, of course, no one is stoping him, but he needs to be around Marvolo, more than usual.

    “It worked, for a second. Slughorn came out with an Acceptable as my grade.”

    “It will work.”

    “I hope so,” Tom says, thinking maybe he’ll just skip it, get a low grade in something for once. It is preferable to this.

    “I had to face a Boggart in class, when I was your age. I did it, so will you.”

    Tom looks at him, but Marvolo’s still staring at the floor, where the body used to be. Must have been jarring. Tom though that would be the worst thing in the world, to see your own dead body, and it certainly remains a horrific concept, but Dumbledore was right. There are some things worse than death.

    Being alone. Without Marvolo. Having to spend his life adrift.

    “I’m not as good as you are,” Tom says, without any resentment this time. He’s too busy being grateful Marvolo exists, to be able to hold any negative emotions towards him. “At anything.”

    “You are exactly as good as I.” Marvolo is still eyeing the floor. “Perhaps a little….different. Some deviations. But the same, in essence,” he says, seeming distracted.

    “If I were like you, I wouldn’t fear anything.” Tom says. When he had had that bizarre dream, with the priest, Jesus turning into Marvolo, Tom had been Marvolo, for a second and he had been fearless. Such a freeing experience. He would give anything, to be like that.

    That makes Marvolo look up. “We fear exactly the same thing, child,” he says, and there’s a note of wonder in his voice. “Me, dead.” 

Chapter Text

    Usually, Bitsy apparates Tom to King’s Cross, to catch the train. This time, however, Marvolo takes him. It’s snowing as he climbs into the train and he lingers at the door, one of the last to get in, unwilling to lose sight of Marvolo, who stays on the platform until the train gains speed. 

    A barrier had fallen, between them. Marvolo telling him what his biggest fear is surely proves that he trusts Tom as much as Tom trusts him. 

    Next time they see each other, Tom swears to himself he’ll ask about his mother once more. This time, he might even get an answer. 

    He invites Mulciber, a sixth year, to their study group. Nott is next-somewhat tricky, what with him being a Ravenclaw, but Tom is determined not to let himself be blinded by House colours. Sure, Slytherin is best, but there are valuable people everywhere and Nott is one of them. 

    Every time Tom passes by the girls bathroom on the second floor, his brain itches, urging him on, wanting to speak to the basilisk again- but he promised Marvolo he wouldn’t, so he doesn’t. 

(-)

    Clara is found unconscious, in the middle of a corridor. The Matron is quite stumped, doesn’t know what curse could have caused those effects. 

    Tom knows very well, since he himself invented it, during the last semester. He’d shown it to his group, and only his group. 

    “Don’t do it again.” He takes Walburga aside, when she enters the Common Room that night, after her Prefect rounds. 

    She gives him an insolent look, unabashed, that infuriating smirk on her full, pouty lips.  

    “Or what?” she challenges him.

    Tom’s furious to be questioned this way. Even more furious that it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. He knows were it any of the boys to talk back to him so boldly, he’d be flying off the handle. But this is not one of the boys and Tom tends to forgive Walburga easily.  

    “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” 

    She laughs. “I’m not jealous. Not everything in the world is about you, Tom. She and I had a disagreement in a Prefect meeting, is all.” 

    “Don’t lie to me, Walburga. I don’t care for it,” he warns. 

    “And I don’t care about what you care!” she hisses, smile gone, eyes sparkling. “Aren’t you a sight, worried about your airheaded sweetheart.” 

    “Do I look worried?” 

    Tom doesn’t care, about Clara. She’s fine, after all. It’s how reckless Walburga is, with the things he teaches her, that is bothersome.

    Most of all, is the way she disobeys him, with impunity.

    “You look pathetic, is what you look,” she barks at him. 

    Tom stands, wand already in his hand. He’s not sure what he’s about to do, but he doesn’t get to do it, because the portrait opens and the other Slytherin Prefects come through it. 

    (-)

    Like most fights with Walburga, it just passes somehow. They avoid each other for a few days and then they talk, by mistake, and it all goes away. 

   She doesn’t curse Clara again and at least had been careful because Clara has no idea who might have done it. 

    “I don’t have any enemies,” she says. “I try not to upset anyone.” 

    “All sorts of wrong people around,” Tom says with a fake sigh. 

    It’s been harder than he though, having to pretend to be worried over someone. 

    She’s tiring and Tom has to listen to her inane thoughts, on occasion. But she’s useful too, she shows Tom the kitchens and how to access them, she keeps him up to date with the password to the Prefects Bathroom. Of course, Tom could get that from the Prefects in his own House, but it changes often and it’s good Clara already knows them all. They go there often. 

    (-)

    The shadows dance on the walls as he tries to sleep, each night, long limbed and undulating, inching closer and closer to Tom’s bed. He spends hours watching them, until the sun lights up the lake and the shadows dissipate. 

     Where do they go? Tom wonders, dark circles under his eyes deepening with every passing day.

    In the restricted section, where he spends most of his sleepless nights, hidden behind other heavy tomes, Tom finds 'Secrets of the Darkest Arts'. 

    It is protected by some long ago cast charms, warded with ‘notice-me-not’ spells, but they only serve to attract Tom’s notice when he finally feels the disturbance in the air around it and becomes curious why someone would bother to try and hide a book. 

    He learns why as he reads about immortality. 

    When the sun rises and he makes his way, stealthily, back to the Common Room, he wonders who in their right mind would keep a book like that in a school, of all places. 

    (-)

    “There’s so many snakes out there, Tom! Magical ones,” Hagrid says, sitting on the ground besides Tom, who’s trying to write his homework by the great lake. 

    “Sneaked out again, did you?” 

     Hagrid is famous for wandering in the forbidden forest. And because wizards lack logic, he’s often punished for it, by sending him into the forbidden forest. 

    “So many creatures! I saw a unicorn! He let me pet him. They’re so beautiful.” 

    “You’ll find your death out there,” Tom says, without looking up. 

    “No way! Animals are better than humans. They don’t hurt people for no reason. I like their company better than the rest of the students.” 

    Tom doesn’t like that he has anything in common with the nitwit. 

    “They don’t like me. Students, I mean. It’s hard to make friends.” 

    “You shouldn’t be seen talking to me. It will not endear you to your housemates,” Tom advises. Not that he cares about Hagrid’s reputation. 

    Tom cares about his own, he’s the one that doesn’t want to be seen around Hagrid, but he’s also building a reputation for being nice and trustworthy, so he needs to find a gentle way to get the giant off his back. 

    “Loads of Gryffindors like you! They say you’re the only good snake they ever met. And I don’t care, anyway. What they say. I like you. You’re my friend.” 

    Hagrid is hopelessly naive. Friends, really. “That’s nice, Hagrid. You’re a good kid. But I am really busy with my homework so, if you don’t mind-“ 

    “Oh! Sure thing Tom! Sorry for interruptin’ you. See you around!” 

    Tom barely gets to read a sentence before Clara replaces Hagrid at his side.

    “You’re so kind,” she says. “To take that poor boy under your wing.” 

    Merlin, but he can’t escape idiots. Clara is really getting irksome. She wants to talk about feelings now, plans of the future and Tom can’t run away fast enough. 

    Once more, he’s hindered by his good guy extraordinaire persona. He can’t just curse her away from him, like he wants to. Instead, he needs to find a nice way to break it off with her. 

    Only there is no nice way to reject someone. There could be, but Tom’s skin itches at the mere idea of sitting her down and finding gentle ways to rebut her, maybe take the blame on himself. 

    So he does the next best thing. Sure, he’s a nice guy, but he’s a teenager. There are certain liberties that he can take, on account of that, without ruining his image. 

    After all teenage boys are known for being insensitive and having short attention span, so Tom simply asks a Ravenclaw out on a date to Hogsmeade. 

    He actually has a nice day. The girl is very sharp, unlike Clara, and Tom debates with her for hours on the merits of elemental runes. 

    “Nott speaks highly of you and he doesn’t speak well of anyone,” she says, while walking back to the castle. “I was curious to see for myself. But this is O.W.L year for me, I hope you don’t mind, I have to focus.”  

    Tom picked her especially because of that. Nott had been helpful to advise him on which girl is more unlikely to attach herself to Tom after one date. 

    “Of course. Intellectual pursuits are far more important than anything else,” he agrees.

    She smiles, honestly, and they agree to remain friends.

    By night time, Clara already found out about it.  

    “It’s hilarious,” Abraxas laughs, sprawled over a couch. The best couch, by the fireplace. Tom’s group had taken over the most wanted seats and no one dared comment on it, not even the older students. The Prefects and the Head Boy go out of their way to ignore all complains other Slytherins might have. No one wants to upset a group that contains so many old family names, the most influential ones in their society. “She’s posted outside our Common Room, crying.”

    “Waly, go send her away,” Tom urges. 

    “I though I was to leave her alone.” Walburga smirks at him, braiding her hair.

    “You’re a Prefect, a Slytherin Prefect and she’s not allowed to just stand there, harassing people.” 

    “Or you can just go and talk to her, like a man,” she suggests. 

    All the boys shake their heads. It appears none would like the prospect of talking to a hysterical girl. 

    Tom wouldn’t mind, per se. Only he doesn’t do well in confrontations. Oh, sure, he can exchange witty insults with anyone. He can defeat all others in a duel. But dealing with feelings, he can’t. He’ll end up cursing her and he can’t do that. 

    In the end, Slughorn himself has to remove Clara from the dungeons, pretends to lecture Tom about it, afterwards, but the amused smile keeps breaking the serious facade he’s trying to maintain.

    She tries to talk to Tom, during the following days, but Tom allows Lestrange to be as unpleasant as he is capable and that eventually puts her off. 

    Tom faces the Boggart, with trepidation, but his mental shields hold this time and a harmless image of Slughorn gives him a poor grade. Tom doesn’t even pretend to be upset about it as he gets rid of it. 

    Abraxas and Lestrange choose equally silly fake fears, because Tom had helped them practice Occlumency. 

    Merrythought eyes them with suspicion but awards them all Outstanding. 

(-)

    “Slughorn wrote to inform me of your lady woes,” Marvolo comments as he stays under the sun, arranging some runes around. 

    “Great,” Tom sighs. He’s tired, trapped in a constant state of exhaustion. But he’s finally home. He hopes he will rest easier, in his own bedroom.  

    “Perhaps now you learned to stay away from entanglements. They only bring unnecessary headaches.” 

    “As if Clara wasn’t enough, I’ve got this giant trailing after me.” Tom discards his school robe and sits close to Marvolo, trying to discern the patters the runes are making.

    Marvolo looks up. “Who?” 

    “Hagrid. He actually is part giant and obsessed with creatures that would like nothing better than to eat him. A snake bit him, last year, and I was helping the snake but -since then, he’s my devoted fan.” 

    “I cannot imagine how you get yourself into these situations.” 

    “You told me to play nice. This is what happens when you’re nice to people. They start liking you.” 

    Marvolo gives him a pensive look. “You are too nice.” 

    “Fine, I’ll curse a first year Hufflepuff to smithereens, that should help,” Tom offers, smiling. 

    It’s so good to be home. He’s already more relaxed than he’d been in weeks, tension slowly leaving his neck and shoulders.

    “There is a middle ground. Be polite. But cold.” 

    “I am!” Tom assures him. “I don’t encourage this closeness.” 

    “One would say sneaking out with a girl in bathrooms after curfew does encourage a certain closeness.”  

    As Marvolo becomes more comfortable around Tom, though it’s such a lengthy process, different parts of his personality emerge. Like the sarcastic, teasing part he employs now. Tom loves it, even though he’s getting mocked. 

    “I’ll just keep Waly around. She’s so unpleasant, people keep their distance.” 

    “She is that,” Marvolo agrees, gathering the runes and placing them neatly in a pouch.“I wonder why you don’t want to keep your distance.”  

    That’s a complicated issue, with many layers. “I do. I tell her off plenty of times, when she grates on my nerves.” 

    “Hmm.” Marvolo looks displeased and unconvinced. 

(-)

    The continent is starving-the muggle side of it, in any case, as the war wages with no end in sight. Tom doesn’t want to think what it would be like to be trapped in Wool’s for the summer. 

    He still has trouble sleeping. The shadows follow him in his own bedroom. They aren’t the reason he cannot rest-they don’t frighten him. He simply is unable to sleep, his mind refuses to shut down, more wary of what he could dream than anything else. Yet it seems even awake, the dreams still try to come to life on his walls or any reflective surface. He plunges the room in complete darkness, but somehow he can still see the shadows, lingering. 

    With the Germans focused on the Russians, London is safer than it’s been in a while. Tom is more confident in his ability to protect himself, too. He sometimes asks Bitsy to take him to London, and he spends hours prowling the city, at night. He takes familiar routes, that he’d walked so many times as a child.

    Ruins and debris are prevalent. Many homeless muggles mill about with vacant expressions and empty bellies. They are tired and fearful, agitated and violent. 

    But London still stands, battered but proud. And already she’s being built anew. 

    Tom looks around him at the bowed down old buildings, at the new one rising in the distance, hears the cries that pierce the night, the shouts and ramblings of people that had lost everything. 

    War is devastating, he thinks. But also beautiful. The destruction scourged the old, weeded out the weak and offers the strongest among them, the survivors, a chance to be greater, to build higher. 

    London’s streets had always been a refuge, somewhere he could get lost in, when he needed. It would takes days, for a policeman to retrieve him and drag him to Wool’s. That, or hunger drove him back.

    Now, he seeks refuge from his dreams or from the shadows in his room, walking aimlessly, hours on end.

    No one bothers him. No one even sees him. Tom doesn’t use his wand. Only his will. He doesn’t want to be seen, so he isn’t. 

    He’s always been special. 

 (-)

    “What did you like about my mother?” Tom asks, directly. He can’t stop thinking about it and he’d promised himself he’d ask, this summer. 

    He’s standing in the doorway to the library, eyes glued on Marvolo.

    “Not this again.” Marvolo’s jaw twitches and he signs one of his documents with unnecessary force. Tom can hear the quill ripping through the parchment. “She’s dead. You have no use of her. Why are you incapable to let go? You have all you need. A house, a name. Me.”

    “It’s not about her,” Tom says, frustrated. He does want to know more about the woman that gave him life, but he is more concerned over the doubts he has over Marvolo being his father.”I just-I don’t see any way in which a man could find her appealing enough to marry and procreate with.” 

    With that sentence, Tom is challenging all Marvolo had alluded to in all these years and that is sure to displease the older man. Tom is afraid to know the answer and yet-yet he must, so he goes on, stubbornly meeting those red eyes, even though it’s hard to do so. 

    “Slughorn said that the Gaunts were impoverished and mad, with no education or talent and she was so ugly, so-“ 

    Marvolo stands, abruptly. The air in the room turns heavier with magic and rage. Tom’s instincts beg him to desist or if not, to take hold of his wand. He ignores both urges, standing his ground. 

    “Oh, she was talented,” Marvolo spits. 

    Tom is surprised. Hopeful. At least he acknowledged Merope, which is a first, outside that outburst in the gardens, years before, when he called her a waste of oxygen. 

    “She was?” 

    Maybe she had been, maybe, despite appearances, she’d been a powerful witch and that could attract Marvolo-

    “Yes,” Marvolo hisses. “With love potions.” 

    Tom’s world falls apart. 

(-)

    He can’t eat. He’s hungry and that makes him panic, but he is extremely nauseous, the mere thought of food turns his stomach.

    His eyes are almost as red as Marvolo’s, because he refuses to even attempt to sleep, forgoing even the couple of hours of rest per night that he usually gets.     

    Love Potions. 

    It is such an easy answer, to all his questions. A relief, because it makes sense, it explains everything- how a man like Marvolo would end up with a woman like her. Why Marvolo hates her so much that he can’t even talk about her. Why he didn’t want Tom to find out anything. Why he doesn’t trust anyone. It even explains why Tom was abandoned. Perhaps Marvolo had broken free of her influence and fled, without knowing she was pregnant-

    But no, no. If he’d broken free, he wouldn’t have left her alive. Marvolo is not the forgiving type, especially concerning something like this. Maybe he allowed her to live because she was pregnant. He just couldn’t make himself raise the child of a rapist. 

    Or perhaps Marvolo hadn’t always been so cold and ruthless; maybe once, before Merope, he’d been different. 

    Besides, Tom knows how it is, to not be able to fight back. Tom had had magic, he had no trouble using it to steal, or to use it again the other children at Wool’s but with the priest, Tom was always frozen in fear, couldn’t use it, for whatever reason. 

    Perhaps that’s what happened to Marvolo. He somehow broke free and all he could do, was run. 

    That’s not Marvolo, A voice insists. 

    But it could have been. Maybe that is what pushed Marvolo to the Dark Arts. A need to make sure he becomes so powerful, no one can bewitch him or hurt him ever again; the same need Tom has.

    He doesn’t know. All he can do, is guess. Because he will not ask again. Tom knows it’s impossible to talk about something like that, he can’t mention the priest in any way, the shame and anger too much to handle, so he will not put Mavrolo through this. He already had, with his stupid, insistent questions and he’s so sorry for it now.

    Tom takes her picture from his locket and rips it into pieces. He’d carried so much guilt around, as a young boy, for killing his mother. 

    Now he’s glad of it, he’d kill her again, if he could. It feels like justice that he was the one to end her life. 

    Tom got to revenge Marvolo. 

    (-)

    He is brewing The Draught of Living Death, because he knows he needs sleep and that’s harder and harder to achieve naturally. 

    “Who will you test it on?” Marvolo asks, when he enters the small but neat room they use for brewing to tend to his own potion, a tar black thing Tom can’t even begin to guess what it’s supposed to do.

    It’s been days since last they spoke. Tom had tried to seek him out, but Marvolo’s been avoiding him. Tom would tell him there is no need. He’s good at pretending and he’ll do just that, he’ll ignore their last conversation without issues.  

    “I don’t need to test it on anyone,” Tom brags, determined to have everything back to normal and glad Marvolo had ended his isolation. “I’m perfectly capable to successfully brew such a simple potion.” He adds the Valerian roots, cut with precision. He stirs, clockwise, mindful to not go too fast. “On Bitsy,” he admits, when silence settles between them.  

    “You cannot drink it too often,” Marvolo says, brushing past Tom to get to his own table.

    “I know,” Tom answers and turns to look at him, prepared to tell him he’s not an idiot, if he’s brewing the thing than he fully knows all there is to know about it.

    The words fly right off his head, because Marvolo had removed his robe, for the first time ever and is rolling back the sleeves of his shirt. 

    He’s so thin, Tom is shocked speechless. He was always aware, that Marvolo is slender, but in his robe, in the suits he sometimes wears in the muggle world or at various functions it doesn’t look quite as harrowing as it does in just a simple shirt.

    Marvolo is downright skeletal. He looks starved. Which, of course, he would be, since he never eats a thing. 

    A sharp ache strikes Tom, right under his ribs. And that’s before he even notices the thick scar, starting at Marovlo’s left wrist and going up, only growing thicker, disappearing at the elbow, not because it ends, but because the shirt covers it. 

    “Who did that?” Tom growls. The anger in his voice surprises even him. Marvolo looks up, confused for a second, before he follows Tom’s gaze. 

    “It is nothing.” He dismisses it, casually, getting some herbs from a shelf. Tom still stares, arrested. He wants to know who it was, wants to learn their name, their face, and surely, they are dead but they must have relatives and Tom needs to go and peel their skin off. He wants it so much, his mouth waters, the images slamming into his head forcefully, vividly. 

     “It looks like a burn,” he says, when the fantasy diminishes, seconds later. It’s an effort to speak, through his rage.    

    “Fiendfyre,” Marvolo says, cutting a dragon liver in half.

    Nothing’s supposed to heal burns inflicted by Fiendfyre. No one is supposed to survive, once touched by the all consuming flames, so infamous for being hard to control and with such devastating consequences if done wrong, that even Tom had never tried to mess around with it.

    But then 'The Secrets of the Darkest Art' speaks of ways of healing any wound, no matter how gruesome. Marvolo’s burn is closed, the scar white, the tissue thick and mangled, but clearly done with. 

    With difficulty, Tom tears his eyes off it, only to land on another scar, on Marvolo’s right forearm.This one is smaller, an inch or so, but had been deep. There’s a dent under the skin, as if a piece of muscle or bone is no longer where it was supposed to be. He can think of several curses that could accomplish that, at the top of his head. 

    Tom recites them in his mind, focuses on remembering the incantation and effects to try and take the edge of his rage.

    (-)

    He tosses and turns in his bed, wide awake. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the burn and it drives him mad. He wants to know how much further up it goes. Does it reach the shoulder? The side of Marvolo’s chest? 

    Why does it matter? He’s clearly fine, in no danger. 

    It matters. Tom wants to know.

    He sits, waves a hand and only realises he used wandless magic when the Darkest Arts lands in his lap, as his wand is still on the nightstand. He opens it to the chapter of healing and reads what he already knew he’ll find. Dark Magic can heal anything, with enough skill and knowledge, but it will always leave a mark. Just days before, Tom didn’t care about that, relived to know anything can be healed, no matter how it will look. Now the answer dissatisfies him. It’s like a personal insult. He needs to find a way to heal the scars completely, take them off Marvolo, make him whole again. In pristine condition. Erase any proof that anyone had ever touched him, even with magic, that anyone dared leave their mark on him.  

    Tom needs to find a way to feed the man. Marvolo is wasting away, immortal or not,  and he looks frail. Tom knows he’s not, but he looks it. Like a strong wind could blow him away, like that slender arm could break in half, at the briefest of touches. 

    Why won’t he eat? Marvolo sits right there at the table, with Tom, for close to an hour, at every meal. It’s not lack of time. Marvolo is there, the food is there and he only needs to eat it. Why won’t he?

    He’s so tired, his mind alternates between vivid fantasises of hurting faceless strangers and remembering that burn again. When the faceless strangers start turning into the priest, casting his shadow on the walls, Tom goes down to the cellar and puts a drop of his Draught of Living Dead in a glass of water. 

    He doesn’t need to test the potion, he had never brewed a bad potion, and he wants to shut his mind off, can’t afford to wait enough to test it. Ridiculous. Even if he brewed it too strongly, Marvolo would find a way to wake him. 

    Tom drinks it in one go, back in his room. 

    Should have done this in bed, it’s his last thought, falling unconscious before he can take the single step separating him from the mattress. 

    He wakes up on the floor, sixteen hours later. He’s starving, his stomach hurts, he hadn’t been without food for so many hours since he was at Wool’s.

    He has food all over the room- muggle cans hidden under the boards beneath his bed, packs of sweets at the back of his closet, dried fruit in small bags at the bottom of his school trunk. 

    He doesn’t want to put a dent in his provisions, controls himself enough to summon Bitsy and ask her for a full english breakfast, even if it’s three in the morning.

    He feels better, now that he had some rest, with no nightmares to wake him. As he eats, he plans.

(-)

    “Did you-“ Marvolo stops, a bemused expression on his face, teacup halfway to his mouth, voice filled with incredulity. “Did you put something in my tea?” 

    “Nutrient potions,” Tom says, squaring his shoulders, prepared for an argument. It was a risk he had accepted, that he will be discovered. Tom doesn’t like doing this, slipping someone potions, but he has no other choice. None the less, he’s annoyed. “How can you even tell? It’s odourless, tasteless -“ 

    Marvolo puts the cup down, staring at Tom, who stares back and continues talking. 

    “It wasn’t made with ill intent, so no amulet or counter charm can detect it. You shouldn’t be able to tell.”

    Marvolo says nothing, for the longest of times, inspecting his tea. 

    “You certainly didn’t,” he says, at last. 

    “What?” Tom is thrown off.

    A raised eyebrow greets him. He’d expected Marvolo to be angry but he isn’t. He’s just surprised and slightly amused. He picks the teacup back up and drinks ,and something warm spreads through Tom’s chest. 

    “You gave me nutrient potions? “ Ironically, he feels tricked, betrayed he’d been given potions without his consent. 

    “You weighted as much as a wet cat when I brought you here. Of course I did.” 

    Tom bristles. “I probably weighted as much as you do now.” 

    “You aren’t immortal,” Marvolo points out. “Yet,” he adds.

    Before, it had sounded like a promise and Tom had been impatient to actually get to that point. Now it sounds like a threat. Marvolo doesn’t mean it as such, but after what Tom had read in the 'Secrets of the Darkest Art', he isn’t as keen on the process.

    “Growing little boys need nutrients,” Marvolo carries on. “I am done growing. Find something more fruitful to obsess about.” 

    “Why don’t you eat?” Tom asks, what he’d asked years before. “I know you don’t need it, but don’t you want to? Aren’t you hungry?” 

    “I trained myself out of it,” Marvolo says it like it’s so easy, like it makes any sort of sense.

    “How would you go about doing that?” Tom likes food, he does. Too much. He’d like to not constantly worry, at the back of his head about his next meal or if he has something to eat with him, at any given moment. 

    “I didn’t have much food, growing up.” 

    Tom knows nothing at all about Marvolo’s childhood. He doesn’t even breathe in fear he’ll interrupt Marvolo in such a rare sharing state. 

    “It was always a stress; a problem that was never done, even if you solve it daily.” 

    Tom nods. He understands very, very well. He carries echoes of that hunger around. 

    “It was only when I went to school that I was fed properly.” 

    “You-" Tom starts but stops, bites his lip. “Your mother-" he trails off. Where was Marvolo’s mother? He knows the father is hated and not to be talked about but he’d never heard anything, good or bad, about his grandmother.

    Marvolo’s jaw ticks. “I was raised by muggles. I know only slightly more about my mother than you know about yours.” 

    Tom means to ask why that is, means to ask if by “muggles” Marvolo means his father and other relatives on that side but he doesn’t get the chance.

    “Every summer, I had to return to the muggles. It was even worse, after my first year of school, after finally getting enough food. I’d had grown unaccustomed to hunger.”

    “The muggles didn’t feed you?” 

    Marvolo leans on his chair. “To not be unjust, they tried. But conditions were such that it wasn’t always possible. The war started, and that only made it much harder.” 

    Finally, a clue about his age. Since learning Marvolo is immortal, seeing with his own eyes that the man doesn’t age, it was impossible to guess how old he could be. 

    Now he knows Marvolo had been somewhere between eleven and thirteen when the Great War started. Or, as it turned out, the First World War.

    “So I stoped eating as much as school. As to not suffer the same shock when I was due to return for the summer. It made it easier.” 

    The sheer amount of will to be hungry and ignore food on purpose shames Tom, who wouldn’t be capable. 

    “Of course, I was already practicing dark magic and like I said, that helps with reducing appetite.” 

    “Not for me.” 

    Marvolo raises an eyebrow. “You have not been eating as much this year.” 

    Tom frowns. “That’s not-if anything, it’s gotten worse-"

    “You horde more food, but you are not actually consuming as much as before. You are losing weight, slowly.” 

    Tom is surprised to hear this. He looks down to examine himself, but everything looks as always. He can’t tell a difference.

    (-)

    He should ask for Marvolo’s permission. In all the years Tom has been living in the mansion, there had never been any guests and that surely is for a reason. Yet Marvolo is away, had left three days prior, and the matter seems rather urgent, if surprising.  

    May I come over? I have nowhere else to go. 

    Such a short note from Abraxas who likes to send long letters, full of not so subtle brags, singed with a flourish and sealed in custom made envelopes with the Malfoy crest on them. 

    This time, the parchment came crumpled, the writing smudged. 

    After all, this is Tom’s house too. He should be able to receive people, shouldn’t he?

    He’s not very convinced but he tells himself he can do as he pleases. If Marvolo doesn’t want Tom to have guests, than he should stay home, instead of going who knows where, no doubt dangerous places where he can potentially gather even more scars.

    Abraxas looks a right mess, when he knocks on the door, hours after Tom sends him an owl with the address. His hair is in disarray, shirt wrinkled and eyes bloodshot, trailing a trunk after him.  

    “Not your best day?” Tom asks, leading his guest into the living room that they almost never use. 

    Abraxas is so out of it, he doesn’t even look around, doesn’t point out how Malfoy Manor is bigger, his paintings better or whatever nonsense he goes on about when they visit other people’s houses. 

    He just stands there, staring into nothing, doesn’t even react when Atlas slithers into the room, hissing in displeasure. 

    “He smells of fear, master.” 

    Tom ignores the snake. “Sit,” he directs Abraxas, pointing to the couch. 

    Silence stretches between. Tom isn’t sure what it’s expected of him. He thinks he should ask Abraxas if he’s alright, but that would be a stupid question, since he obviously isn’t. 

    It’s strange, because they can usually talk freely but thinking back on it, it’s usually Abraxas that does most of the talking. 

    Sure, Tom asks him how he’s doing, every time they see each other, because that’s a social norm and it’s become a habit, yet he’d never been faced with such a somber looking version of Abraxas. 

    Tom has no problem listening to the other detailing his day or his petty, insignificant troubles but that is because the answer is always a variation of the same thing. Now, he thinks the answer would be different and emotional and he wouldn’t have much of an idea how to deal with that. 

    To his horror, after a few minutes, Abraxas buries his head in his hands, makes a small pained noise and starts crying. 

    Tom can’t get out of there fast enough. “I’ll bring you a glass of water,” he says, on his way out. 

     Unfocused he does end up in the kitchen. 

    “Master is having a guest,” Bitsy squeaks, delighted. She’s besides herself with joy. “Bitsy is happy! What should Bitsy serve?”  

    “He’s crying,” Tom tells her, lowering his voice because it’s embarrassing to even say it out loud. Maybe this is why Marvolo doesn’t have guests. Because it’s revolting.

    Her big ears drop, instantly. “Oh, no! Master’s friend is sad! Poor boy!” 

    Tom looks at her, surprised. “Poor boy? Poor me! I have to deal with him.” He rubs a hand through his hair. “How do I deal with him?” 

    Bitsy blinks up at him with her huge eyes. “Master is being nice. Master says everything will be fine. Master hugs his friend and offers comfort.”  

    Tom gives a short bark of laughter. This is what happens when he asks advice from a house elf. He gets ridiculous answers. 

    He trails off to the library, absentmindedly picking up a book and getting lost in it. When enough time has passed-about an hour, after all, no one can cry that long- he returns to his living room. 

    Abraxas did stop, to his relief. He’s back to staring into the distance. After a few seconds, he notices Tom. 

    “I’m tired. Is it alright if I rest here, for a while?”

    Tom nods and asks Bitsy to take him to the only spare room they have. It’s no furnished, but Abraxas should be accomplished enough to conjure at least a mattress or an armchair. 

    Not two hours later, Bitsy lets Tom know he has a floo call. 

    It’s Alphard, wanting to know if Tom has news of Abraxas, because Septimius had just left Grimmauld Place, looking for his son.

    As soon as Alphard’s head disappears from the flames, Septimius’ replaces it.

    “Hello, Tom.”

    “Sir,” Tom nods, politely. 

    “Is your father home? I can’t seem to get a hold of him.” 

    Malfoy Senior looks as composed as ever. Tom wishes his son would take after him. 

    “I’m afraid not. He’s traveling. May I help you, sir?” 

    He’s asked if he’s been in contact with Abraxas. Tom denies hearing from him after they had seen each other the last week, on a trip to Diagon, and promises to write, if he has any news. 

    Having friends is complicated.

    The next day, he drags Abraxas to a muggle park, in London, where Alphard awaits. 

    “You look like shit,” Alphard says, patting Abraxas on the back. “What were you thinking, mate? Running away? Seriously? You? If someone would run away, that should be me. I can’t believe you got the nerve!” 

     They find an old bench to sit on, under a big oak.  

    “I just couldn’t take it anymore,” Abraxas says, still so out of sorts he forgets to sneer at the passing muggles. “The Hogwarts letter came and of course, there was no Prefect badge so he went off again. What an embarrassment I am, that he was a Prefect and his father before him and his grandfather and on and on.” 

    “Well, all those blokes hadn’t been in the same year with Tom,” Alphard points out.

    Tom indeed had just received his badge. A shiny piece of metal that means nothing to him. Such childish competitions have no place in his mind, solely focused on Marvolo.  

    “Dad also expected me to get the badge, but that was years ago, before we properly knew Tom.”

    “It doesn’t matter to my father.”

    Alphard talks and has all the right words and Tom watches, a little jealous of how easy the other two interact. They make it look like it’s not such a big deal, that it comes naturally to talk about such personal matters. It doesn’t come naturally to Tom. 

    When they return to the house, Tom thinks back on the conversation, analyses it. How Alphard had used examples from his own life, the random approving noises, during Abraxas rant, to show he understands.

    Tom understands as well. He knows why all this is bothersome to Abraxas, how a situation such as this would bring distress. Yet he wouldn’t know how to approach it. Telling Abraxas that he too sometimes feels like he’s disappointing Marvolo is out of the question. To open up, to expose such vulnerability seems like madness, like begging to be struck wherever it hurts most. 

    Tom has so much ammunition, against all his classmates, gathered during so many years. If it came to it, if they suddenly turned on him, Tom knows exactly where to hit. 

    They have nothing on Tom he will make sure it will remain so. 

(-)

    When Marvolo returns, he takes Abraxas aside and sends Tom away. Tom doesn’t like at all, jealous to leave Marvolo in a room with someone that is not himself. He stays in front of the door, eavesdropping, aware Marvolo certainly will be able to tell but apparently Tom was only sent away for Abraxas’ sake. 

    He asks why Abraxas ran away and he gets the same explanation Alphard did, with no swear words or crying this time. 

    “There are two more years, until you come of age. Three before you are done with Hogwarts. What do you believe is better? Suffering Septimius for a short amount of time, or being cast away into the world, penniless and without influence. You are not the type to make it on your own. Do not throw away such privilege just because your father has a low opinion of you. Stay there, and prove him wrong.” 

    “You’re right, sir. I know. I knew since I left. I-I just don’t think he’ll take me back.” 

    “He will. You are his heir. Why did you come here, since all this started because my son outdoes you? You must resent him.” 

    “Of course not,” Abraxas sounds surprised. “It’s not Tom’s fault he’s a genius. I came here because I knew father will find me and barge in anywhere else I’d have gone. But he-he wouldn’t dare come here, uninvited, or bully Tom to get information out of him. He’d never cross you, sir. ” 

    “There you go. Next time Septimius ask you why you are not as good as Tom, ask him why he is not as good as I.” 

    A short, startled laughter. “He’d kill me, if I said that. Disown me for sure.” 

    “You are patient enough to wait a few more years.” How would Marvolo know? This is the first he talks to Abraxas, one on one, outside of polite greetings at events. “Bide your time. You are a better man than your father. You will grow to be a greater wizard. I am certain of it.” 

    “Thank you, Sir. That-that means a lot.” 

     Tom could have told him that himself. Only Tom hadn’t, because it’s an obvious insult to Mr. Malfoy, and if someone were to insult Marvolo to Tom’s face, he would make them pay. No matter if he was in a fight with Marvolo at the time. 

    “One day you will have children of your own. Perhaps you will remember how your father made you feel and seek to be a better parent, instead of emulating Septimius.”

    “I’d never treat them the way he treats me,” Abraxas insists. 

    “Hmm,” Marvolo says, his tone non-committal. “It is difficult to act in a manner no one had taught you to. We usually learn by example.” 

    Abraxas returns to his Manor, that very night. 

    Turns out, Marvolo knows how to talk to people about emotions. Just not with me. 

    (-)

    “Do you think that being conceived under -agh, magical influence could have done something to me?” Tom asks, afraid to bring it up, but curious.

    He’d just returned from an outing with the boys and he’d paid more attention to their interactions.

    “Meaning?” Marvolo doesn’t get angry.   

    “Most people -I am not like most people. Like anyone, really.” 

    “Indeed. You are a genius, you are-“

     “Not that. I mean-I don’t feel things as I see others experience. I don’t -I’m not really close, to anyone.” Besides Marvolo. And even then, Tom is aware they don’t have what anyone would call a normal relationship. "I just don’t -” He’s not sure how to explain it. “In some of my books there are paragraphs about selflessness and desire to do things for others, to be honest, grow close, share trust and-all that nonsense. Only it doesn’t seem like nonsense for others. I think I’m missing something, only I’m not really missing it.” It’s not like Tom wants those things. He just became aware he should, however.

    Marvolo considers it for a few seconds, head tilted slightly.

    “It doesn’t have anything to do with a love potion. Perhaps is she was drinking it, seeing how a child develops in the woman’s body and certainly chemicals can alter it.”

    Tom is so proud of him, talking about Merope with so much detachment, after what must have been a terrible ordeal. 

    “Then?”

    “The Gaunts are mentally unwell. Have been for centuries; all that inbreeding. You inherited some aspects, I assume.” 

    “I don’t want to be like them. I’m not.” Tom isn’t ugly. He isn’t stupid. Tom’s not a rapist. “I’m like you,” he says, confident. 

    Mavolo smiles, slightly. Just a small upturn of lip. “I’m afraid my family was in pretty much the same conditions as yours.”

    Tom knows both their mothers had been Gaunts but- “Your father was a muggle, though. So your parents at least weren’t related.“

    He must be in a rare good mood, because not even mention of his father gets Marvolo angry.

    “Yes, but he was also an offspring of cousins. Some muggles like to keep their bloodline pure as you know. Rich, noble muggles especially. They marry their own cousins, much like purebloods.” 

    Tom knows. He’s read enough about the royal families reigning across Europe.

    “On top of that, an orphanage is not the best place to teach a child to be selfless and caring and whatever else.”

    Tom nods. There were plenty other children at Wool’s that hurt others, that did not want to share with anyone, that stole as much as Tom did. And they certainly weren’t affected by Love Potions. 

    “One of the doctors Mrs. Cole kept bringing to see me said I was showing psychopathic traits but I was too young to diagnose.” 

    He remembers the questions. Some he understood why were asked- if Tom feels guilty, after he hurts someone. If Tom has any friends. If he likes animals. If he thinks himself better than others. Some, he didn’t- if Tom likes fires, if he is more likely to do something if there is a reward involved. 

    Tom had denied any wrongdoings, but he hadn’t known if it was alright for him to be fascinated with flames, or if it was normal he should want rewards so he kept silent. 

    And then he was asked if anyone hurt him, perhaps an adult and Tom had frozen and refused to talk any more. 

    Marvolo shrugs. “Psychopaths, if intelligent, are more likely to succeed in their goals. Lack of empathy makes life much easier, ensures one can climb high, without worrying on whom they are stepping on to get there.” 

    Tom knows these are muggle notions, because the magical world is not concerned with such matters. He’d read some books by men named Freud and Jung, both doctors, on the trips Marvolo had taken him along and he’d been forced to wait in the muggle side. 

    “Your father was rich?” Tom asks, just now processing it. 

    “Yes. Very much so.”

    “But you -you weren’t-you said you didn’t have food-“ Tom says, carefully. 

     “I met my father when I was seventeen,” Marvolo answers, with finality, and Tom knows they had reached a certain line Marvolo will not cross. At least not at the moment. The subject of his father is closed, once more.

    “Who raised you, then?” Tom asks, confused.

    Marvolo takes a few seconds to answer, another genuine smile stretched across his lips.

    “I suppose I raised myself.” 

    (-)

    “How do you call them?” Marvolo asks, when he mentions a blood boiling curse and Tom comments Lestrange had found it in his Manor’s library and showed it to the rest of the group. 

    “Call who?” 

    “Your little friends.” 

    It’s not explainable, how he’d know that, since Tom hadn’t even gotten the chance to settle on a name yet, had only recently discussed it with Alphard at Avery’s birthday party, that it would be fun to call themselves something.  

    “I’m still deciding,” he says, a bit resentful that apparently all he does is so transparent.

    “Knighs of Walpurgis?” Marvolo suggests and Tom is getting angry, wants so badly to know how he can have all this information, because it’s not out of Tom’s head. 

    “No. Walburga said it sounds stupid. Of course, she said that because she’s not a man so knight won’t fit.” 

    Marvolo mutters something that sounds like “didn’t have that problem.” 

    “What?” Tom asks for a clarification.

    He gets no answer. “Go ahead and call them Death Eaters and be done with it.”  

    Tom perks up at that. It sounds intimidating and like something he’d have come up with himself. 

    “I think I will,” he says, liking the idea.

    “Shocking.” Marvolo’s voice is thick with sarcasm. 

    “How do you know all these things?” 

    Marvolo looks at him the way he does on occasion, gaze intense and penetrating. “You will figure it out, eventually.” 

    “Wouldn’t it be easier, if you’d just tell me?” 

    It’s so frustrating, Tom feels tested, measured to some ideal and he doesn’t even know what he’s competing against.  

    Red eyes flash. “No,” Marvolo says, tone very low.“It would not be easy at all.” 

Chapter Text

    “Black, Cygnus.”

    “Another one?” Someone from the Hufflepuff table says exasperated and a little too loud. 

    Walburga’s youngest brother walks to the sorting hat, unconcerned. It’s a quick sorting, compared to some of his relatives. 

    He joins their table, sitting beside Orion. 

    There are five Blacks in attendance. Lucretia, Walburga, Alphard, Orion and now Cygnus. It’s one of the reasons the Blacks are so powerful, compared to the other Sacred Families. There’s simply too many of them, intermarried to every other magical family; somewhere down almost everyone’s family tree, there’s a Black. 

    As if to prove this point, Bartemius Crouch, Charis’ Black son is sorted into Ravenclaw after Cygnus. 

    And then, Algie Longbotton, Caliddora’s Black son, is sorted into Gryffindor. 

    “You’re taking over the world,” Abraxas complains to Alphard, who laughs but looks pleased about it. 

    Not on Marvolo’s watch, Tom thinks. The Blacks might outbreed the Gaunts, might be richer and more influential but there is a reason the Head of the Black house, Arctururs, listens very carefully to whatever Marvolo has to say.

    “We need one in Hufflepuff,” Alphard says. “To have all the houses.” 

    “That’ll never happen.” Walburga rolls her eyes. “A Black, in Hufflepuff. The travesty.” 

     Tom agrees with her. Black tempers do not mix with Hufflepuff qualities. 

    “Not off the main branch,” Alphard agrees. “That would be embarrassing. A child of a Black woman would suffice. Just so we can have our blood everywhere.” 

    “Your blood will be all over the table, if you don’t shut it,” Lestrange snaps. “I have the most horrible headache.” 

    “Want it to get worse?” Alphard asks, playing with his wand.

    “Enough,” Tom says, voice level and he gets a thrill when they all shut up. Walburga stares at him, the only one not impressed, as always. She’s challenging him, with that better than thou attitude that Tom can’t stand. 

    He should teach her a lesson. A proper lesson, to put her in her place. She might be above others, but she’s under him. That’s where she belongs. 

    He’s picturing her, hurt and defeated at his feet. Only the images keep blurring and he sees her under him in quite different circumstances. 

    Not this again, he tells himself, with something akin to panic. 

    He can’t help it, however, and it irritates him something awful. 

    Trying to change tactics, he looks more closely at Lucretia. Same age as Walburga, same blood, same face. They could be twins, really. 

    The fact that Tom feels nothing more than a hint of appreciation for Lucretia’s looks is concerning, because it means he’s attracted to Walburga’s personality and Tom can’t accept that because he hates that mouth on her, that challenge in her eyes. 

    Lucretia’s pleasant demeanour, the proper, well mannered way she conducts herself do absolutely nothing for Tom. He is bored half to death after only engaging her in conversation for five minutes. 

    Waburga is anything but boring. As a new Prefect, Tom spends even more time beside her, though he makes a point in securing a schedule that pairs him with Lilian on patrol, from his own year. She’s sharp and cautious, intelligent enough to suspect he’s more than what he seems, so she keeps quiet at his side as they walk the corridors, doesn’t bother him at all.

    There’s nothing more they can teach him, at the school. Tom takes all the subjects available and he excels in every single one of them, without the slightest bit of effort. 

    Quidditch training is far more tolerable, with Mulciber as the new captain, who knows better than to order Tom around. Lestrange joins the team as a Beater and Abraxas finally gets to play as Chaser. 

    The shadows follow him during the day now, lurking behind dark alcoves, waiting for him. 

    (-)

    Marvolo Gaunt, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, hereditary member of the Wizengamot and famed author, adds his voice to Albus Dumbledore’s, fellow member of the Wizengamot and Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts in an attempt to remove Minister Fawley from Office, due to his supposed inability to deal with Gellert Grindelwald. 

    While it is not the first time Professor Dumbledore had expressed concerns over the Minister’s inaction, the Wizengamot, dominated by the Sacred Twenty Eight had so far blocked his request for a vote of no confidence. 

    “This time we might succeed,” Elphias Doge, Ministry jurist and close friend of Dumbledore states for the Daily Prophet.“Mr. Gaunt is highly influential among the Sacred Families. We have high hopes that some of them will back him up in the upcoming vote.” 

    Minister Fawley has yet to make a statement. 

    The article comes only days after Gridelwald supporters are rumoured to be found active in Ireland. Dumbledore is often missing classes, trapped in Ministry meetings. When he’s at Hogwarts, he’s more distracted than ever, hardly touching his food at breakfast or dinner, immersed in the newspapers. 

    Many of the articles keep calling on him to do something. Tom can’t understand why the wizarding society had collectively decided this is the man to end Grindelwald. He spends Transfiguration class watching Dumbledore as closely as Dumbledore watches him, when he finds the time to be at Hogwarts. 

    He’s powerful, yes. Tom’s long been aware, but as he grows it’s even more evident. On top of it, he’s the only person in the school that is on the same level with Tom, intellectually. And that is why he is the only one not to fall prey to Tom’s manipulation and lies. 

    Even so, while dislike is evident on his face as he looks at Rodolphus and Abraxas, perhaps more that it is professional, Dumbledore still slips extracurricular Trafiguration publications in Tom’s homework, when he hands it back.

    And Tom reads them, glad for the mental stimulation and adds his own notes and opinions at the bottom, gives them back with his next homework. 

    (-)

    There are looks exchanged, between him and Walburga, words with double meaning, slight touches here and there-accidental-, a tension in the air when they’re in close proximity. There’s the way Walburga screams and throws herself in his arms when a big spider runs by her feet, there’s the way Tom pretends to be unable to heal the cut Abraxas gave him in their dulling sessions and asks her to bandage it for him and the way she too pretends she doesn’t know the simple healing spell to solve it. 

    And while she doesn’t fear spiders, she does fear wasps and Tom makes sure to conjure them and have them buzz around her, because she hides her head in his chest, trying to find shelter and he gets such a thrill in the knowledge that she looks to him for protection, even though she knows he’s the one that caused her fear in the first place. He likes how scared she is, her pounding heart beating against him.

    Tom stops denying wanting her. That causes a dilemma because what he wants, he gets, but Walburga is not Clara. Pureblood aristocracy doesn’t do casual affairs. There’s no such thing as dates. There’s nothing and there’s marriage. She’s engaged to Orion and while a second year is no deterrent to Tom, he is no run of the mill twelve year old, but the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. It wouldn’t do, to cause a scandal, for something so insignificant as satisfying such a trivial want.  

    It’s a bit frustrating but he doesn’t plan to do anything about it, aware he shouldn’t cause a rift with such influential people.

    To his misfortune, Walburga doesn’t hold his convictions. She manages to shock him, once more. 

    She stalks to him, when they’re alone in the Common Room, with sure but slow steps and a glint in her eyes.

    He’d taken great care to never be alone with her, to avoid temptation but he’s been so engrossed in a book Marvolo had just sent him, that he hadn’t been aware when the Common Room had emptied. 

    She’d never, Tom thinks as she comes closer, never breaking eye contact. Surely, she wouldn’t. She’s bluffing.  

    She reaches him and just as slowly, straddles his lap. He has all the time in the world to push her away, but he’s frozen on the spot. In fact, he’s gripping the armrest so tightly, he might break it. 

    He can’t push her away, because he thinks that if he lets go of the chair, he’ll only pull her closer. 

    “Are you going to kiss me?” She enquires, in that challenging tone that just makes his blood boil, with different emotions. “Or am I to do everything around here?” 

    “I’m not interested,” Tom says. He’s not interested in the consequences. 

    “You seem interested.” Walburga presses herself even closer to him, their faces almost touching, her chest resting on his own, and her bottom just above his-

   “I’m sixteen,” he says, trying to control his voice. He will be, in a few weeks. “Any girl can sit on my lap and have the same response. Don’t take it personally.” 

    “Hmm.” She moves her hips, experimentally. Tom inhales more air than he needs. “Abraxas and Rodolphus are sixteen too. And they’re out there chasing after skirts, while here you are. Staring at me. Always.” 

    “You’re engaged,” he tries to reason with her. Mostly, he needs to say it out loud to remind himself. “You’ll have to swear an unbreakable vow, for your purity, at the wedding. In front of hundreds of people.” 

    “So what if I’m engaged? You and I, we’re rational people.” Tom gives a small, inelegant snort. He would never describe any Black as rational.“I can’t stand you half the time and you certainly despise me on occasion. We’re smarter than to get attached, aren’t we? As for the  unbreakable vow I’ll have to make to Orion,” she trails off, twists her hips again. “One hears there are other ways to have fun that will leave my purity intact.” 

    Tom swallows, hard. “How do you even know these things?” he asks, stalling for time to make a decision. 

    He spent a good part of his childhood on the streets of London.  He lives in a dorm with teenaged boys. It’s natural he knows, but Walburga is surrounded by demure princess and bitter crones that yell at her to be good and proper. 

    “I don’t know much,” she admits. “I’m just using my imagination. I bet you could teach me, though.” 

    Tom hates being manipulated and she’s doing it right now, she’s playing up to his need to have her see him as her better, to listen to him. 

    He stands, suddenly and she topples over, on the floor. She’s shocked, her eyes widen, uncertain.

    He hisses in Parseltongue and the trap door springs open. “Ladies first.” 

    She smiles in triumph and lowers herself inside. Tom goes after her, closing the trap behind him, submerging the small room in complete darkness. He leaves it like that, for a second, waiting. 

    “Lumo-“ Walburga whispers and he waves his hand, magic surges forward and knocks her wand out of her hand. 

    “Tom?” she asks, no trace of smugness left in her voice. Finally. 

    “You really shouldn’t follow men into dark places you can’t get out of, Waly.” 

     Now she’s the one who inhales deeply and it satisfies him. Good. It’s how it should be. He’s supposed to be always in control and for a second, upstairs, he hadn’t been but now the world is back to normal. 

    He  pulls out his own wand, conjures a candles and lights it, before performing a cleaning charm, banishing the layer of dust that had accumulated on the walls. 

    “I can do that better,” she brags, braver with the light on. They’re both covered in shadows but for once, they don’t distract him.  

    “While here you don’t get to do anything but obey. You did want me to teach you.”

     Her grey eyes darken in excitement. He waits, for explicit consent, even if he made it look like a statement. 

    Tom might not have many morals, he certainly lacks concern over anyone besides his own self and Marvolo, he’s old enough to know his principles are very twisted compared to what people deem normal, but he’ll never lower himself to the level of the priest. Even Tom has a line he will not cross. 

    “Alright,” she agrees

    (-)

    “It’s supposed to be the last sunny day for the season,” Dumbledore says, catching Tom in the yard. 

    Tom almost flinches. He hand’t expected to be caught unawares. It’s far too late to get rid of the adder, curled around his ankle. 

    “Yes, sir,” he says, standing, misliking being at a height disadvantage. Even on his feet, Dumbledore’s taller, but Tom has a feeling that will change, in a couple of years. 

    “What is it that you are reading?” 

    The cover clearly says “Charms, Year Five” but of course Dumbledore doesn’t fall for it. Tom hands over the book. 

    Blue eyes crinkle at the corner in surprised amusement when he finds Walburga’s household spells manual inside the fake cover. Tom feels smug about it. No doubt the Professor had expected to find something dark and prohibited. 

    “I find it unfair girls are offered an extra subject,” he says and he means it. There is talk of ending the practice or allowing boys to attend, but nothing concrete. Tom finds the spells useful but the misogynistic attitudes, especially in Slytherin, make him want to read the book in secret.

    “You are an exceptional young man,” Dumbledore says and Tom fights the instinct to straighten his back with pride. He’s often complimented, but Tom doesn’t respect most anyone. He respects Dumbledore, as annoying and suspicious as he is. 

    Dumbledore is easy with his praise, he’s a good pedagog, likes to encourage his students, with positive remarks. However, it’s been a couple of years since he praised Tom or Abraxas, who is a very talented wizard on his own, second only to Tom in their year. 

    “A mind like yours, it is natural to wonder, to be inquisitive,” Dumbledore goes on, eyes piercing Tom’s, quite serious. “But you are heading down a dangerous path.” 

    “I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.” Tom doesn’t bother to put on the fake smile he’d put on for other teachers. 

    Dumbledore regards him in silence for a few seconds, before handing the book back. 

    “You can have a bright future ahead of you; the things you can accomplish are endless, if only you wouldn’t stray. Such a waste it would be.” 

    “I will acomplish great things,” Tom assures him. 

    “Your wand,” Dumbledore says and Tom panics a little, because a 'Priori Incantatem' would show spells he shouldn’t be casting, but Dumbledore needs a special permission to do that and surely, he doesn’t have it. "Phoenix feather.” 

    “Yes,” Tom says, uncertain. 

    “It comes from my own phoenix. Fawkes. A very rare core. Phoenix feathers have the greatest range of magic. Extremely picky when it comes to potential owners, because phoenixes are the most independent creatures in the world. Hardest wands to tame. And my Fawkes, he’s unique, even for his species. Very head strong,” Dumbledore smiles, softly. “It gave only two feathers and we could not persuade him to give more, no matter how we coaxed him. Years upon years, the wands rejected any potential owner. Until you. And your father, whom I am told was chosen by the other feather.” 

    Is this why Marvolo burned the holly wand, because it had something to do with Dumbledore? Tom had completely forgotten about all that.

    “Both Garrick and myself were very curious, whom the wands would choose. We agreed it would have to be extraordinary wizards or witches. Imagine my surprise, when he wrote to inform me he sold both, in the same day.” 

    “I am extraordinary. And so is my father,” Tom says, coldness creeping into his voice. Dumbledore’s suspicions and his witty remarks are one thing, when aimed at Tom, but he mislikes hearing the man talk about Marvolo. 

    Dumbledore sighs. “You weren't so arrogant when I first met you,” he says. “Or perhaps you hid it better. Though I lament to consider an eleven year old learning such deceit as to fool me.” 

    Tom’s anger prickles. He almost asks Dumbledore if he doesn’t have anything better to do than bother him, like hunting down Gridelwald. But he doesn’t, because it’s one thing for Dumbeldore to suspect Tom is not at all the nice boy he presents himself to be, and another for Tom to give him more ammunition to be be mistrusted. 

    “Enjoy your day, Tom,” Dumbledore says, when Tom refuses to speak. 

    “You too, sir.” Tom remains tense until the other man departs. 

    The day truly is beautiful. Tom imagines Marvolo takes advantage of it, if he is free, laying under the sun as he’s prone to do. 

    Even in the bright sunlight, the shadow is with him. It spills behind him and Tom knows it’s his own, but the more he watches it, the more it seems like it has some independent will. He’s fascinated with it, with how long and slim it is, distorted against the grass or the stairs, as he heads back to the castle, spilling over tables and classrooms, a constant companion at his back. 

    (-)

    Salazar’s statue looks awfully smug. Tom stares up at him, for quite some time. 

    Why are you so pleased with yourself? Tom would like to know, irritated. You let a Hufflepuff, a Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor drive you out of the school you built. 

    If Tom had been in his place, he’d have burnt the building to the ground, he’d have destroyed everything rather than simply flee. 

    Quite a few heirs of Slytherin had been to Hogwarts. Tom had tracked them all down, in old books focused on blood lines at Malfoy Manor. And he knows at least some of them had found the chamber, leaving their initial scrawled into the tall marble pillars.

    None had let the snake loose. None even woke it.

    How could you expect us to? If anyone would set the Basilisk on mudbloods, they’d certainly end up in Azkaban, at the very least. The snake would die, as well. Is that your great revenge? A few dead mudbloods, a dead Basilisk and the life on an young Heir destroyed?  

    It’s neither cunning, nor ambitious. It’s petty and stupid. Illogical. All the other heirs saw it. 

    And yet-

    Tom is not like the others. Or is he? Had they laid upon the stone floor and felt the call? Is it just him that wants to wake her? 

    He spends hours in the Chamber and becomes more irrational with each visit. He wonders if she has nightmares. He knows how hungry she is. Tom know how hunger feels.

    He is the only one who could feed her. He’d read Basilisks kill their prey with their eyes. A painless death. And then it feasts. 

    What do people taste like? Tom wants to ask her. She wouldn’t know. She never ate. Not once. 

    How cruel Salazar had been to her. And all his Heirs, for perpetuating this starvation. 

    There is no solution to this problem. Tom can’t feed her people, even if they’re just mudbloods.

          (-)

    “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could have something to distinguish us? A way to signal to each other that we belong in the same group?” Abraxas asks, in one of their sessions.

    “There’s nine of us, Malfoy. I think we can remember each other,” Walburga hisses, pouring some murtlap essence on a burn to her hand. 

    “We’ll have more members, as the time goes on,” Abraxas says, convinced. “Won’t we, Tom?” 

    “Perhaps.” There are some people he has his eyes on. 

    “We’ll still know each other, you idiot. We go to school together.” 

    “After school, you horrid hag!” Abraxas snaps. 

    A hex hits him in the back. “Mind your tongue with my cousin, Malfoy,” Orion pipes up and Tom has to intervene and stop Abraxas from cursing the boy to pieces. 

    That’s how Blacks are. Even if they can’t stand each other, Merlin forbid an outsider insults one of them.  

    To appease Abraxas, Tom agrees to his idea about a secret sign. 

    He gets into it, as he tries to come up with something. A snake, it goes without saying. And they’re Death Eaters, so they need Death. That’s a skull. Tom designs it himself, charms it so it moves the way he likes. 

    “Should we sew it in our robes?” Walburga has gotten past her initial refusal, at the next meeting. 

    They’re all gathered around the piece of paper Tom had placed on a desk.

    “No. Somewhere hidden.” Otherwise it would just scream at Dumbledore to pay even more attention to them. 

    “Under our robes,” Lestrange suggests. 

    “On the skin, you mean? A tattoo?” Orion likes the idea. He likes all sorts of odd things, like muggle motorbikes and loud drums and leather pants.

    “You’re not getting a tattoo. You barely turned thirteen!” Walburga laughs at him and they start fighting. 

    Tom finds a way to charm it into their skins, bind them with a Protean Charm. He’s rather proud of it. 

    “Why don’t you get one?” Walburga asks, catching her breath, when they’re alone in the secret room, under the trap door. Tom had transfigured enough things around so they can stay comfortable and she is making the best out of her Household Spells class. 

    She looks wild, lips bitten and red, face flushed. Tom found out a way to help her too, without taking her virginity.  

    “I’m your leader,” he says, unbuckling his pants. She rolls her eyes but she lets herself be manoeuvred on her knees, as Tom pulls her hair tightly.

    “So put a crown on the skull or something.” 

    (-)

                                                                             MINISTER FOR MAGIC RESIGNS 

    Following a vote of no confidence, Griselda Marchbanks, Wizengamot elder and now ex-head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority replaces Hector Falwey as Minister for Magic.

    “Tough woman. Quite formidable. Sat my O.W.L’s with her,” Walburga comments, sipping from a glass of pumpkin juice. 

    “A woman, minister. Tragic.” Abraxas shakes his head but then he reads further down the article and sees his father had been amongst the ones to vote for her so he quickly changes his opinion. “Though I suppose she might be quite something, yes.” 

    Marchbanks looks surprised in a picture snapped just as the Wizengamot session had ended. There’s a capable air around her though, in the stiff line of her tiny shoulders, in the set of her jaw. 

    Our new Minister signed an order drafted by Marvolo Gaunt, Head of International Cooperation, prohibiting entry by any magical or muggle means of any German wizard or witch into the Kingdom and heavily restricting international travel in general, only hours after she took the office. 

    We would not be the first country to do so- Spain, Italy and the United States had all cut ties with Germany on concerns the German Ministry had unofficially fallen to Grindelwald. 

    Just last week Spain had cut ties with France, over the same grounds. 

    Rumour has it Minister Marchbanks will be signing several emergency decrees the following week, that might restrict free movement in any magical areas and instal Auror Patrols. 

    “Sounds like war,” Alphard whispers, going quite pale. 

    “Fun,” Lestrange shrugs. 

    (-)

     Marvolo waits for him, as the train enters the station. Tom’s very pleased with the surprise. Mr. or Mrs. Malfoy usually picks them up, and Tom goes home through their fireplace. 

    Walburga makes a noise, at his side, distracting Tom. 

    “What?” He turns to her to find her frowning. 

    They had the whole compartment to themselves, taking advantage of the privacy, with the train freer than in summers or autumns. She fixes her hair, combing it with her fingers as she looks at him with suspicion. 

    “I have never seen you smile so -” She makes a gesture with her hand, searching for a word that will not come to her. “It’s a little creepy.” 

     Tom tries to wipe the smile of his face, as they leave their compartment to join the line in the corridor. But he glances out the window again and Marvolo is still there, so the smile comes back. He can feel his face hurting, the muscles so unaccustomed with the move.

    “Aren’t you cheery?” Abraxas comments, as soon as they step into the corridor, blonde eyebrows wiggling with innuendo. 

    “Shut it,” Tom orders, but there is no bite in his tone. He’s simply too happy to be bothered. He doesn’t even notice the shadows around him. 

    Marvolo doesn’t smile when Tom finally steps down on the platform, but there’s a little jerk to his lips that warms Tom, chasing away the cold he’d been feeling for a while. 

    Tom heads towards him, forgetting to say goodbye to his group. 

    “Your tie is crooked,” Marvolo says, as a greeting and his eyes move past Tom’s shoulder, to glare at someone. When Tom looks behind him, he sees the target is Walburga. 

    He arranges his tie, turning his head back to Marvolo. He must have had another growth spurt, because he’s eye level with Marvolo’s chin.

    “I didn’t expect to find you here,” he says, ignoring Lestrange waving at him. 

    Marvolo moves his hand and Tom’s trunk vanishes. Before he can blink, strong fingers close around his arm and and the platform disappears around him. 

    They materialize on a quiet street, narrowingly avoiding a Muggle woman by mere inches. No one seems to notice two people appearing amongst them out of thin air. 

    “Would be nice to give me a warning,” Tom says, casually. “What if I fought it and we ended up splinched?” 

    Mavolo gives him a look. “As if you could overcome my will.” 

    Tom probably couldn’t. “Where are we, anyway?” The surroundings are unfamiliar. 

    “Birmingham.” 

   It’s hard to miss the Cathedral that looms ahead in the distance. Part of it had clearly taken some damage, though it’s being rebuilt. Tom’s very familiarised with how bombed buildings look by now. He had read the city had been a target, at the beginning of the war.

    Marvolo doesn’t use his wand but Tom’s robe shifts into a nice muggle winter cloak. 

    They walk a few feet, before they enter a nice looking restaurant. Tom’s smile, that never really left, gets wider. It’s usually such a struggle to convince Marvolo to let him eat in Muggle places. 

    The waitress is young and she does a double take when she’s faced with them, hand instinctively going to her hair, to make sure it’s kept in place in a way she possibly considers attractive. 

    Tom would sneer at her, if he wasn’t in such a good mood. 

    She asks them if they have a reservation and a wandless Confundus later, she remembers that they have one and leads them to a nice table, towards the corner. The Cathedral is in full view, from the window. He tries not to look at it.

    “What’s the occasion?” Tom asks, after he orders a fancy french meal. 

    “An early birthday gift.” 

    Tom raises an eyebrow. “Really? That’s all I am getting? A nice meal?” he asks, doing a great imitation of Abraxas. 

    It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it, he’d enjoy anything with Marvolo around him, but his gifts are usually opulent. 

    “No,” Marvolo answers, enigmatic. He’s ordered a glass of wine instead of his tea and that is unusual as well. 

    “Why are you backing Dumbledore, on the Grindelwald front?” Tom asks, what he couldn’t put in a letter. 

    “I’m not backing Dumbledore.” Marvolo sneers. “Fawley should have been gone from office years ago but I intervened without fully realising what the consequences would be. He was perfect for my needs back then, clueless and weak as he is, but I didn’t account for Gridelwalad gaining so much ground in Great Britain because of Fawley’s prolonged term. I am simply correcting some mistakes I made, by interfering where I shouldn’t have interfered.”

    Should I mark this day in the calendar? Tom almost asks Marvolo, because he’d never heard the other admitting to mistakes before.   

    “Marchbanks has a hard stance on dark arts,” he says, instead.

   “Which is necessary now. Once Grindelwald is dealt with, I’ll make sure she goes away.” 

    “And how exactly will Grindelwald be dealt with?” Tom asks, a little nervous. The dark lord is, by all accounts, a very gifted wizard. It’s not that Tom doubts Marvolo’s power, but he is apprehensive imagining the two facing off. 

    “Dumbledore will deal with him.” 

    “Why does everyone expect him to do it?” He’s surprised Marvolo is in agreement with the rest of the community about this matter. 

    “Because he can.” 

    “But-”

    “I know.” Marvolo cuts over him. “Once upon a time I had the same doubts you are having now. However, as much as it pains me to admit, Dumbledore is capable to defeat Grindelwald.” 

    Tom bites his cheek. “What if he loses? What then?” 

    The waitress comes back with his food and Tom digs into it.

    “He won’t lose.” He seems very convinced and Tom just has to accept it. Marvolo hadn’t once been wrong, so far. 

    “He told me my wand’s core is from his pet phoenix.” 

    Marvolo doesn’t like this at all. His jaw sets in a dangerous way. “You are talking to him?” 

    “He stalked me to the yard and started saying things at me.” 

    “I do not want you talking to him.” 

    “He’s my professor. I can’t really-”

    Marvolo leans in, elbows on the table. “You do not talk to him,” he repeats. “You say “yes, sir”, “No, sir” and hand in your homework. That is all that is required of your interactions. Does he seek you out often, outside class?” 

    “No,” Tom says, wary. Marvolo would probably have a stroke if he knew about the Transfiguration ideas Tom exchanges with Dumbledore, out of sheer boredom. “Not for years, since he started suspecting me and the boys. It was just this time. Trying to warn me off dark magic.” 

    “Did he, now?” Marvolo’s voice had gone very soft, always a bad sign. 

    Tom says nothing. He knows silence is the best strategy, when faced with Marvolo’s anger. It had been his strategy as a child, waiting it out, lowering his gaze until the anger halted. As he grows, Tom finds it harder and harder to show such submissiveness.  

    Yet this is such a nice afternoon, it’s a pity to throw it away just to try and gain some ground in a battle of wills that Tom will lose, anyhow. 

    He focuses on his food, avoids meeting the glamoured brown eyes, choosing to look around. When enough time has passed and the ominous tension in the air has faded, Tom changes the subject. 

    “That’s a handsome watch,” he says, nodding at a Muggle sitting close beside, checking the time on an expensive pocket watch. 

    “Take it, if you like it.” 

     Tom looks up. “What?” 

    “Take it.” Marvolo’s anger is back under control, but still simmering under the surface. He’s eyeing Tom intently, eyes narrowed.

    “The Trace-”

    “You were an excellent thief long before you learned about magic.” 

    “I’m out of practice.” It’s been so long since he even needed to steal, let alone without the aid of his wand. 

     A derisive noise greets him. “You shouldn’t forget these things. You are rich and spoiled and that is what you deserve but you should never forget who you were. If I hadn't come for you, no one would have given you a chance. Dumbledore wouldn’t be reaching out to you.” 

    The man looks frustrated, Merlin knows why. It can’t be all about Dumbledore, can it? Whatever it is, Tom is still determined to avoid any disagreement. He eyes the muggle. 

    “I didn’t forget,” he says, slowly. “He wouldn’t be my usual target. Look at him. He has sharp eyes, he’s aware of his environment. His hands are calloused, even if his garb is rich. He worked for his money and he treasures his possessions. He makes a poor victim. Without magic, he is hard to fool. Especially since I am not a little child anymore, to be dismissed as a threat. He already noticed us as soon as he entered.” 

    “At least you still know how to read people,” Marvolo says, after a few seconds and Tom grits his teeth but says nothing to that. 

    Slowly, as Tom goes though his meal, the atmosphere relaxes. Tom talks about the last book he read, deeming it a safe topic and sure enough it was a good choice. 

    “I’m done,” he announces, ready to go. They never pay, when they eat in the Muggle world. 

    “Not yet,” Marvolo says, though his wine is long finished. “I should teach you how to Apparate before you return to Hogwarts.” 

    Tom cheers up. “I’d like that.” 

    “We’ll go to Russia, in the summer. You’ll like that too.” 

    “What about the travel ban?” Tom asks, smirking.

    “As if that would hinder me. In any case, I am going in an official capacity, to persuade the Russians to join us against Grindelwald.” 

    The Russians are remarkably silent on the matter, the international press writes. They are rumoured to have many Grindelwald supporters over there. Tom says so. 

    “I will fail, of course.” Marvolo doesn’t look bothered about it. 

    “Why are we really going?” 

    “I have other business around there. I expect it to take a while. You can stay here, if you wish to be close to your friends or Walburga-” 

     He is tempted to tell him that if Marvolo continues to be so antagonistic, Tom might do just that but then Marvolo would remember it and is capable to actually leave Tom behind come summer, out of spite. 

    “We’re leaving,” he says, suddenly getting to his feet. Tom frowns, gets his coat. 

     The muggle besides them is also standing, heading to the restroom. Really? Tom thinks, amused, watching Marvolo colliding with him, just a touch of shoulders. It lasts a second. He looks carefully, but sees nothing, even though he knows what must be happening. 

    “My apologies,” Marvolo says, smoothly, continuing on his path. 

    “No harm done,” the muggle agrees. 

    As soon as they are out of the restaurant, Marvolo pulls out the golden pocket watch. It dangles in the air, catching the sunset. “No magic involved.” 

     Tom laughs, incredulous, taking it. “You set the worst examples.”

    “Everyone can be a victim. Remember that.” 

     “I know. I just-I didn’t realise you were being serious,” Tom insists. “I can steal.” 

     “Show me.” 

      There is a challenge in his voice but Marvolo is relaxed now. They walk around, until Tom spots a pair of women. He heads towards them, all a smile. His heart is wild in his chest, not because he’s nervous about the muggles or being caught, but because he’s doing something with Marvolo, playing a game of sorts. It feels exhilarating. 

     Tom stops them, inquiring about a place to sleep at. They are instantly drawn in by his face. Women were always easy to prey on. Their hearts melted for small orphans and yearned for handsome men. 

    As one is focused on his face and the other points into a direction, speaking about a hotel, Tom easily extracts a wallet from the open handbag. 

    “Thank you, ladies,” he says as he walks away. 

    He gives the wallet to Marvolo. “There.” 

    “Too easy.” 

    “That’s the point. To make it easy. What do you want me to do, steal a rifle from a soldier?” 

    “You avoid muggle men,” Marvolo says, planting an ice shard into Tom’s stomach. 

    Men could beat Tom, back when he was a child, if he was caught. Men were faster. Stronger.  Women never posed a threat. He says so. 

    Marvolo knows Tom is lying but doesn’t say anything, starts walking again. 

    “I’m not afraid of them, if that is what you are implying.” Tom follows and continues the lie. It’s not really a lie. He doesn’t fear muggles, of any sex. It’s just that he doesn’t like touching older men. Muggle or Magical. He can- he shakes plenty of hands, but it’s just not comfortable. Unless the man is Marvolo. He’ll never have a problem with that. 

    “You are old enough.”

    “For?” 

     Tom is already weary, from the ambiguous statement, when they turn a corner and he sees where they are heading. The Cathedral looks like a nightmare come to life. He stops, abruptly. 

     Marvolo’s hand is at his back, pushing him forward.

    “I-” Tom’s voice is rough, a knot in his throat.

     “You are with me.”

    Their eyes meet. He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to have anything to do with what is coming, but he won’t say it. 

    There had been times he’d been uncomfortable with certain things Marvolo expected of him, but Tom’s been sure Marvolo had been unaware of his misgivings so Tom did what was asked, to not disappoint the other man, to try and meet the standards that are expected of him.        

    Yet now Marvolo is, for once, very aware of the apprehension Tom feels and he insists on this, leading Tom forward, the hand on his back a confines and a comfort at the same time. Tom feels betrayed to be led into danger this way, by Marvolo of all people. 

    There is no danger, he tells himself. You have a wand, you are all grown. No muggle can hurt you. There is no danger. 

     He reaches for his wand and that settles his wild pulse somewhat, feeling its weight between his fingers, hidden in the pocket of his coat as they enter the Cathedral. 

       Tom shivers. Stops again. It’s huge. Marvolo still pushes him forward and Tom’s legs walk without his say so. He’s getting dizzy. 

      The priest is holding a sermon, up on the altar. The words don’t reach Tom through the loud ringing in his ears. 

      He’s sitting in a pew, without remembering how he’s gotten there. Marvolo’s right besides him. Tom clutches the other’s forearm with a deathly grip. 

    “Calm,” Marvolo whispers and his voice drags Tom back to the present, makes the colours more vivid, the location more real. “I am with you,” he says again and Tom takes a deep breath. 

    He doesn’t let go of Marvolo’s arm, nor of his wand, but he gains enough focus to look around. A small congregation for such a big place. They all listen to the priest, but Tom doesn’t want to look at him. 

    The ringing in his ears subsides, and he can hear the words now. The bible passages are so familiar to him, even if the priest’s sermon is different from the ones Tom heard, before each Christmas at Wool’s. 

    “As the last days of the Nativity Fast comes to an end, let us take the time to reflect on the ways in which God has waited for us. Let us take the time to thank God for his patience and his wisdom. God is good to us, brothers and sisters. And may we gather together on Christmas day and receive once again the gift of his Son, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. On that day, God-willing, we will stand together and say, finally the wait is over, finally “God is with us”! Amen.” 

    “Amen,” the congregation answers, loudly, covering Marvolo’s snort.  

    People rise with low murmurs and they head towards the doors. Tom would like to go with them but he knows that Marvolo hadn’t brought him there just to listen to the sermon. 

    Some stay behind, gathering around the altar. Tom’s mouth is dry. He wishes he’d have some water with him. 

    Marvolo isn’t looking at the priest either, he’s looking at Tom. The glamor fades, red eyes shining bright in the candle light. 

    And finally, the last people are heading for the exit. 

    Marvolo’s wand is in his hand. Adrenaline rushes through Tom. Even the silence echoes in the Cathedral, as it always did in the Church besides the Orphanage. 

    Marvolo stands. His shadow spills across the hallway, a glorious, demonic sight. Tom stands as well, unwilling to be even an inch away from him. His own shadow is covered by Marvolo’s. They blend together. 

    “How can I help you?” the priest talks and Tom looks, finally. He’s a little shocked to see the black, neat beard, the brown eyes. A small part of his brain had expected to see auburn and blue, a face he knows so well-

    The man freezes on the spot. 

    Here we go, Tom thinks, heat hammering against his ribs, but the fear diminishes. Magic. Magic works, even here. 

    He’d known it would, of course. Only in that small part of his mind, were he is still eight years old, where he is still Tom Riddle, he had believed magic will not work in a holy place. At least his hasn’t. It hadn’t protected him. 

    Marvolo is casting a circle around the priest. Dark Magic is high in the air, it raises the hair on Tom’s arms. 

    “I shouldn’t have killed him.” 

    Tom knows exactly who “him” is. 

    “I should have kept him alive, for you,” Marvolo goes on, casting a different spell. "I robed you of your vengeance.” 

    Tom disagrees. He’s extremely relived the priest, his priest, has been dead for so long. He doesn’t know how he would have been able to live, knowing that man was still breathing, someplace on the earth. 

    “Step inside.” The area is highly warded, it’s edges shining in a dim red light. “The Trace will not pick you up, in this circle.”  

    The priest’s eyes are full of terror. It’s raw and pure and something inside Tom roars in approval.

    Marvolo waves his wand again and the man’s limbs and tongue aren’t frozen anymore yet he stands very still, either way. He only raises his hand to clutch at the crucifix around his neck. 

    “Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be your name. Your Kingdom come, your will be done-” he mutters under his beard.

    Tom’s hate mounts. The anger cleanses him of all other feelings, as the priest prays. 

    “He will not help you,” Tom tells him. 

     “You only need anger for the Cruciatus,” Marvolo speaks above the whispered call to God. 

    Tom has that in abundance. He raises his wand. His hand had stoped trembling. 

    “-but deliver us from evil,” the priest finishes.  

    “Crucio!” 

    The screams bounce off the walls, in a dozen different tempos. They reach right inside Tom, filling up that hunger, satisfying it. 

    He had never screamed. Not once. Not when they tied him down and poured holy water on him. Not when he was alone with the priest. He  never begged. 

    He dreams of begging. He dreams of fighting back, of screaming himself raw. But he did none of those things. He had stood still and suffered it. 

    The screams intensify. The world narrows down until the only things in it are the agony reverberating around him, and the priest twisting and curling on the floor. 

    There is freedom, in this space in time. Nothing bounds Tom down, there is no pressure under his ribs, no noise in his head. 

     Once, he had been prey. But now he is the predator. Predators feel no fear. He’d often told himself that, as a child, but it was never true. It is, as the priest bleeds out of his nose.

    “Take a break.” 

    For a second Tom is certain the voice is his, coming from his mind. But than Marvolo is beside him. 

    It’s hard to stop. Very hard. 

    “Take a break,” Marvolo repeats and Tom lowers his wand. As soon as he does, he sways on his feet. He breaths in, deeply. 

    The priest whimpers, on the floor, in his own urine and blood.

    “You should never hold it that long, if you wish for their minds to stay whole enough to be able to give you information.” 

    “I don’t want anything from him,” Tom breathes out. Only the priest’s screams and pain. That's all he wants. 

    “I know. But in the future, you need to take it slow. Especially as you will practice with your group.” 

    Tom’s mind is sluggish. Satisfied, like after a big meal. Sleepy. He could never do this to his friends, it says. 

    Yes, you could, another voice whispers back, from deep within. 

    “If you power it too much, if you give dark magic too much of yourself, it will tire you. You need to pace it. You will learn how to use your anger to aid you, instead of letting it rule you, like it did now.” 

    Tom sways again. Marvolo steadies him, with a hand on his shoulder. 

    “You only let lose when your life is in danger.” 

    The priest whimpers and Tom glances at him. Just a man, in too much pain. His eyes are glazed over. 

     “Again,” Marvolo says. 

    Tom feels drunk, though he isn’t sure how that is, haven’t had a drink in his life. He just wants to sleep. But he raises his wand. 

    He does it nonverbally. The shift in power is noticeable. The priest moans rather than scream and while it could be because his mind already fractured, Tom knows there’s less in the curse, than before, his anger satisfied already. 

    He ends it faster. 

    Marvolo aims his wand and Tom knows what for. 

    Because he feels like he’s floating, his mind quiet and less guarded than usual, he lets the words slip. 

    “I don’t like the green,” he says, slowly. 

    Marvolo looks at him, head titled to the side, gaze inquisitive. Tom wouldn’t know how to explain all of it, in detail. He’s not sure himself.  

    “I dream someone kills you with it,” he confesses. 

    “I will not die, child. Neither will you.” 

    “I just don’t like it,” Tom insists.  

    “Never use the killing curse when you are uncertain.” Tom thinks he’s been told that before. “There are plenty other ways to kill.” 

    And with a flick of his wand, the head of the priest departs from his body. 

    Tom feels nothing. 

    In the blink of an eye, both pieces of him are turned into pebbles. The floor is cleaned of fluids and Marvolo lifts the runic circle. 

    He takes Tom’s arm and they Apparate to their house. He feels weightless, a tremendous suffocating burden that he had carried with him since he can remember is missing. He could cry, with joy, if he’d have the energy. 

    He can’t remember the journey to his bedroom, but he’s laying in his bed, Marvolo putting a blanket over him. 

    Tom falls asleep instantly and for the first time in his life, he dreams of nothing. There are no shadows.

     Everything is silent. 

Chapter Text

    The Ministry Ball had always been a boring affair and Marvolo had skipped it more years than not, but with Marchbanks in charge and him being her right hand, it is expected of him to attend. 

    She’s tiny, hunched down by age, but her eyes are as sharp as an eagle as she shakes Tom’s hand. 

    “I’m sorry I won’t get to test you,” she says. “Galatea talked my ear off last I went to Hogwarts, how extraordinary skilled you are.” 

    “Professor Merrythought is very kind to say so.” 

    “Seems the apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” she huffs, looking between Marvolo and Tom. 

    It’s clear why she needs her Undersecretary around. The Minister is not a politician by nature; she is tense and uncomfortable surrounded by conniving men that will not speak an honest word if their lives depended on it. 

    She is not a fan of the Sacred Twenty Eight, it’s clear to see the disdain she treats them with. She especially seems to dislike Septimius, looking up at him with a determined air, her withered fingers playing with her rings to try and curb the temptation to strangle the man. 

    Though a pure blood, she comes from the lower class and was always looked down at because of it. Yet there she is, Minister for Magic. The Sacred Twenty Eight resent her as much as she resents them. 

    Marvolo is at her side, keeping spirits calm, as the newspapers gossip he does in all Wizengamot sessions. 

    “Look at him and that stupid little smirk. His face will freeze that way, if it hadn’t already.” She scoffs as soon as Septimius turns his back. “If I have to suffer him coming into my office to demand another bloody thing-“

    “As I assured you, he shall come to my office instead.” 

    “Merlin help you,” she sighs but points a finger at Marvolo. It’s a ludicrous image- she’s half his size. “Though serves you right. Some days I resent you for volunteering my name for office.” 

    “We needed a fierce, reliable leader.” Marvolo smiles and her face softens, if only a little.

    The smile must look acceptable to outsides, but Tom can see the strain in it. Marvolo’s patience is wearing very thin, each interaction with these people chipping away at the disintegrating wall he’s built around his rage.

    “You flatterer! I forget you are a Slytherin, even if you hadn’t attended Hogwarts.”

    “And what House were you in, Madame?” Tom asks, even though he’s quite sure about the answer. 

    She doesn’t disappoint. “Gryffindor, of course.” 

    “Our Minister is brave,” Marvolo says and dismisses Tom as a group of foreign dignitaries approach. 

    Blacks refuse to attend such “plebeian” affairs, since the Ministry had employed a couple Mudbloods and Rodolphus will not willingly come anywhere with his father, if he doesn’t absolutely need to, so that only leaves Abraxas and Nott to keep Tom company. 

    The food is terrible, the room is awfully cramped and Tom is struck by a headache halfway through the event, made only worse by Abraxas incessant whining. To make Tom’s night even more unpleasant, Abraxas narrows his eyes mid rant. 

    “What’s he doing here?” 

    Dumbledore had just arrived, shining like a firefly in a hideous blue and pink robe. He stands out like a sore in the sea of black and grey robes.

    “He rarely comes to these blasted affairs,” Abraxas goes on. “Must he torment us here as well? Isn’t school enough?” 

    One of the reasons the Sacred families do not approve of Marchbanks and needed to be compelled by Marvolo into supporting her, is her friendship with the irksome professor that always speaks about equal opportunity and ethics and all that rubbish, a thorn in the side of the Pureblood way of living. 

    After shaking the hands of some Ministers he heads towards her. Marvolo’s gone from Marchbanks side. 

    “Young man!” the Minister says, sighing but pleased to see Dumbledore. “You need to learn how to dress!” 

    Dumbledore chuckles, kissing her hand. “I was feeling rather festive.” 

    “That makes one of us,” she murmurs. 

    “And where is your illustrious Undersecretary?” Dumbledore inquires, peeking around. 

    “Oh,” Marchabanks frowns. “He was right here, a minute ago. Merlin knows, he must have needed a break, I don’t know how he handles these individuals on a daily basis.” She speaks loudly, starring daggers at Malfoy. “Ah, there he is!” 

    And indeed, Marvolo’s in the middle of a large group made by blood purists. They circle around him, a veritable human shield. 

    “I so wish to meet him,” Dumbledore says, and Tom doesn’t like the way his eyes settle on Marvolo. 

    “You’ve met him, surely,” she answers, frown deepening. “You are both in the Wizengamot-“

    “Oh, we nod politely at each other, but he’s so busy I never catch him alone.”

    “If you’re prepared to suffer those buffoons, go ahead. You’d like Gaunt, he reminds me of you, actually. As brilliant as they come and tough as nails.” 

    Abraxas smirks beside Tom. “Father tells me Dumbledore’s been making a fool of himself, trying to speak with Marvolo at the Ministry,” he whispers. “An unsuccessful endeavour, every time.” 

    Tom watches with interest as Dumbledore makes his way to Marvolo, but is waylaid by several men. One after the other, they keep getting in his way. 

    “Good grief! We should all donate some galleons to make sure you have proper attires to wear at such events if you insist on showing up. There are foreigners here!” Septimius drawls, blocking Dumbledore’s path as soon as Dumbledore gets rid of Lestrange. 

    In the meantime, Marvolo slips away into the crowd. 

    How curious. 

    It is too petty, even for Marvolo. The others are obviously amused, think it’s a game to frustrate the hated professor, but Tom recognizes that Marvolo is weary. With good reason. Dumbledore is perceptive, there is no point in denying it. Yet it’s more than that. Marvolo hates Dumbledore with a fervor bordering on obsession that he doesn’t display for anything else in his life.

    “Oh, no.” Abraxas cringes. 

    Dumbledore, seeing Marvolo had gone, is making his way towards Tom. 

    “Evening boys,” he says, genially. Abraxas looks overwhelmed by Dumbledore’s robes in such proximity. 

    “Professor,” Tom replies. 

    “How are your holidays?” 

    “Good, sir. Thank you.” 

    Dumbledore smiles at him. “Would you introduce me to your father?” 

    Tom smiles right back. “I haven’t a clue where he is, sir, or I would.” 

    He barely finishes his sentence when Marvolo is right there, between him and Dumbledore, so sudden Tom has no idea how he pulled it off. One cannot Apparate in the room. 

    “Ah, there you are, Mr. Gaunt.” 

    “Dumbledore.” 

    Tom can’t see his face, but he can see the tense line of Marvolo’s shoulders. He tries to move to the side, so he can at least see Dumbledore, but Marvolo moves with him, blocking Tom, as if shielding him from Dumbledore, which is ridiculous. Tom lives with the man nine and a half months a year, and no matter how bothersome Dumbledore is, he never gave an inkling he’d hurt Tom. 

    “Could we exchange a few words, do you think?” 

    “I’m afraid I have to leave. Some other time.” 

    “I sent you a few letters, but they must have been lost on the way,” Dumbledore goes on. 

    “No doubt,” Marvolo says. “We are leaving,” he tells Tom, turning as abruptly as he’d appeared.

    Tom’s coat is somewhere in the back, but he knows better than to ask to go for it, Marvolo directing him out of the room as if they are marching out to war.

    “Dumbledore can’t take a hint,” Marvolo mutters as soon as they Apparate into their backyard. 

    Atlas is chasing Morgana up a tree, hissing irritably. 

    “He’s persistent,” Tom agrees, watching his pets attempt to kill each other. “I can’t believe you haven’t yet met him, properly.” Tom always thought the two had a history of some kind, what with the way only mentions of Dumbledore anger Marvolo like nothing else. 

    “He’ll get his wish,” Marvolo snarls, glamour cast away, red eyes flickering with rage. “When the time comes, he will meet me.” 

    “You’re afraid of him,” Tom says, astonished, stopping in his track. The epiphany was so surprising that he hadn’t thought before opening his mouth. 

    Marvolo turns on him, features distorted with fury. “What did you say?” 

    A part of Tom, raw and led by instinct, implores him to step away, faced with such animosity. The other, just as raw, calls for him to get closer. 

    Caught between them, he stands, frozen. Tom has never seen him this way; magic radiates off him, aggressive, and there’s a glint in his eyes that Tom doesn’t know what to make of. 

    He assumes this is his introduction to Lord Voldemort. 

    “Why Voldemort?” he inquires, restrained, as if addressing a wounded wild animal. 

    “Where did you learn that name?” Marvolo’s rage doesn’t subside, but he’s thrown off by the abrupt change of subject. 

    “Abraxas heard his father mention it.” 

    “Malfoys and their loose tongues,” Marvolo spits.  “Figure it out.” 

    “Just tell me. Why do you make everything so complicated?”

    Marvolo steps away towards the house. Tom’s hand moves without his permission, fingers curling around Marvolo’s thinner one. 

    It happens extremely fast- Marvolo turns and the glare Tom receives is like nothing else that’s ever been aimed at him; however, it’s Marvolo’s wand, already in his hand that captures his attention. 

    Tom steps back and resists the compulsion to grab his own wand, though the impulse is so strong, his fingers twitch. 

    He’s never been genuinely afraid of Marvolo, not for his physical wellbeing, at least. Tom had dreaded to be abandoned, to be told he’s a disappointment, but he’d never feared.

    Marvolo would never harm him. 

    But this isn’t really Marvolo. It’s fascinating; that face he knows so well, cold and impassive, is different. Emotions flicker upon it, twisting those emaciated aristocratic features, fighting for their chance to shine. 

    There’s a shift, so subtle he can’t identify it, but Lord Voldemort just looks wild, nothing like the composed Marvolo, magic flowing from his body like seismic waves of power.  

    His usual cold politeness is gone, stripped away to reveal the hard lines of a killer. Which is odd, because Tom had watched him kill, and even then he hadn’t looked this dangerous.  

    Tom cannot stop staring. He recognises this side of Marvolo, even though he’s certain he’d never witnessed it before. Yet in a way, this is more familiar to him than everything else he’d seen. He has the same sense of deja vu he’d felt so long ago, at Wool’s, when he first saw Marvolo and knew him.

    Tom recognises the rough, unmitigated rage burning in those red eyes. It makes him ache in tender places he’d never noticed in his life. He craves to reach inside Marvolo and soothe it because he knows how anger consumes everything, what a significant burden it is. He wants it so deeply he almost touches him anew, before his sense of awareness kicks back in, taking him from the surreal state he’d been in and back to reality where he’s facing a furious, terribly dangerous dark lord. 

    He takes another step backward and raises his hands instead, in an universal sign of surrender. It’s not fear that causes him to do it; rather an eagerness to calm Marvolo, put him at ease, comfort him somehow, though he would meet no one’s definition of needing comfort. 

    Tom still meets the stare head on, until expressions bleed off Marvolo’s face, a shadow settling over his eyes, erasing all that’s been there before. 

    He’s both pleased and sad when Marvolo’s back in control, when the tense line of his shoulders returns. 

    Marvolo leaves and Tom doesn’t stop him again, though he would like nothing more. He sits on the grass, tired and exhilarated in equal measures, his pulse racing, throbbing in his temples. He lays down. The sky is clear, all the stars shining brightly as if putting on a show for him. 

    Tom breathes easier, feels the tranquility he’d felt after he’d tortured the priest a week before. He’d had woken the next morning hoping to be better, but the shadows had crept back in and he doesn’t want torture to be the solution. Only insane people get peace out of torturing others and whatever he may be, he doesn’t want to be crazy; nevertheless, that is precisely what he is feeling, the gradual deterioration of his once great mind, turning against him. 

    But seeing Marvolo like that, watching the same cocktail of volatile emotions in his eyes, gives Tom hope. Shows him there is a way to be wrong, but functional. There is a path to greatness, even with his issues.

    He’d always thought of Marvolo as one of the robotic beings portrayed in muggle literature, empty of everything but intelligence. 

    Someone, he forgets who, has told him he acted like a “little robot” because Tom never smiled or laughed or displayed any joy at all. But while it was true Tom never felt what the other kids did, never was predisposed to gentleness, affection or sympathetic behaviour, he was constantly full of high emotions, anger and desperation ravaging him from within. 

    He suspects he can’t keep them in check anymore; they are clawing their way out from the corner of his mind where he repeatedly seeks to cram them in, and he’ll lose it, he’ll become a mindless, sullen beast with nothing else. 

    Yet he’d seen the same phenomena in Marvolo’s eyes. And Marvolo is so much more than just that, even in that cold, detached style of his.

    “You can come out now,” he hisses but Atlas, hidden under a bush further away doesn’t answer, curled around itself, petrified. Morgana is long gone. Tom thinks of his Basilisk, wonders if even she, magnificent as she is, would have cowered away from Marvolo’s rage. 

    Tom is certain she would have.

    (-)

    “Master! Master!” 

    Tom opens his eyes, confused for a second, to find he had fallen asleep in the garden, Bitsy’s face looking down on him. 

    “Master must come in the house. This no place for resting.” 

    “Go away,” Tom mumbles, surprised to see the sky beginning to lighten. He must have gotten some good hours of sleep, undisturbed. It’s started snowing, a timid layer of white sparkling around him but not a single flake on his person. 

    Tom’s magic protects him, as always, even when he’s unaware. Except, of course, for when he’d needed it the most, and it failed to rise to the occasion. 

    “Bitsy would,” she squeals, pinching herself for disobeying a direct order. “But Bitsy can’t.” Her eyes are enormous and Tom gets it. She would only disobey him if her other Master ordered her to get Tom inside. “Please, Master, come. Bitsy makes you something to snack on!” 

    “I’m not hungry.” He sits up, pulling a strand of grass from his hair. 

    “Is master sick?” she asks, worried. 

    “Go, I’ll be right over,” Tom insists, and she disappears. 

    He lies back down. “You’ll freeze,” he tells Atlas, who is in the exact position he last was. “Seek warmth.” 

    “Scared.” 

    “You needn’t be. He won’t hurt you.” 

    “Scared,” Atlas insists. Tom spends the next minutes coaxing him and eventually Atlas slithers out of his hiding place, leaving a broad trail in the snow. He instantly gets under Tom’s robe, wrapping his coils around Tom’s legs and torso, hiding its head under Tom’s neck. 

    He casts a warming charm on both of them, though Tom’s quite warm already. 

    Atlas hisses with satisfaction. 

    He’s barley calmed down when Tom feels its tongue flickering above his heart, sniffing the air before uncoiling itself and rushing out in the snow, retracing his path back to the bush. 

    “You may come inside,” Marvolo’s voice comes only seconds later. 

    Tom cranes his neck to take him in; he’s stopped further away, more distance than is necessary between them. 

    “I know.” 

    Marvolo’s eyes are focused on the willow, further ahead, its branches hanging lower than usual. No flakes touch him either. “I- overreacted. It will not happen again.” 

    It’s the closest to an apology he’ll get. If anyone else would have drawn their wand at him, Tom would be furious, but Marvolo is not anyone else. 

    “You know I like to stargaze,” Tom says. I wasn’t avoiding you. I’m not afraid of you. 

    “And yet you hate Astronomy.” Marvolo comes closer. 

    Tom sits, but doesn’t stand. “I wouldn’t say I hate it. It’s just mind numbingly boring.” Tom doesn’t want to examine charts and study celestial names, though of course he did, and he knows all it’s expected of him. 

    He likes to watch the stars and try to think of nothing. 

    Marvolo finally looks at him. “You can drop the subject, after you sit your O.W.Ls. You seem tired. Perhaps you have taken too much on.” 

     Tom snorts. “The standing record for N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts is thirteen. I’ll break it, and I need Astronomy for it. It’s not too much. I can handle it.” If Dumbledore got thirteen Outstanding, Tom can manage fourteen.

    The slightest smile greets him. Marvolo’s as white as the surrounding snow. He waves his hand, and an armchair appears upon which he sits.

    “I did not say you cannot handle it. Just a suggestion that perhaps you shouldn’t. You are overtaxing yourself.” 

    Tom doesn’t know if he should feel insulted, his abilities being questioned or if he should be grateful that Marvolo surely says it out of concern. 

   “I’m fine.” 

   “Are you sleeping?” 

   “Sure.” Tom can hear how defensive his voice is. “I just slept,” he points out, but Marvolo doesn’t seem satisfied. “I sleep enough,” Tom says after a few more seconds. 

    One night out of two or three is enough. It has to be.

    He rubs his neck, stiff from the hard ground. It’s not usual for Marvolo to ask about such private things. Because he doesn’t need to, in general. Tom prattles non stop in the school breaks, writes him long letters while at school and the little he doesn’t disclose, Marvolo has never been inclined to ask about. 

    It used to bother Tom as a child. It seemed like a lack of interest and care, but as he grows he understands Marvolo’s a very private person and he respects Tom’s right to it as well. 

    “You shouldn’t take potions frequently-”

    “I know!” Tom raises his voice, irritated. 

    That is precisely why he only sleeps two nights a week because he can’t abuse the Draught of Living Death. 

    Marvolo must be feeling remorseful for raising his wand at Tom, because he accepts being yelled at, though a muscles twitches in his jaw. 

    “Incredible,” he mutters. “You are unlike other teenagers in numerous ways and yet you are one, at the end of the day.” 

    “Thanks,” Tom hisses. 

    “I understand. I remember being your age, believing I knew better than all around me. And I did, to a certain extent. I know you will not take guidance from anyone else, but I though you might, from me.” 

    Tom can’t think of anything to say. It’s a little unfair; he recognises emotional blackmail when he sees it. Marvolo knows very well that Tom does his utmost best to listen to him, to do as he says.  

    Atlas is no longer around; Tom hopes he went inside. He should go too- he needs to pack and finish Avery’s assignments for the holiday, otherwise the idiot will get another 'P' in Charms and Transfiguration, ruining Slytherin's image.  

    He doesn’t move, choosing to watch the dimming stars as the fauna comes to life around them. 

    Tom doesn’t want to return to Hogwarts, he’d much rather stay home. It’s not like they can teach him anything new there, and whatever gaps in knowledge could occur, Marvolo is more than capable to correct them. 

    But he knows it’s not an option; Tom had vowed to himself he will not let whatever is afflicting him interfere with his life. He will not give up. 

    “What did you do, after graduation?” he asks, picking up a twig. 

    Marvolo takes so long to answer, Tom is sure he won’t. It wouldn’t be the first question to fall on deaf ears.

    “I worked for a shop.” 

    Tom would have never predicted that. “You what?” Surely, he heard wrong. Maybe he’s evolved to auditory hallucinations, to keep company to his visual ones. 

    “It was for a brief period. I had no intention to join the Ministry, though there were some offers. I did very well in school, made the right connections.” 

    Tom waves his hand and watches as the grass starts growing, twisting, hardening and changing until it becomes a huge pillow. It still smells of grass and retains its colour, but he hadn’t really focused. He supports his back on it. Not everything needs to be perfect all the time. Sometimes practicality is the only goal. 

    Marvolo’s hand jerks as he eyes it; Tom can virtually see the impulse to improve Tom’s creation. Marvolo’s magic is never just utilitarian. Everything he does, however small, however temporary, is beautiful, perfect and insanely complicated. 

    Tom is the same way, only he’s still learning. He can do anything with a wand, but it takes time to master wandless magic to such an extent. Time and energy, which he lacks. 

    Marvolo leaves the pillow be. Usually, whenever he detects a mistake, however negligible, he’s always swift to correct it, though he never tells Tom how to do it himself. It used to be aggravating, as Tom struggled to emulate him, without any instruction. 

    “I broke the record for most NEWTS.” A brief pause. “The Drumstrang equivalent.” 

    “How many?” 

    Another brief pause. “Fourteen.” 

     Tom smiles, satisfied, leans more comfortably on the pillow and crosses his legs in front of him at the ankle. 

    “With those grades, with my skill, I would have advanced through Ministry ranks, quite fast. Yet no one named Tom Riddle would have become Minister for Magic. The Purebloods would not allow it.” 

    Tom nods. That is true, for most Europe. Oh, they are employing halfbloods and mudbloods, but it’s never high up positions. The only notable exception is Dumbledore, because of course he is, but at least his name is a magical one, unlike Riddle.

    “Perhaps, in time, I would have done it. Yet what after? Ministers do not hold considerable power; they too are stuck within a legal system unchanged for centuries. It would have been a waste of my talents. Magical communities require a revolution, not new regulations. Idiots cannot be made to see reason with laws. And most people are idiots. You must speak to men in the language they understand. The great majority only respond to fear, brought about by violence.” 

    “You sound like Grindelwald,” Tom teases but Marvolo doesn’t take the bait. 

    “Grindelwald is not wrong. However, he is not the man to accomplish it.” 

    Tom wants to point out that Marvolo is working for the Ministry. Oh, he’s Lord Voldemort part time, but still a politician. 

    He doesn’t think it’s prudent to anger him twice in one night, so he bites his cheek and waits. 

    “I wished to travel, first thing after graduating. But I overheard a rumour this shop had access to some considerably valuable artefacts, so I delayed my plans until I procured what I was seeking. After that, I left. I traveled, all over the world, and only returned once I learned all that could be learned, saw all that could be seen.” 

    Tom can imagine all those foreign lands- deserts, wintery hells, lush tropical forests. And Marvolo, in his black cloak, moving tirelessly between them, no matter rain or snow or scorching heat. 

    “I think the same way. About the Ministry,” Tom admits. “But I have the right name and you work there. I would be received with open arms.” 

    Abraxas will follow in his father’s footsteps. Most of his fellow students are required to do just that. For the longest of times, Tom had believed that was what was expected of him as well. 

    “Is that what you want?” Marvolo tilts his head, the way he does when he’s absorbed in what Tom has to say, which is not very often. 

    “No.” Tom would not do well, with so many people around him, with crowded rooms and spineless bootlickers. He isn’t sure he can finish Hogwarts, let alone build a career of having to pretend. Forever. His entire life required to hide who he is. Sounds exhausting. 

    “Good,” Marvolo gives a sharp nod. “There are branches of the Dark Arts that will corrupt your soul. Others will rip it apart. However, that is nothing compared to politics. It will drain you of your greatness. I can barley tolerate it now, and I do not know for how much longer. Travel, see the world. Learn all you crave. Then you shall see what you would like to do. We shall see how the world is, when you return.” 

    Tom doesn’t want to leave. He likes to travel, but with Marvolo. Going alone for years sounds good, because he’ll be away from people. But he’ll also be away from Marvolo, and that is unthinkable. 

    It wasn’t a question, so Tom doesn’t have to answer. 

    The sun is rising, a thin orange line on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the sky. 

    “I like it,” Tom says, after a few minutes. “Voldemort,” he clarifies. The names rolls off his tongue as if he’s been saying it all his life. It tastes remarkably familiar. “I don’t understand, however. You bring death. There is no flight involved.” 

    “I would argue that achieving Immortality is a perpetual flight from Death.” 

    Tom smiles. “I suppose.” 

    “It was the best I could come up with, at sixteen.”  

    Sixteen. Tom just turned sixteen, hours before. 

    “I made some questionable decisions at that age.” Marvolo’s voice shifts in quality.

    Tom turns his face away from the sun, to find Marvolo closer than he’d expected.

    The man can move without a single noise, always did. He’s bent down, eye level with Tom. 

    “Come to me, when you are overwhelmed.” 

    Tom is distracted by the flecks of brown lost in the red. He wishes he could count them. Sometimes the pupils are oval shaped, longer and thinner than it is natural; other times they form a perfect circle. 

    Tom is overwhelmed. He feels it in his bones, in every corner of his being. But admitting this level of weakness to Marvolo is unthinkable.  

    “I’m fine,” he lies. 

    Marvolo doesn’t need to blink as much as other people. It’s unnerving. 

    “Do not wake the Basilisk.” 

    “I said I wouldn’t,” Tom points out, though he’s spent countless nights in the Chamber since he’d had that discussion with Marvolo, a year prior. 

    “A reminder. In case the urge shall strike you.” 

    Tom stands, though it needs some maneuvering, caught between his large pillow and Marvolo. 

    “I’m going to eat,” he announces and walks towards the house. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Marvolo standing as well.  

    He’s looking down at Tom’s transfigured pillow and, as if he can’t help himself, he improves the colour and texture, before vanishing it altogether. 

    Tom smiles to himself. 

    In a world that’s shifting under his feet, when reality starts blending with fantasy, it is comforting to rely on Marvolo remaining a constant, unchanged; Tom’s foundation. 

    (-)

    With a couple more attacks happening over the holidays and the progressively restrictive measures the Ministry takes, the small Duelling Club at Hogwarts becomes popular. 

    “It’s a waste of time,” Nott, who had attended before, waves it off. “Certainly not for us. There’s nothing we can learn and we’re sitting our O.W.Ls this year, we should concentrate on that.”

    Tom could take the exams in his sleep, he’s not at all concerned. Neither is Alphard, who is not studious by nature but has been blessed with talent and a remarkable memory. Rodolphus should revise in some subjects, but he’s not one to care about grades. 

    Avery is a right mess and is disheartening to educate him. Slughorn insists however that Tom should do his part and get Avery through the O.W.Ls, as to not dishonor the Slytherin house. 

    After every lesson, Tom is growing perilously close to hurting the moron, a part of him demanding it, craving for release. 

    Abraxas could also pass any subjects with his eyes closed, but he is under so much pressure from his father, he devotes every waking hour revising things he already knows by heart.

    “We’re going to the Club,” Tom announces, pulling Abraxas’s Charms textbook from under his nose. 

    Walburga claps, delighted. “It should be entertaining.” 

    It is. 

    It surprises Merrythought to have so many students in attendance, rather than the usual curious first and second years. 

    They have moved the Club into a bigger room on the first floor, and she’s divided them by age into third groups. 

    First and second years practice together in the farthest corner, third and fourth years in the opposite direction and the rest right in the middle of the room. Merrythought is spread thin between them, having to stop accidental fires from the youngsters or settle a heated duel between the oldest. 

    When she sees his groups strolling in, she curses. 

    “Gaunt, keep Lestrange in check, will you?” she asks as a wand flies above their heads and a group of twelve-year-olds laugh loudly. 

    Within minutes, Rodolphus sends two Mudbloods to the Hospital Wing, bleeding profusely. 

    Tom should have stopped it, but decided not to. Fleet, the Gryffindor sixth year, had had it coming for a long time and it proved most satisfying having him shriek in pain. 

    “You’re out of control!” the Professor yells, close to slapping Rodolphus. “What is wrong with you?” 

    “It was all lawful,” Rodolphus argues. “Don’t you teach sixth years how to block a simple cutting spell? How did that Mudblood pass his tests?”

    “You were right,” Abraxas drawls, between Tom and Walburga. “This is entertaining.” 

    They watch as Merrythought calls Rodolphus every name that comes to mind before banning him to duel on school grounds. 

    Rodolphus is not one to take a berating quietly, so he screams back until he loses Slytherin eighty points in the span of five minutes. 

    Tom has fun destroying every opponent that wants to take him on; he injures none of them, it’s all terribly tame, but he’s satisfied by the awed looks he gets from everyone around. 

    One of the third years vanishes another boy’s arm and Merrythought ends the meeting, complaining she can’t watch over so many of them at once. 

    “I could help, Professor. If you want, I can watch over the first and second years next time.” 

    “You’re a decent lad, Gaunt. We’ll see how many show up.” 

    In their own exclusive group, Tom teaches them to cast the Cruciatus. He’s quite certain Rodolphus already knows, but he doesn’t comment on it. 

    The results are nowhere near as impressive as he’d witnessed in the Church. Tom doesn’t like his classmates all that much, but he doesn’t hate them either. And when he gets curious how it would feel and asks Abraxas to practice on Tom, he receives pain. Quite a lot of it, but not enough to even put him on the floor. 

    In an effort to not become addicted to the Draught of Living Death, Tom takes Calming potions before bed, but they never serve as well and not only does he wake several times during the night, he must have brewed them too strongly because they make him too calm during the first hours of the morning, before they wear off. 

    Tom can’t be that calm, even though it is an enjoyable sensation, it’s a risky one. He needs to be alert at all times. 

    “What’s going on with you?” Walburga asks him, late at night, as they sneak under the trap. “It’s like you switch personality between breakfast and lunch.” 

    He’s determined to avoid taking any potion but when he can’t sleep nights in a row, when he sees shadows out the corner of his eyes at every turn and his mind insists on concentrating on the worst sort of things as he lies down in his bed, Tom needs to take something.

    (-)

    He’s confident he could get away with it. There’s no reason to let the Basilisk out and risk discovery or her death, when he can just use the Imperius on a straggling mudblood, lead it to the chamber and serve it to the snake. 

    It would have to be Fleet. Tom could easily catch him alone, when the mudblood goes on his nocturnal strolls to meet up with his Hufflepuff lover. 

    So easy. Fleet doesn’t belong at Hogwarts. He’s stupid, arrogant with no valid reason, boisterous and crass, with no care for wizard traditions, tramples over everything sacred in their world. The greatest feat Fleet will ever achieve is to serve as nourishment for such a noble, ancient being. 

    She’d be satiated. She’d feel good. She would sleep better. Until the next heir comes. 

    He shifts on the floor, rests his forehead on the cold tiles to cool him. The Chamber is always so cold, but Tom is always hot. 

    He can’t see another heir coming after him. 

    It won’t happen. There will be no wife and offspring for him. No simple, normal life. 

    He wasn’t made for family. Tom will never create life. Why would he do that to someone, place a child in the position to be prey, for so many years, until they mature enough to defend themselves? 

    He’d have to be by its side, constantly, to protect it. It will hinder him. A nuisance.

    Tom knows he’s keeping Marvolo from achieving greater things. If it weren’t for Tom, Marvolo would not play politician. He’d be leading an army. But he can’t-he couldn’t, with a young boy to look after. 

    As Tom grows, the kill count in Britain rises. Marvolo is freer to move around. 

    Does he see me as something to chain him down? Is he waiting for me to become an adult so he can be free of me and move on with his life, with whatever plans he has? 

    Graduation is coming closer each year. Will Marvolo want him out of the house? Was that why he was encouraging Tom to travel? What will Tom do?

     Not even death can set us apart, Marvolo had promised and Tom clings to it, allows the words to replay themselves on a loop in his head, over and over, to keep him awake instead of other obsessive thoughts. 

    (-)

    They’re getting careless, kissing in the Common Room, late at night; thankfully, they’re not in a very compromising position, Tom’s hands are just going under her blouse when a bored voice startles them apart. 

    “She’s to be my wife, you know. I’d appreciate it if you’d show more decorum,” little Orion says. Not so little anymore, the lad is growing like a weed.  

    “Shut up, you little shite!” Walburga snarls at him. “Go back to your room, it’s past your bedtime. You better keep this to yourself or I’ll cut your tongue off.” 

    Orion regards her, eyes sparkling. “The thought of marrying you revolts me,” he assures her. “Even so, I cannot wait for it. Because once my wife, I’ll have complete control over you. Slut!” 

    Before Tom can even arrange his shirt, Walburga curses Orion so thoroughly, by the time Tom stops her, the boy looks nothing like himself. 

    He howls in agony, and people run down the stairs, drawn by the noise.

    Tom and two seventh years struggle to sort him out, to no success. Lucretia, tame Lucretia transforms into a harpy at the sight of her little brother in that state and Alphard keeps her and Walburga apart as they try to curse each other.

    “I found you like this, in the Common Room,” Tom repeats it a few times, as he carries Orion to the Hospital wing. He’d lost so much blood; he moans and his eyes don’t open anymore. Tom can only hope he’s understood. “You don’t know who cursed you.” 

    Of course, they call Slughorn. And once the Matron identifies traces of dark magic, Dippet joins them. Invariably, Dumbledore manifests, he consistently does when Tom least wants him to.   

    Half an hour later, after the Matron gets Orion somewhat into shape, he gains Tom’s respect as all teachers demand to learn what had transpired. 

    “I’m a sleepwalker,” he drawls, Black superiority dripping all over the place, even if he’s thirteen and in a hospital gown, still white as chalk and shivering. 

    “If you don’t tell us the truth, I’ll find myself having to-”

    “To what?” Orion cuts over him. “Expel me? I’m sure my father would be pleased to find out, that on top of harm happening to the heir of the Most Noble and Ancient house of Black, under your care, you’re about to punish me. Go on, Headmaster.” 

    “Tom, a favour,” Slughorn asks him the next day in his office. He sounds tired. Tom takes note his crystallised caramels are getting low in quantity, makes a mental note to replace them. 

    “Yes, sir?” 

    “About Orion.” 

    “Sir, I’ve told you, I found him like that, I do not know who cursed him, otherwise I’d have come forward.” 

    Slughorn waves a hand. “Oh, I know who did it. His father just wrote me. It was Miss Black. Walburga, that is. I’d like to ask you, should such incidents occur again, between them, that you bring him to me, instead of the Hospital Wing. So we can avoid-ah, repercussions. Mr. Black is not fond of them. We’ll solve it amongst our own, like we do in Slytherin.” 

    “As you say, sir.” 

    (-)

    The Charms classroom is mostly silent as the students are bent over their papers in full revision frenzy, quills dragging over parchment. 

    Tom has long finished with the test and is doing all he can to keep his eyes from closing. They’re rough and irritated, bloodshot from the lack of sleep. He has to fight with a compulsion to rub them or just rest them for a moment. 

    It’s the first class of the day and he’s already drained. 

    Nott is leaned against his chair, his test also finished, hands across his chest, eyes closed. Unlike Tom, he spends his nights studying.  

    Tom envies the nonchalance, the lack of thought that allows Nott to simply close his eyes in a room full of people. How can one be so at ease when in a seemingly vulnerable position. 

    It’s a classroom. Who’s going to attack Nott?

    He takes hold of the quill to write in his journal and focus on anything but his fatigue; he notices his hand is shaking, if slightly. Tom tries to still it, to no success. He doesn’t even know if it’s withdrawal from the potions or it’s just exhaustion. 

    He pushes his belongings in his bag, a small part of his brain recoiling in disgust at the mess he’s certainly created in the usually well organised space. 

    “Professor,” he says, when he’s close to the front desk. “I’ve finished. Would you mind if I’d leave now? I forgot my textbook for my next class in the Common Room and-“

    “Yes, yes,” the Professor takes the parchment from Tom's hand and waves him away. 

    Tom hurries along the corridor, mindlessly. He is nauseous even though he hadn’t eaten anything at breakfast. In fact, he can’t remember when he last ate. 

    He’s losing control of himself, slowly but surely, he’s slipping away no matter how hard he tries to hold on; like sand through a closed fist. 

    It’s terrifying. 

    He doesn’t even see Dumbledore, would have walked right into him if not for the other raising a hand to stop him. 

    “Sorry,” Tom blinks, fast. 

    “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

    Shouldn’t you? Tom almost lets the words slip, checks them in the nick of time, biting his tongue. 

    “I was excused,” he growls, instead. “The Professor would confirm it if you don’t believe me.” He glares at Dumbledore, though he’s somewhat out of focus. “Sir,” he adds. 

    “Are you alright, Tom?” Dumbledore’s voice shits, a lower, calmer quality to it. “You seem…distracted, as of late.” 

    Keeping a close eye on me, aren’t you? 

    “A bit tired, sir. O.W.Ls and all.” 

    Dumbledore doesn’t believe it, but he just sighs and steps aside. 

    Tom goes on his way, but by the time he settles in his bed, he is wide awake, filled with resentment. All Dumbledore’s fault. If not for him, perhaps Tom could rest a little instead of fuming about the man and all the ways he stares at Tom. 

    He downs half a glass of Calming Draught.

    His hands stop shaking instantly, but his nausea persists. He knows he’ll miss Ancient Runes class, and he’d promised himself that no matter what is going on with him, no matter what addiction he’s forming for certain substances, it will not interfere with his daily life.

    Just this once. Just one time. He knows it’s a slippery slope, but the potion makes it hard for him to worry and eventually pulls him to sleep. 

    (-)

    Walburga is laying on her stomach on the couch, head supported on one hand, the other turning the pages of some book, the quill kept between her teeth. 

    Her tie is loose, the first few buttons on her blouse opened. It makes for a distracting sight. Because Tom is alternating between looking at her and trying to read some of his notes on an obscure curse he’s working on, it takes him a few minutes to realise he’s not the only one affected. 

    Abraxas is sneaking in glances every few seconds. Rodolphus is less discrete, staring at her intently. Tom needs to check the impulse to carve their eyes out, reminds himself it is a silly thing to be bothered about and that in any case, she’s not his to begin with. More so, the boys do not know there is anything going on between him and Walburga, so they aren’t disrespecting Tom by lusting over her. 

    She sighs every few seconds. Sensual little noises, deep from her chest. 

    “What?” he snaps at her, closing his notebook. 

    She raises her head to look at him, face all innocent but a knowing glint in her eyes. “Oh, it’s just that I’m behind with homework. Father wants perfect grades this year, and I’m not as gifted as you. It takes so long to write my essays.” 

    She’s gifted enough to be in the top of her class is she so desires. But she’s lazy. And manipulative. 

    He raises an eyebrow at her, to let her know he’s aware of what she’s doing. 

    She raises her legs, crossing them at the ankles, skirt raising high on her thighs. 

    “I’ll help you,” Abraxas offers in a dreamy voice. 

    Walburga scoffs, not even looking his way. “As if you could get an O in sixth year subjects, Malfoy.” 

    “I assure you, I can,” he brags, straightening his shoulders.

    “Or I can bully that Ravenclaw nerd, in your year, to write them for you.” Rodolphus sticks to his strengths. 

    Tom says nothing; her smile widens. She sits up, arranging her tie. 

    “Won’t you help me, Tom?”

    He would have, if she’d just asked. He doesn’t understand why she plays these little games. 

    “I’m already writing Avery’s. And Slughorn has me tutoring some morons in third year.” 

    “Crabbe one of them?” Orion pipes up, playing with something a little further away. 

    Tom nods. 

    “He really is a moron,” Orion agrees.  

    "I’m thinking to use him to practice memory modification on. If I fuck it up and damage his brain, no one will notice anything amiss,” Abraxas drawls. 

    Tom has to agree with him. 

    Walburga stands, abandoning her notes and books all over the couch and table. “I’m off on Patrol,” she announces, stretching her arms.

    Rodolphus watches her go. “Black women are the most beautiful creatures on earth.” 

    “She’s my sister,” Alphard snaps at him, though his eyes are closed, legs hanging over the armchair. “Don’t make me curse you. Way out of your league. No one would waste one of our jewels on a Lestrange.” 

    “I’ll rip your head off, Black.” Rodolphus sneers. 

    Orion gives Tom a calculating gaze. He kept his word and did not tell anyone what he’d witnessed that night. 

    “Settle down,” Tom says and Rodolphus goes back to studying a French book about poisons while Alphard falls back to sleep. 

    Tom summons Walburga’s school assignments. She’s behind in Arithmancy, Herbology and Potions. He goes over the list and snorts when he sees the requirement for a twenty inches parchment about the Draught of Living Dead. 

    “Flint! Bring me four rolls of parchment,” he calls across the room. 

    Flint looks startled but immediately complies, stealing them from an abandoned bag laying by the fireplace. 

    As Tom goes through the assignments, one by one people retreat to their rooms. 

    Alphard wakes in time to pull out an invisibility cloak from under his armchair, when it’s just the two of them left.

    “It’s starting to fade,” Tom warns him, able to see Alphard’s form, just barely. 

    “It will have to do until I can find the famed Invisibility cloak from the Deathly Hallows.” 

    Tom scoffs. “Perhaps you’ll find it with the Elder Wand in its pocket.”

    “I expect my Ravenclaw minx will keep me up till early morning. Please wake me in time for breakfast.” 

    Tom strikes out a phrase he’s not satisfied with. “I know your Ravenclaw minx is a Gryffindor Mudblood. And I suspect so does Abraxas.” 

    “Ah,” Alphard’s disembodied voice comes after a few seconds. 

    “Be careful not to bump into your dear sister. Unless you also discover the Resurrection Stone to bring you back, because she will kill you. At the very least get you disowned.” 

    Alphard departs without another word. 

    An hour later, Walburga returns from Patrol. Her partner is red in the face, close to tears, and he’s starring daggers at her back. She has that effect on most people. 

    She lounges back on the sofa, kicking off her shoes, eyeing the neat stack of parchment rolls on the table. 

    “Why, thank you, Tommy. So sweet of you to offer.” 

    “Tell me, do you think that seeing Rodolphus ogling you makes you more attractive to me?” 

    She doesn’t look embarrassed. She shrugs, turning on her side and tucking a hand under her head. “It should. That’s what the older girls say.” 

    Tom nods; makes sense. Men are territorial beings, they’re bound to react when something threatens what they perceive as their own. 

    “It makes me angry,” he tells her. “You don’t want to make me angry.” 

    “You’re angry all the time, anyway,” she says. “Will you look over my essay on Amortentia ?” She sits and searches inside her bag, handing him a scroll. 

    Tom was just about to finish his conclusion on Felix Felicis. His heart skips in his chest and he abandons the book, taking the offered parchment. 

    He was never interested in love potions more than knowing they exist and what they do.  

    He’d never had the curiosity to research more, knowing he’ll have to study them the following year. He’d especially lost all desire to even think about them, after what he’d found out about Merope. 

    So he learns quite a few things, reading Walburga’s essay. 

   Amortentia, the strongest love potion in the world, is barley regulated. Tom frowns. How can such a potion be legal, taught in school even, when it is basically Imperius in liquid form, robbing the victim of all agency. 

    But then he reads that on grown wizards, it is more of an aphrodisiac than anything else. It will make the drinker find the brewer more attractive, ignore bothersome flaws in character, awake an instant infatuation with the subject. 

    Mature, educated witches and wizards would be almost impossible to subdue with it, their own magical core able to recognize and fight the compulsion naturally, enough for them to become aware they are being dosed with it. 

    It is illegal to use on minors, who are heavily susceptible to all love potions, even weaker ones, and equally prohibited to be used on Muggles, of any age, sure to fall completely under the influence, to the point where they become mindless, lustful creatures. 

    Marvolo is not a Muggle. However young he had been when meeting Merope, he was still highly intelligent and skilled in magic, enough to break records at his school in all subjects. 

    A man like him would never fall victim to a love potion.

    (-)

    “Mr. Gaunt, show some sportsmanship, if you will,” Dumbledore says. 

    Tom grips his wand tighter as he turns his head to give Dumbledore a look that’s more loaded than it’s respectful. 

    “I am.” 

    In fact, Tom is being incredibly merciful on these idiots. 

    “This is a learning experience. As a Prefect, you should aim to help your fellow students. How can they learn if you put them down in such a short time?” 

    Everyone is watching them, from the youngest to the oldest. Merrythought just had to ask Dumbledore to help her with the Club, because that is Tom’s luck.

    “It’s not his fault they’re incompetent, nor his duty to teach them,” Walburga drawls, standing. “I believe that is your duty, Professor,” she continues with a grin. 

    “Ten points from Slytherin, Miss Black. Insults are not tolerated here.” 

    Dumbledore lets his eyes land on Tom’s gang, each of them in part. “No one is special here. This attitude is a disservice to our school and to you as well.” 

    “It’s a good thing Rodolphus has been banned, or he’d have blown a fuse,” Alphard whispers to Abraxas, behind Tom.

    "What is a fuse?" Abraxas whispers back. 

    “Alright, sir.” Tom forces a smile on his face. “I’ll be sure to drag it out,” he adds and turns to consider the rest of the students. “Who wants to be next?” he asks, caressing his wand. 

    No one seems eager, even though Tom had hurt no one outside of his associates. But they must see something in his eyes, because they don’t volunteer-

    “Me!” Hagrid makes his way from the other side of the room, where the younger students practice. “Please Tom, I’d like to.” 

    Some of the girls giggle. Abraxas snorts. 

    Tom takes a big breath, closing his eyes briefly. 

    “You’re too young, Hagrid,” Dumbledore says, voice all soft now that he’s done berating Slytherins. 

    “But I want to do more than just disarming spells,” Hagrid says. 

    “I’ll show your age group something else,” Dumbledore promises and heads to do just that, placing a hand on Hagrid’s shoulder to lead him back to the second and first years. “The tripping jinx, I think-”

    “But-” Hagrid protests, looking over his shoulder at Tom. 

    “That’s alright,” Tom says, loudly. “We can meet later in the yard.” 

    The look Dumbledore sends him is the coldest it’s ever been. “No duelling unless supervised.” 

    Tom just smiles. “As you say, sir,” he speaks but makes sure his nod to Hagrid is impossible to miss. 

    Abraxas and Alphard flank him on either side, and they all look after Dumbledore. 

    “Why do we bother coming here again?” Alphard asks, sounding bored. 

    Tom attends because he likes to show off, same as Abraxas. But with Dumbledore in charge of the Club now, he’ll be sure to not let them. 

    “I can do without,” Walburga says, coming closer.” It was fun while it lasted.” 

    “No.” Tom is still playing with his wand. “We’re not quitting. He can’t stop us from fighting each other and he can’t admonish us for lack of sportsmanship, either, if we’re evenly matched.” 

    Tom will not let Dumbledore foil his plans, childish as they are; he’s doing this to let everybody see how much better he is, and by Merlin, it will happen. 

    He’ll make Dumbledore regret chiding him in a hall full of students. 

    “Abraxas.” He turns and gives the blond a look. “Keep it clean.” 

    Abraxas is the closest to being evenly matched to Tom, even if by a long shot. Rodolphus is more impressive, but he wouldn’t be able to keep a duel clean if his life depended on it. 

    Abraxas is measured, calm and very rational. They take the appropriate distance, bow to each other, careful to comply with proper duelling etiquette and launch right into it. 

    Tom does not say a single spell out loud and Abraxas keeps almost half of his wordless as well. Merrythought had not yet taught them how to cast nonverbally.

    They keep it clean as a whistle, all very proper but at least N.E.W.T level. 

    The older students come to look at them, forming a circle around. There're gasps and praises and clapping. 

    Tom is the favourite, because all the other Houses do not stand Malfoys and their endless arrogance. 

    Tom smirks, blocks a spell at the last possible moment, just for effect. He wishes he could see Dumbledore’s face. 

    Tom makes heavy use of transfiguration, turning pieces of napkins in dummies to absorb Abraxas’s hits, effortlessly. 

    Still not special?  he thinks, freezing the floor under Abraxas who trips but makes a graceful recovery, just in time for Tom’s Incarcerous to hit him full in the chest; it’s a different  Incarcerous, invented by himself, right there on the spot- he wills silky green ribbons to tie around Abraxas, instead of rope, just because he can and also so he won’t give Dumbledore the slightness excuse to accuse him of injuring Abraxas by giving him rope burns or something equally ridiculous. 

    More gasps. Someone whistles. The applauses echo of the walls. 

    Tom goes over and extends a hand to Abraxas, helping him up. They bow again, drowned in cheers. 

    Immediately they are mobbed, even Abraxas, students inquiring about what spells they used, congratulating them. 

    Tom answers them amicably, searching for Dumbledore with his eyes. He finds him standing further back, alone. Even the midgets had abandoned him to come closer and try to get a better look at the show. 

    Dumbledore’s expression is grave. Concerned.

    Tom wishes the man would drop the act, stop pretending he’s worried about Tom, instead of being a biased old goat.

    Fuck you, Tom thinks, and for once he wishes he could let Dumbledore read his mind. 

    To make his victory over Dumbledore complete, Slughorn must have joined them at some point, because he shoulders his ways through the students, claps Tom and Abraxas on their backs. 

    “My boys!” he yells, smiling from ear to ear. “Twenty points for Slytherin, each! Albus, did you notice that brilliant piece of transfiguration?!”  

    “Take ten from me as well,” Merrythought says from the table she’s leaning on.

    The student body talks about it for days. Slughorn is just as bad, bragging at the teacher’s table, as if he’d taught them how to do it. 

    Careful, Marvolo writes in his next letter, word of it no doubt reaching him. It is best to be discrete.   

    Tom doesn’t write back for the first time in his life. 

    Still lying, he thinks, watching the parchment burn in the fireplace. 

       (-)

    She’s curled up in many coils, head protected at the centre. Tom makes his way to it, gently runs his fingers over her scales. 

    She’s gigantic, so much strength in her body, so much venom in her teeth, death in her eyes, and yet she’s trapped there.  

    Even with her asleep, there are no spiders anywhere in the Chamber, the only place in Hogwarts to be devoid of arachnids. 

    He needs to wake her. 

    Such a creature should not be punished, just because it’s lethal, just because weaker beings fear her. 

    They tried to do that to Tom at Wool’s. He was better than them, greater, brighter, and for that, they shunned him. He was unacceptable. 

    Even now, Tom has to be contained, to pretend to be less, so others would find him palatable. 

    He’s so resentful about it, more so every day. It’s his brith right to be extraordinary. He should flaunt it. The entire castle should bow to him, acknowledge his greatness and yet he has to blend with them like they are all equal, has to be respectful, to withhold his nature just because others won’t tolerate it. 

    That’s what’s wrong with the world. Extraordinary people are told to be less, so ordinary men do not feel threatened. 

     He should wake her and let her teach them the lesson he cannot. 

    “Do not wake the Basilisk.” 

    Marvolo’s face, with the rising sun behind him, angers Tom more than everything else. 

    He extends his hand, ready to say the words, to call upon Slytherin’s magic. 

    He’s so willing to have the entire school succumb to the despair he’s suffering. For once in his life, Tom wants to share, spread all that dread around. See how all those normal people deal with a threat hovering over every corner, with sleepless nights. 

    You gave your word. 

    He had, but why should he keep it? From what he understands, devotion has to go both ways. Marvolo’s misleading him, has been lying since the moment they met and why should it fall on Tom to be the genuine one in that relationship, why should he keep making the effort?

    Because you’ll lose him, otherwise. 

    If Tom doesn’t have Marvolo, what else remains? Nothing. 

    Walburga, his Death Eaters, books and magic-they’re all distractions, fleeting pleasures. They don’t fill the hollow space inside him, the one he’s always felt, since he became conscious he exists, since he could scarcely walk. 

    But can he have Marvolo, when Marvolo keeps lying to him? Nothing is equal in their rapport, but he’s long accepted it. Tom can’t lie when Marvolo can. Tom can’t up and disappear for weeks on end without an explanation, but Marvolo can. 

    What hurts the most is that Tom needs Marvolo and Marvolo does not need Tom. 

    And someone has to be punished for the blatant injustice, even if it’s some random Mudblood that has nothing to do with it. 

    " Use your anger to aid you, instead of letting it rule you."

    He tries to ignore Marvolo’s words, is determined to go on with his plan. But he cannot. No matter how upset he is, he’d promised he wouldn't.  

    Tom lowers his hand, breathing deeply. He takes a step back.

    The significance of what he’s almost done crashes on him, all at once. 

    He can’t return to the Chamber, ever again, because he will wake her. 

    He pauses by one of the towering marble pillars, where initials of the other heirs are inscribed into the marble. 

    “T” he writes, right under “CG” which he had inferred was Corvinus Gaunt, the last Slytherin descended to have attended Hogwarts, from official records. 

    All initials end with “G”. 

    “R” he scribbles after the “T” with a slight smirk, breaking the long sequence of Gaunts. If someone ever discovers the Chamber, they will be confused. 

    Tom Riddle does not exist, not in any records, even if there are two Tom Riddle milling around in Magical Britain, one an Undersecretary to the Ministry and one the most exceptional student at Hogwarts. 

    Unless Marvolo lied about that, too. 

    He rushes out the room, seals it behind him and hurries down the passage leading to the bathroom, to put as much distance between him and the basilisk as possible. 

    Tom will find out about his mother, about his uncle. He will find out about Marvolo. All on his own. He’s not twelve any longer to be so quickly caught in his search. He’ll learn what he desires to know and he can put it behind him, because he assumes those are the only lies he’s being fed. 

    He’s so distracted by his ruminations, vague plans developing, adrenaline still coursing through him that he doesn’t pay sufficient attention when he climbs out of the entrance and commands the sink to move back in place. 

    Just as it locks, a stall door opens and Tom turns to see a young girl gawking at him from a cubicle. 

    To make it worse, it’s a Ravenclaw. That’s just Tom’s luck-it couldn’t have been a naive Hufflepuff or an uninquisitive Gryffindor.  

    At least she’s very young. He struggles to calm down as he takes her in. Two black braids, skillfully made, a childish roundness to her face, enormous glasses sitting on her nose and wide, wet eyes behind them. 

    “Go use your own bathroom!” She hiccups, wiping some tears off her cheeks. “This one is for girls!”. 

    “I apologise.” He plasters a smile on his face. “I saw you in distress, down in the hallway, and I thought it prudent to make sure you are alright. It’s my duty, after all.” He points to his gleaming Prefect badge. 

    “Oh,” she hiccups and new tears spill down her face. 

    “Can I do something for you?” he asks gently, hoping he displays appropriate expressions of concern. 

    “It’s that stupid cow, Olive Hornby.” She sobs, hugging herself. “She always picks on me, laughs at my glasses.” 

    “That’s not very nice,” he says, soothing. 

    She nods, emphatically. “No one is nice to me. The teachers don’t care she bullies me. I can’t even tell mama. My parents are Muggles, you see. If I complain they might pull me out of Hogwarts. I barley convinced them to let me attend to begin with.” 

    Muggles do always seek to keep magical children from using magic, don’t they? 

    “What’s your name? I will speak with this Olive Hornby.” 

    “Myrtle.” 

    “Such a pretty name.” 

    She giggles, blushing, and represses another hiccup. 

    Tom is satisfied this idiot will not question his presence in the girls bathroom again. All she’ll remember is a good looking older Prefect came to her defence and complimented her. 

    “Please try to calm down. I’ll give you some privacy.” Tom gives her another smile, all teeth, and makes his escape. 

    That was close.

    It could have ended far worse. 

Chapter Text

    “What needs to be broken before it can be used?” the bronze eagle asks. 

    “An egg,” he answers and the door swings open to grant him entrance. 

    Tom appreciates the riddles, but it is a poor way to guard a Common Room from outsiders. 

    Nott is bent over one of the tables strewn around the blue room, whispering something to a seventh year. 

    Some people nod at Tom, a few of the girls smile at him. No one questions his presence in the Ravenclaw tower. He’s respected in the House of the ones eager for knowledge. Some might resent him for consistently scoring higher than them in any tests, but generally he’s well liked. 

    The Ravenclaws have their own study group and Tom has an open invitation to attend; he does, from time to time, trying to select whom to steal to add to his Death Eaters. 

    Nott finally notices him, an eyebrow raised in surprise. 

    “Hello, Gaunt,” Belby greets him, perched on the end of a table. “I hope you are feeling better?” 

    For a second Tom forgets he’d missed Herbology in the morning, which Slytherins always share with the Ravenclaws. 

    “Right as rain.”

    It’s the second class he misses in a week. There’s a note from Slughorn, asking to have a word with Tom, burning in a fireplace down in the dungeons. 

    “What brings you around here?” Nott asks, having made his way to Tom’s side.

    “Who’s Olive Hornby?” 

    Nott blinks a few times, face blank. “I have no idea. Should I know her?” 

    Tom can’t believe he’s become entangled in it, but it’s safest to keep his word and make sure that foolish child really thinks he went into the lavatory to help her. 

    “First or second year, I assume. Your House. Torments someone named Myrtle?”

    Nott’s surprise only increases. “The annoying little Mud-Muggleborn? She mopes around the Common Room all day.” He lowers his voice. 

    Tom nods. “Find out who Honrby is.” Tom lowers his voice as well. “Do me a favour and impress upon her the importance to never bother Myrtle again, will you?” 

    Nott clearly thinks Tom has lost his mind, but agrees to do it, nonetheless.

        (-)

    “Tom! Wait!” Hagrid yells after him, his booming voice filling the courtyard.

     His shadow is big, spilling over the ground in a great mass. Tom doesn’t concentrate on it. 

    “What do you want, half-breed?” Rodolphus barks at him, as Hagrid gets closer. 

    Hagrid’s face falls, hurt, his shoulders slumping. Tom wants to strangle him-his lack of reaction is insulting, irritates Tom beyond belief. Hagrid’s two heads taller than Rodolphus, his shoulders broader and his skin curse resistant. 

    And there he is, shying away, taking the abuse without even trying to fight back. 

    Tom wants to hurt him until the boy finally reacts with violence or disappears all together.

    Snow had been like Hagrid; she’d been small and frail, so that was different, but no matter how many times passerby kicked her with their feet, she always tried to approach again, scratched no one, never bit, just wanted to be held and fed. 

    Tom had observed her for days, from afar, before she made her way to him, rubbing her small head on his leg.

    “Rodolphus,” Tom warns and Lestrange sneers, but shuts up. “What is it, Hagrid?”

    Hagrid looks at him with an uncertain smile. “I want to show you something.” 

    “I don’t have the time.” 

    Tom swore to himself he’d never again pity defenceless creatures.

    “Oh.” Hagrid’s face drops even more. “Yeah. That’s right. Well, if you find a moment, at some point, let me know.”

        (-)

    “This is the fifth class you’ve missed since the semester started.” 

    Slughorn had finally caught up with Tom, holding him back after double Potions. He gives Tom a note from Merrythought, informing Slughorn of Tom’s absence. 

    “What’s going on? You know you can tell me everything.” 

    “I apologize, Professor. I’ve just overslept-”

     Slughorn makes a face. “Some of these classes are in the middle of the day.”

    Tom keeps silent, looking down, pretending to be contrite. 

    “Now, you’re an exceptional student, so no one asked for detention or points to be taken, but Tom, this must stop.”

    “Yes, sir.” 

    “Albus is worried about you. Says you seem out of sort and I must agree with him.”

    Tom is hit with an instant headache. “You needn’t fret, sir. Neither should Professor Dumbledore. I am just tired.” 

    “Fifth year is challenging. Especially with how many subjects you are taking and all your extracurricular activities.” 

    Slughorn doesn’t know the half of it. 

    “Just ask for guidance, if you need it. I’m here for you.” 

    “Thank you, sir.” Tom forces a small smile on his face. “I appreciate it.” 

    “Now, I’ve written to your father, and he assured me he talked to you about all this.” 

    Tom burned a letter from Marvolo just the night before, without even opening it. The second one Tom doesn’t respond to. 

    “He did, sir. All is fine.”

    “Good, good.” Slughorn pats him on the back and Tom winces inwardly. “If you ask me, you have that look about you that torments many lads your age.” He winks, big bushy eyebrows wiggling. “Are you lovesick, Tom?” 

    Dear Merlin. 

    “Is there a special someone out there that’s causing you to lose sleep?” 

    Revolting as it sounds, it is not a bad cover. Tom looks away again, gives a little shrug.                 

    Slughorn laughs and pats him on the back. 

    Tom imagines flaying that fat arm, layer by layer. 

        (-)

                       MINISTER OF MAGIC UNDER ATTACK!

    Tom only truly wakes up while reading the title from Abraxas’ newspaper. 

    He’s startled to find himself at the breakfast table. 

    Falling asleep is complicated to pull off, but waking up after dozing off for just an hour or two proves even rougher. 

    He’d asked his roommates for assistance with it, determined not to miss any further classes.  

    Only he’d overlooked the exceedingly efficient curses he has placed around his bed. Granted, Abraxas’s high-pitched scream did rouse Tom, so the idea had some merit. 

    He can’t recall who healed Abraxas as he dragged himself to go shower and dress. 

    “She alive?” Rodolphus asks, shovelling bacon in his mouth. 

    “Yes. The morons attacked her in her home, while it was guarded by no less than five Aurors.” Abraxas’ voice comes from behind the Daily Prophet. 

    “Not to mention she was quite formidable herself,” Walburga adds, reading her own newspaper and pilling food on a plate at the same time. “Woman is a cornucopia of knowledge. She tested basically every student that passed through Hogwarts in the last half a century.” 

    “Did they get Grindelwalds’s men? Where they Brits or imported?” Alphard tries to pick up the paper, but Walburga slaps his hand away. 

    “A mix,” Abraxas answers. “They swallowed tiny capsules with poison, hidden in their teeth, as soon as they were arrested.”

    “What kind of poison?” Rodolphus is generally not excited about matters such as these, but he’s developed a fascination with poisons lately. 

    “It’s not stated.” Walburga shoves the plate under Tom’s face. “Here.” 

    “I’m not hungry.” He pushes it away, but she thrusts it back in place. 

    “You’ve got Quidditch in thirty minutes. You need your strength. Eat up!”

    The match! Tom closes his eyes, swears furiously in his head. He’d been certain it was Friday, when he woke up, but it’s already Saturday, it seems.  

    “That’s some loyalty to the 'greater good'” Nott squeezes himself between Alphard and Rodolphus. “Killing themselves-”

    “It’s not for the cause. It’s Grindelwald they’re loyal to,” Orion pipes up. 

    “Shut it, midget!” Walburga snaps at him. “And what are you doing here, Nott? Begone, enemy!” 

    “What are you on about?” 

    “The game.” Abraxas lowers the newspaper to stare at Nott. “Merlin, you’re such a nerd."

    “Huh.” Nott is not fazed. “It’s today?”

    “Apparently,” Tom mutters and cuts his boiled egg in six perfect circles before eating it. 

    It’s the finale, so every player gives their best, which leads to the game taking forever. 

    Irritated, Tom causes two Ravenclaws to fall from their brooms and the keeper to become extremely confused. He accomplishes this without even as much as a flick of his wrist, just by sheer will to have the bloody thing end.

    Rodolphus bashes someone’s skull in with his bat and without four players, the Ravenclaws concede the victory. 

    “They’ve got a great team,” Mulciber comments in the locker-room. 

    “Amazing,” Abraxas agrees. 

    “Impossible to defeat without tricks.” Mulciber shrugs. “Great job, Tom.” 

    They’ve all cheated, as often as feasible, but the other Slytherins use brute force. Tom uses magic. 

    Much more efficient; nevertheless he can see the appeal in smacking someone over the head with a beater bat.

        (-)

    Tom’s tired and extremely irritated. He hadn’t slept in days and he’s adamant to lay off the potions, so he struggles through his days, stubbornly. 

    It’s a disastrous combination and as a result, his Cruciatus is a tad too effective in their meeting, leaving Avery shaking and with blood pouring out of his nose even hours later. 

    Alphard is giving Tom strange looks and Tom’s afraid Alphard might be the next to suffer the consequences of his ill mood, if he doesn’t desist staring at Tom. 

    Abraxas has scurried to their bedroom, claiming he has to study, and Mulciber lowers his eyes whenever they meet Tom’s. 

    Rodolphus is utterly unaffected. If Tom weren’t so self-involved, he’d be curious what is going on with him, but as it is, he can’t find the energy to care. 

    “Here," Walburga shoves a goblet in his hand. 

    Firewhiskey. The Head Boy had just turned seventeen and a small party is taking place.

    Tom gives her a look. He’d never once displayed an interest in drinking. 

    “Trust me,” she insists. 

    “I don’t.” 

    She rolls her eyes. “Give it a try.” 

    “I find drunk people distasteful,” he reminds her, nodding towards Rodolphus, who’s well into his cups already, aggressively seeking to pick a fight with anyone brave enough to let him. 

    “You need to relax,” she says. “You almost gave Avery permanent damage.” 

    “It would have only improved his character,” Tom shoots back. “Besides, I was under the impression alcohol is a stimulant.” 

    “Just take a sip.” 

    “You’re a terrible influence.” 

    “I’m not the one teaching the rest of us how to torture people,” she sips from her own goblet, but makes a face as she swallows. 

    “I’m an educator,” he insists, sniffing the content. It burns his nasal passages. 

    She coughs. “Suit yourself.” 

    “However will I live without it?” he asks sarcastically as she keeps coughing and puts her goblet down. 

    She leaves, and he returns his focus to the book of poisons he’d taken from Rodolphus. 

    The red head had underlined some passages that he must have found particularly interesting. 

    All lethal things. 

    “Undetected” is circled in red ink. 

    The potions are so ridiculously complicated, Rodolphus has no chance to brew them.

    Is he truly trying to poison someone? 

    It is the sort of thing Tom would tell Marvolo about, bouncing off theories. Not that Marvolo indulges, but Tom likes talking out loud in his presence. 

    Of course, the second he thinks of Marvolo, his anger escalates. 

    It coincides with Orion picking a fight with Walburga, a little further away, shouts ringing in the Common Room. 

    Tom drinks the firewhiskey. 

    It does burn, going down. Unpleasant. He’s tempted to give up, but he’s not a quitter and he knows to actually feel its effects one is supposed to drink more than just a sip. 

    He drinks more. 

    Tom’s conflicted about it. His thoughts become murkier and he dislikes it, because it’s sure to slow him down. But the hazy quality of his internal ramblings provides some relief. 

    He knows Marvolo would never agree to it, and in a fit of misplaced rebellion, it’s enough incentive to keep drinking. 

    “I’m not impressed,” he tells Walburga later, when the Common Room is empty and they’ve somehow ended up under the trap door, though he has no clear recollection of getting there. 

    He needs to take great care how he enunciates the words, otherwise they come out slurred. 

    “Worth a shot,” she says, playing with his hair, his head in her lap. “I thought whisky is less dangerous than whatever potions you’re taking.” 

    He tries to glare at her, but it’s hard to accomplish. She’s not supposed to know about the potions. 

    “Can’t you sleep, like this?” She asks. 

    He decides to make a mental note to be angry and concerned with her deductive capabilities the following day, because he cannot focus enough for it at the moment. 

    “Spinning,” he tries to explain it in a concise manner. 

    But he keeps his eyes closed, regardless. 

    “What’s going on with you, Tom?” 

    It’s hard to gather his thoughts, but he manages. “I’m drunk, not stupid,” he says as sternly as he can. “You’re a fool if you think inebriating me will make me spill my secrets.” 

    She shuts up for a while, and he snuggles closer into her. 

    “You never talk about your mother.”

    Tom says nothing. 

    “There are rumours, you know?” 

    “Oh?” 

    “Yes. My mother and her friends find it odd Marvolo has not remarried. That no one is ever invited to your house.”

    “They think he keeps my mother in the attic?” Tom asks, laughing. 

    “What?” 

    The reference flies past her. After all, it’s highly improbable she’s ever read Jane Eyre. 

    He’s almost asleep, floating on a spinning cloud of comfort, her arms around him. 

    It’s nice, he thinks, sleeping besides someone. 

    No, no, it’s not. It’s a bad idea. You’re vulnerable.  

    Tom reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wand, turns on his side and tucks his hand under his head, wand firmly between his fingers. 

    “Does he hurt you?” Her voice is so soft, he isn’t certain she’s actually speaking. 

     Yes. 

    “No,” he answers, knowing she is thinking of a specific kind of hurt, the kind Abraxas or Rodolphus are subjected to.  

    “I don’t believe that,” she murmurs, her hand on his shoulder, light and soft, her mouth pressed to his neck. 

    Tom shrugs.

    “After every break, you come back worse. I won’t tell anyone, you know that. I just think you need to talk to someone.” 

    Is that what people think? That Marvolo is an awful father? 

    Isn’t he? 

    No, Tom doesn’t think he is. He’s different than other fathers, but from the little Tom gleamed from other patriarchs, that’s a good thing. 

    Besides, Tom’s different than other sons. 

    Marvolo is excellent. The best. Tom adores him. If only he were honest. 

    If only he’d love Tom, show him some affection. Is that so hard, so much to ask for? Walburga is doing it, caressing Tom’s back, kissing his shoulder. And she’s not an affectionate person either, cold as a statue with others. 

    Tom’s not affectionate himself, but he can be with her. He wants to be with Marvolo. To hold him close. 

    But that’s not tolerated. Never was. 

    He thinks of the other Black woman, Marvolo’s. Why she’s been allowed close enough to touch, when no one else is.

        (-)

    There’s excitement in the Great Hall, far too much for a Thursday morning. 

    Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws are gathered at the Gryffindor table. 

    “What’s that about?” Tom asks, sitting down. 

    “It’s not like I’ll go there and ask,” Lucretia says, though she’s craning her neck to see better. Most of the Slytherins are doing the same, too proud to mingle with the Gryffindors. 

    “Nott will tell us,” Abraxas says, but Nott is oblivious to all, alone at the Ravenclaw table, head bent over a heavy tome, fingers stained with ink. 

    The Head Boy is the one to inform them. 

    “That halfwit, Hagrid,” he says, sitting down between Alphard and Walburga. 

    Something finally ate him, Tom thinks, with some measure of regret. 

    “If you can believe it, he had an Acromantula as a pet, kept in the castle!” 

    “No,” Tom and Abraxas say at the same time. 

    “He sure did. Thing got away. Bit another Gryffindor.”

    “Merlin,” Alphard whistles. 

    “Lost his leg.” The Head Boy nods. “Lucky, nevertheless. He’d have lost his life if Dumbledore hadn’t arrived swiftly. As it is, he and Slughorn contained the venom long enough to have the boy transferred to St. Mungo.” 

    “Tell me it was Fleet!” Walburga says with glee. 

    “No, some third-year midget. Wanna hear the best part? The Acromantula ran away.” 

    Lucretia comes closer to Tom, looking around in fright, as if expecting the arachnid to jump on her.

    “Dumbledore’s been up all night in the Forest, searching for it, to no success.” 

    “How the fuck does one lose an Acromantula? It’s huge!” Rodolphus demands. 

    “It was a young one, from what I hear. Big enough, venomous enough, but not fully grown.”

    “Obviously,” Tom drawls, pushing Lucretia off him. “How else would have Hagrid kept it in the castle if it weren’t young? What’s going to happen to Hagrid?”

    He remembers the part giant trying to “show something” to Tom all semester. He’s fairly certain it was the spider. 

    The head boy shrugs. “Some ministry officials are in Dippet’s office right now. I assume they’ll expel him.” 

    “Father will have a filed day with it,” Abraxas huffs. “Like all the other school governors.” 

    Slughorn takes all the Slytherin to the Common Room after breakfast, to let them know. 

    “Now, we are reasonably certain the Acromantula ran into the Forest, and we have some experts arriving today to make sure the castle is safe. Meanwhile, please be careful, and walk in pairs in the corridors. Prefects, establish a schedule to make sure one of you escorts the first and second years to their classes.” 

    “Great,” Walburga spits with disdain. “As if we don’t have enough to do.” 

    “You have nothing to do,” Tom reminds her. She has no O.W.Ls, Tom does her homework, she doesn’t have to plan secret meetings and find inconspicuous locations for them, or to tutor others. 

    She sticks her tongue at him and wanders off in a huff, barking at some first years to follow her. 

    “We want to go with Gaunt!” One of them complains. “You’ll just leave us all to die if something attacks us!” 

    Walburga smacks him over the head. 

    Tom chooses the second years and spends a few minutes with the other Prefects to figure out the logistics of making sure one of them always accompanies the younger students to their classes.  

    By late evening, Hagrid’s fate is known throughout the school. Expelled, his wand broken in half, but allowed to reside on the grounds, after Dumbledore fought tooth and nail for it, saying the boy has nowhere else to go. 

    “Typical Dumbledore. Imagine if it were one of us in Hagrid’s place. He’d want to send us to Azkaban,” Abraxas mutters and many Slytherins nod in agreement. 

    Tom knows Dumbledore is biased, no question about it. But he’s self aware enough to recognise there are reasons for it. 

    After all, once upon a time, Dumbledore had been perfectly nice to Tom. Thought it’s been so long into the past, Tom can scarcely believe it happened. 

    Besides, it’s just so easy to hate the man, when he makes it a mission to ruin any fun Tom might have at school. 

    It’s also possible he’s biased too, on account of Marvolo. His enemies are Tom’s enemies. 

    “Can you imagine if he’ll be made Headmaster?” Abraxas complains. 

    “He will be.” Tom shrugs. “There’s no doubt about it. He’s the deputy.” He’s also the most qualified among the teachers, Dippet included. 

    “I’m rather hoping Grindelwald will put on end to that.” 

    It’s come to the point where everybody just accepts a confrontation between the two is inevitable. 

    Even Tom has fallen prey to it, hyped for it. 

    He’d read all about Grindelwald incredible feats of magic, defeating teams of Aurors on his own, escaping M.A.C.U.S.A, almost burning down Paris single-handedly. 

    Dumbledore’s smart, yes. But Tom just can’t see him facing such an adversary and winning. 

    Marvolo seems very sure about it, however. 

    “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

        (-)

    “He looked up to you, he had no other friends,” Dippet says in the Headmaster’s office. “Perhaps if you talk to him, he’ll tell you where the monster is.” 

    “I’ll do my best, Professors,” Tom assures them. 

    Dumbledore frowns, seems to want to speak against having Tom potentially learn where the arachnid is, but keeps silent, in the end. 

    It infuriates Tom. 

    He goes straight to the hut that’s been newly constructed for the giant. 

    “Oh, Tom!” Hagrid starts weeping as soon as he opens the door and hugs Tom. 

    It’s reactive and visceral- Tom pushes him away, hard, stumbles backwards. He’s paralysed with fear, remembering the last time a man that was double his size had held him so tight, he doesn’t even go for his wand, frozen. “Tom?” 

    Breathing hard, Tom regains control, though his heart slams against his ribs as the images dissipate from his head and he can see Hagrid, clearly. 

    “I don’t like to be touched,” Tom says, because he’s still not himself and it just comes out. 

    “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Are you alright, you’ve gone deathly pale.” 

    “I’m fine.” He isn’t, not yet, but he enters the hut and lets Hagrid give him a glass of water. 

    In under ten minutes, he tells Tom all he refused to disclose to Dumbledore.

    Aragog is in the Forbidden Forest. Which doesn’t even bear thinking about, really. 

    “But you won’t tell the Professors, will you Tom? You know they’ll hurt him.” 

    Tom likes animals, but he would have told Dippet, if not for the hesitance Dumbledore had shown at trusting Tom. 

    He’s right not to trust you. But Tom dismisses the notion, irritated either way. 

    “Of course not,” he assures Hagrid. “I’m your friend, right?” 

    “Yes! My best friend.” 

    He feels a stab of pity for the giant because Tom most definitely is not his friend.

    “My mum left when I was little,” Hagrid says, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief that could possibly cover Walburga’s legs better than some skirts she wears during the summer. “And my dad, who took care of me, just died. And now they took away my wand. I’ve nothing, Tom. Nothing.” 

    It’s your own damn fault. Tom doesn’t say it, of course, but he thinks it. Not for the parents part, but for getting himself expelled. 

    “Your mother was the giant?” he asks, as gentle as he can pretend to be. Giantess certainly aren’t very maternal. 

    “Yes. I don’t know much about her, you see. I was a baby when she went and dad doesn’t-didn’t- like talking about her. I only know her name. Fridwulfa.” 

    Tom leaves before he ends up being uncomfortable with these similarities. He’s clearly off his game that night.

        (-) 

    “Tom, is that your father?”

    No, I don’t think he is.  

    Tom breathes in relief-he’d assumed he was fantasising, but Abraxas can see Marvolo standing in front of Scrivenshaft’s Quills, on Hogsmeade’s main street, so he must be there. 

    Tom’s next step is more hesitant than he’d like. 

    “It is,” he states, controlling his voice. 

    “What’s he doing here?”

    If Tom were to speculate, he’d say it might have something to do with the last three letters Tom failed to respond to. 

    “Good day, sir!” the boys say in unison, as they’re closing in the distance. Walburga mumbles something. 

    Marvolo nods in acknowledgement.  

    Tom’s been conditioned for eight years to feel protected and content when in Marvolo’s presence, so it’s not his fault those feelings rise inside him. But he’s determined to not lose sight of reality, of the lies.

    Marvolo holds Tom’s gaze for a few moments before his eyes move over the group. They linger on Rodolphus for a little longer than the rest. 

    “Go on. I’ll catch up later,” Tom says and the boys say their polite goodbyes and wander off. Walburga lingers, her eyes shifting between Tom and Marvolo, a slight frown between her sharp eyebrows. 

    Alphard takes her elbow and drags her along. 

    And then there’s silence. 

    Tom checks Marvolo over for recent signs of injury, like he’s done since he discovered those gruesome scars the older man carries. 

    It’s just habit, a compulsion he cannot deny, no matter if he’s trying to. 

    He might be dismayed with Marvolo, but the prospect of him in any pain makes Tom’s blood boil, as it did that night in their small potion laboratory at their house. 

    Can he even feel pain? Can he feel anything at all?

    “What brings you around here?”  

    He much prefers Marvolo with red eyes. The brown ones are a lie, another mask, a deceit Tom must see through. 

    He’s been thinking for weeks if the only time he’d ever seen Marvolo, for who he actually was, had been when he’d pulled his wand at Tom in rage. 

    No. You know him. The voice sound childish, hopeful. It reminds Tom of every rare smile that Marvolo bestowed upon him, of long summer nights in the library, the smell of peppermint strong in the room as Marvolo sipped at his tea. 

    Of the tale of the Three Brothers read to him, at his bedside, a rich, assured voice lulling Tom' to sleep, eradicating all nightmares. 

    “You haven’t returned my letters.” 

    Because you aren’t honest. Because you hurt me.

    Tom stares at him and responds with a lie of his own. “I'm busy.”  

    See how you like it.

    Marvolo knows it’s a bogus excuse but doesn’t press further. He probably imagines Tom’s having a hard time with his issues. Not that Tom’s ever voiced them, but he suspects they’re hard to miss by someone that knows him so thoroughly. 

    There’s also Slughorn and his damn letters. Tom hopes he mentioned to Marvolo that Dumbledore’s worried. That should have ruined Marvolo’s day.

    “Do you want a tour?” Tom asks. “Or you’ve been in Hogsmeade before?” 

    Marvolo looks around. “Not for a very long time.”

    Old Tom would ask when that was, but what’s the point anymore when it could also be a lie. 

    Stop it.  

    He would have been overjoyed if Marvolo would have come to visit him at school, months before. 

    A part of him is ecstatic now, but the other is doing its best to ruin it. 

    He walks towards his favourite spot and Marvolo falls in line. 

    “It might have been too long since I was a child; is this level of excitement normal?”

    “No.” Tom looks around as he walks, sees groups of students talking fast in the distance, a murmur of drama in the air. “We’ve had quite the event, two days ago. Did you not read the newspaper?”

    “I’ve been abroad. I only just returned. It wasn’t a leisure type of affair that would allow me to read anything.”

    Tom stifles his curiosity. 

    “Hagrid, the giant I mentioned, the one that-”

    “I know who he is.” 

    “Well, he was expelled. Apparently he was harbouring an Acromantula in the castle, it got loose and-”

    Marvolo stops. “You promised me you wouldn’t,” he says, voice very low. 

    Tom has to stop as well to look at him in confusion.

     “Wouldn’t what?” he asks. “Let Hagrid keep a terrible pet?” Tom would recall something like that. 

    “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.” 

    “Were you… injured in your travels?” He peers at Marvolo' more thoroughly, only to notice that Marvolo’s studying Tom’s face the same way.“What are you talking about? How could I have known that fool is playing around with a deadly arachnid? And why would have I made any promise about it?” 

    “What happened?” Marvolo asks, very intense. 

    “Not much. Hagrid lost control of the thing and it bit a Gryffindor. He lost his leg, but he’d have died if Slughorn and Dumbledore wouldn’t have happened to have tea a room away from the attack.”

    Marvolo looks gob smacked for a few moments. And suddenly he throws back his head and laughs. 

    It’s contagious. Tom’s still perturbed about what had just transpired, he’s still angry, but he’d always had a soft spot for that true laugh. 

    “It’s not that amusing,” he says, because really, it isn’t.

    “Oh, but it is.” Marvolo’s eyes, fraudulent as they are, flicker with something genuine. “I was considering you’d set an XXXXX creature on the student population and -” He laughs again. “It was Hagrid.” 

    It is a little unexpected, put that way. 

    “Imagine both of them out at the same time,” Tom whispers. As an unfortunate of a coincidence as two dark lords inhabiting the same continent. 

    “Impossible. If you’d woken the Basilisk, the spider would have-”

    “Hid in terror. Right.” Tom nods. Spiders are frightened of the King of Serpents. Hagrid’s eight-legged friend would not have dared get out of the trunk he was hidden in. 

    Somehow, Tom is still responsible of a deadly dark creature wandering around Hogwarts, even when he decided to keep his asleep. It just ensured the other would grow bolder. 

    “Anyhow.” Tom starts walking again. “They lost the thing. It’s somewhere in the Forbidden Forest and no matter how much Dumbledore is searching for it, it remains at large.” 

    Marvolo’s face lights up in glee when hearing of Dumbledore’s embarrassing failure. 

    “Irresponsible to authorise a Hogsmeade weekend in such conditions.” 

    Tom snorts. “Have you met these people? Dippet would not disrupt the rigid schedule he has us under, even if students would be dropping dead at every corner. He is far too concerned with appearances.” 

    Marvolo nods and within the next couple of minutes his face resumes its black default setting. 

    “Why did you think I had anything to do with it?” Tom asks as they cut a corner into a secondary street. 

    “I assumed you woke her and blamed someone else for it. A part giant with a famous infatuation with unusual creatures would make an ideal target.” 

    Tom’s jaw ticks. “If I’d have woken her, I wouldn’t want anyone else to take the credit. I’d have woken her exactly to show everyone who I am.” 

    “That attitude would have changed quickly when faced with consequences.”

    Tom doesn’t answer, because he’d rather not think about the Basilisk and invite temptation in his heart again. 

    The streets get less crowded at they advanced into the resident areas. They walk in silence, Tom trying to just enjoy Marvolo’s company, which he craves even after everything. 

    He feels something, which he had felt before, a sense he is being observed. Tom is a paranoid man, so he’d ignored it the first few times it had happened since he started walking with Marvolo, but the feeling is harder and harder to dismiss. 

    “I think someone’s following us,” he hisses in Parselmouth and discreetly grabs his wand inside his coat pocket. 

     Marvolo looks very uninterested. “Good. You caught on fast,” he responds in English. “He can’t hear us. Do you think I’d have spoken about the basilisk without making sure no one can listen in?” 

    “Who is it?” Tom fights the instinct to turn around. Most probably they’re concealing themselves, anyhow. 

    “Two of them. Grindelwald’s followers.” 

    Tom’s shoulders draw back so tight it hurts. 

    “Don’t insult me,” Marvolo snarls. “As If I can’t handle these riff raffs. Besides, if he sent five men after the Minister, he’d be sure to send more for me. These are just scouts.” 

    “Does he know about Voldemort?” Tom still whispers, even if Marvolo assured him they cannot be overheard. It’s just a basic impulse to be quiet while watched. 

    “Unlikely. But I will not dismiss the possibility. He probably just knows than Marchbanks, Dumbledore and myself are the ones that make it impossible for him to gain ground in Britain. Dumbledore is all safe behind those walls, so he’s trying to get rid of us.” 

    “You’d think that would be the sort of situation that one would mention to one’s son,” Tom says through gritted teeth. 

    “A situation,” Marvolo mocks. “It’s nothing.” 

    “A dark lord is after you, I would argue-”

    “I’m not a victim.” Marvolo’s getting heated. “There’s no one after me. I am the one who hunts him, not the other way around.” 

    Tom would stop if he weren’t aware there are eyes on him. “His men are literally tailing you. It looks like-”

    “And my men are spying on him.” 

    That pisses Tom off. So Marvolo trust people on this Earth as much as to send them after Grindelwald in his name and yet he won’t trust Tom with anything.

    Marvolo stops once they reach the narrow forest at the base of the hill. It’s Tom’s favourite spot in Hogsmeade and it seems it appeals to Marvolo as well, because he glances around, gratified, his irritation going away. 

    “It’s quiet,” Tom says. 

    But not too quiet. He always struggles to find a balance he’s content with. Enough silence and privacy to allow him to relax, but if the silence is overly heavy, Tom can hear his thoughts clearer than he prefers.

    Small animals scurry around, birds chirp up in the trees, adding enough ambient noise to satisfy Tom’s needs. 

    A nest of snakes had recently appeared, hidden further away, but two of them come out, smelling Tom, used to his presence.

    Marvolo watches them as they get closer, before looking up in the trees. 

    “This is the sort of magical forest that attracts fairies,” he asserts, a note of uncertainty in his voice. 

    Tom shrugs. “Yes.” 

    Marvolo raises an eyebrow. Snakes will not cohabitate with fairies. 

    “There were fairies, but I cursed them away.” 

    “Why?” 

    “Because I could,” Tom says, perhaps too forcefully. “Do you smell someone else?” He asks the snakes. 

    They bend their heads in unison at Marvolo. 

    “Smells like you.”  

    Tom pushes away the warmth that blossoms below his ribs, that always rises when he’s linked to Marvolo. 

    He is my father. He must be. Our magic is so similar, brother wands chose us, we smell alike. 

    “Someone else?” Tom asks. 

    “No.” 

    “They’re smart. Careful,” Tom tells Marvolo about Grindelwald’s men. The sense of being followed had diminished as soon as the snakes had come out of their nest. 

    “Yes, because it would take a genius to know snakes have sensitive smell and would most likely communicate with Pareselmouths.” Marvolo dismisses it and Tom doesn’t like it at all, the lack of concern he displays towards these men, the dismissiveness which he treats Grindelwald with. “What happened with the fae?”

    “I just told you,” Tom snaps. 

    “I wasn’t aware you dislike-”

    “Well, even you can’t know everything.” 

    “You are testing my patience, child,” Marvolo warns, voice becoming cooler. 

    “And you are testing mine,” Tom shoots right back, fingers curling into fists inside his pockets. “You demand I tell you everything and yet you can’t answer half of my questions.” 

    “Do not allow your delusions to distort reality,” Marvolo has the nerve to be patronising. “I demanded nothing of you, I allow you your privacy.” A brief pause. “Perhaps too much of it.” 

    Tom laughs, bitter. “You’re delusional if you think that. You expected me to speak three languages when I was eight, you demanded I lie to everyone about my past, you expected the very best from me-”

    “You’d have been that way, regardless of my preferences.” 

    “-Merlin forbid I liked a cat without you knowing about it, or read a book you didn’t approve of-”

    “I never controlled you.” Marvolo steps closer. “Have a look at your little friends, and what they’re allowed to get away with. Do you think they’re free to roam the streets of London or-”

    “A war torn London! Yes, they’re not allowed. Of course they aren’t! Because their fathers wouldn’t like to see them killed or robbed-”

    “Calm down. Now,” Marvolo hisses. 

    “You know who’d beg me not to go? Who encouraged me to eat, the last holiday? Bitsy. Pathetic, isn’t it? She’s the closes thing I have to a parent.” 

    Marvolo’s practically in Tom’s face. 

    The snakes gather around Tom, hissing threateningly. The knowledge that if Marvolo utters a single word in Parselmouth would immediately gain their allegiance over Tom’s just adds to his rapidly escalating rage. 

    “I’ll make sure to lock you in your room come summer. Keep you safe.” 

    “I’m sixteen,” Tom yells at him. “You can’t send me to my room! If you wanted to act like a father, you should have started sooner.” 

    Marvolo waves his hand and both snakes lose their heads in a spray of blood. Tom looks down in consternation. 

    “I would advise you choose your next words carefully.” 

    Tom can’t believe he slaughtered the poor creatures. With no reason. The shock of it chills his mind. 

    “Or what?” he asks, looking up to meet eyes as red as the blood at his feet. 

    No answer comes, and that somehow infuriates Marvolo more than anything Tom’s said. The woods go silent as Marvolo rages, a stillness so forced in his body, Tom expects him to have changed to stone. 

    It has the opposite effect on Tom. It calms him, because it proves Marvolo, proud, stiff and inaccessible as he’d always been, would not even say he’d hurt Tom, let alone do it. 

    No matter the lies, he cares about Tom. He has to, doesn’t he?

    “You don’t trust me,” Tom whispers into the silence. 

    Everyone trusts Tom, and he’s misleading all of them. 

    Tom leaves his soul bare in front of Marvolo and he’s held at a distance. 

    Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t trust you. Because he knows your soul, how gnarled and ugly it is. 

    Mrs. Cole had said Tom was unlovable, when a couple had wanted to adopt him and she’d deterred them from it. 

    “You’ll just bring him back, he’s a particularly odd child. How about William? He’s such a delightful, friendly boy. Younger too.” 

    Tom had made his peace with the truth of her words long ago; but he’d thought Marvolo is like him, he’d had that connection with him from the very second they met, and to still be unloved eats away at him. 

    Tom cannot withhold information from Marvolo, cannot avoid his question as readily as Marvolo does to him. He doesn’t want to lie, and he’s doing a poor job at it, anyway. 

    Tom chose, down in the Chamber to accept that he’s at a disadvantage in their relationship, chose to be the one to continue attempting to fix it. 

    “When I was at Wool’s,” Tom starts, watching some fallen logs. “A Sister came to visit us, from Ireland.” Tom had hid, not wanting anything to do with the Church, but she’d sought him out, when she’d heard the rumours of his supposed satanic disposition. 

    She’d been fat and Tom instantly disliked her, if only for that, proof she had access to good food, as if the crucifix around her neck wasn’t reason enough. She had a harsh, lined face, no nonsense look in her intelligent eyes. 

    But she’d bribed him with candy and Tom accepted to sit a moment with her, had answered her question about the book he was reading, taking great delight in speaking about the ancient Gods that came to life inside its pages. 

    “They say Gods liked to fuck human women,” Tom had said, mouth full of chocolate, soul filled with spite. “My father’s probably a God.” 

    But she didn’t react as all the others did to his profanity and blasphemy. She’d laughed instead. 

    She’d told him that in her tiny village in Ireland, elderly folks talked about changelings, of fairies that stole human babies and replaced them with one of their own. 

    “Might be your are one,” she’d said, and her face broke into a sad smile. “Or might be you’re just a wee lad that likes to read, blessed with a rich imagination.” 

    “She told me about changelings,” Tom says. “I wanted to be one.” 

    Tom had known he was peculiar, had a special power other didn’t. He had been so desperate to find kin that he had been willing to believe anything. “I went to Hyde Park, and I stood there all night, under a tree. I whispered at it, talking to fairies that weren’t there, asking them to take me back.” 

    It had been one of the worst nights of his life, and Tom had had plenty of those. But the hope he’d had going in the park and the crushing feeling when no fairy appeared to rescue him had been so bleak, that he’d banished it from his consciousness, sealed it in a solid spot and forgotten about it until he’d stumbled about the fairies in Hogsmeade. Even then, it hadn’t come to him immediately. But when the shy fairies approached him, and had devoured the sweets Tom had scattered at the base of the massive oaks, they had offered him a gift in return, a small ruby gem. Somehow that sparked his memory, and he’d grown so upset, ridiculously and unreasonably so, it hadn’t mattered to him there were no fairies in Hyde Park to hear his pleas for help. In a fit of rage, Tom made the trees bend down and sway until their little dens were destroyed. 

    When Tom looks back at Marvolo, his next words die on his tongue. 

    He’d told Marvolo plenty of bad things that had gone on during his stay at Wool’s. And sometimes Marvolo doesn’t react at all, sometime he’s amused, other times intrigued. Mostly, he’s dismissive. 

    There’s something very similar to horror etched on Marvolo’s face. He looks vulnerable, and it disturbs Tom.

    Marvolo should never look like that, ever. It’s wrong. 

    “A silly thing. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” Tom says, softening his voice. And even though there’s still fresh blood on his robes, Tom's anger and pain shifts because he has the absurd notion that it’s Marvolo who’s hurting now. 

    He turns abruptly, walking away from Tom. 

    “It meant nothing.” 

    And yet why does it upset you, still? 

    Because Tom is moody and unstable, the strangest of things set him off occasionally. That doesn’t mean they are of any importance. 

    “It wasn’t nothing,” Marvolo growls, a few feet away, stopping but still keeping his back to Tom. “Go back to school.” 

    Tom looks down at the dead snakes he had had a few conversations with. Young things, both of them. Gone now, because Marvolo wanted to punish Tom, and couldn’t. 

    He kills so easily. 

    Tom uses Occlumency to make order in his thoughts, to send the stupid fairies and the stupid Sister back where they belong, in the deepest corner of his mind. He wanders what else he’s hiding there, but he hopes he’ll never find out. 

    “Alright. Let’s head back,” Tom says, clearing his mind. 

    “I want to be alone.” 

    Tom won’t leave him alone. Marvolo’s having some sort of episode and Tom doesn’t like it, especially since he caused it. 

    It’s always been like that. Even when he’s most upset with Marvolo, when he needs to lash out at him, Tom feels terribly guilty afterwards. 

    He feels the need to apologise, only he stifles it. He had done nothing wrong. Marvolo has no right to be this affected. He wasn’t the one to sit under that tree the whole night, sobbing his eyes out, begging for someone, anyone to take him away. 

    In fact, it’s Marvolo’s fault Tom was in that position anyhow. If he is Tom’s father, that is. He abandoned Tom in an orphanage. 

    And if he is not Tom’s father… but he doesn’t want to think about that right then. 

    He takes out his wand and cleans his robes of blood. If Marvolo wouldn’t be there, he’d burry the snakes, but that would be pathetic so he just burns their bodies and small heads. The smell makes him nauseous, but he gets over it, directs all his awareness on transfiguring a branch into a chair. 

    He accepts no thought to penetrate his concentration, works on his little impromptu project until the branch ends up as a throne like wooden seat, with snakes carved on the armrests. 

    He sits in it and answers Marvolo’s first question, the one Tom’s lied about as well. 

    “I didn’t respond to your letters because I’m upset with you. I’m not ready to tell you why. I think it will just make me angrier. You probably don’t care, anyway.” 

    Marvolo is as still as a sculpture. Tom wonders if he’d heard a word. 

    He sits in silence after that. 

    After ten or so minutes, Mavolo starts walking towards the tiny village. Tom rises and goes after him, hastens to catch up. 

    Marvolo’s face is hollow, but his eyes blaze with fury. 

    “Red,” Tom gestures towards them and in a second they turn as brown as Tom’s. “I’ll write back now, I swear.” 

    Marvolo says nothing. Perhaps there will be no letters to reply to. 

    They’re back in the residential area, but few people are around. On the weekends students come, locals stay in their houses, sick of the ruckus. 

    That changes on the next street. 

    “Hi!” 

    Myrtle appears so abruptly in his face Tom stops just in time to avoid barreling into her. 

    “Ah, I wanted to thank you. Olive never bothered me again,” she plays with her braids, nervous.

    “Great,” Tom says wishing she’d leave, lest Marvolo kills her too, in this mood he’s in. 

    But she just stands there and worse, Marvolo stops and at first barely glances at her, but then, just as his eyes are about to move past her, looks again. 

    It’s as if he’s seen a ghost. He watches Myrtle as if she’s something special, when she is the least significant creature Tom had met in his life. 

    Tom grabs Marvolo’s elbow and steers him away, because he’s in such a peculiar mood, he just has to get him out of Hogsmeade. 

    Marvolo allows to be lead by Tom, but his head turns to still look at Myrtle. 

    “You should head home and rest. You evidently had a long journey,” Tom suggests, taking Marvolo to a more secluded spot, right besides the main street. 

    Tom should rest as well. He too had a long semester. More like a long year. 

    Sometimes he feels like he’s one hundred years old. 

    Marvolo rips his eyes away from Myrtle. 

    Tom wants to make him promise he’ll be prudent, he’ll treat Grindelwald seriously. 

    Tom wants to Apparate home with him and set Marvolo right again. 

    He almost suggests Marvolo takes a sleeping potion, because he suspects lack of rest could be the cause of the irrational behaviour. It is for Tom. 

    He doesn’t dare do any of those things, not with Marvolo so volatile and in such proximity to hundreds of students. 

    Marvolo Apparates without another word and Tom leans on a building, rubbing his temples. 

        (-)

                            Over twenty dead Muggles after a dark wizard attack in East London.

    In a gruesome act of terror, unprecedented since the times of the Inquisition, an unknown wizard slaughtered twenty six muggles this evening, though the number of victims is expected to rise as both Police and Aurors are still searching the area. 

    “The handiwork of a madman,” Minister Marchbanks declares, visibly affected by the news.  “We have teams of Obliviators running around all over the place.” 

    Rumour has it Undersecretary Gaunt is on a mission to calm the Muggle Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, who is said to be ready to disclose the truth to his people, if any event of such gravity is to happen again. 

    “In all my years at the Ministry, I had never seen anything like this,” the head of the department of Magical Law Enforcement tells our reporter. “Body parts scattered around, obvious signs of torture- I ask the magical population to be vigilant and avoid crowded places while the criminal is still at large.” 

    As of the time of publication, there are no suspects. 

    The Daily Prophet will keep our readers informed as the news unfolds and urges everyone reading to be careful. 

    “Give that man a medal, I say,” Abraxas folds the newspaper in half. 

    Alphard gives him a disgusted look. “You’re sick.” 

    “They’re just muggles,” Walburga snaps at him. 

    “A senseless murder.” Alphard doesn’t give up. “Killing for sport. Do you really want to applaud someone like that roaming free in our community-?” 

    “Shut up,” Tom whispers, eyes glued to the picture depicting rubble and scorched buildings. 

    He had fantasised so many times of burning that Church to the ground. 

    And now it did. 

    His wishes always come true, sooner or later. 

    Yet it’s a hollow victory. He’d have wanted it to burn, so the flames could consume the priest, melt his skin right off under Tom’s eyes. 

    The priest’s been dead for quite some time. 

    Tom worries about Marvolo, of the horror that’s been on his face, mixed in with rage, just hours before. 

    Marvolo would never do something as futile, as dangerous; to risk exposure only because-

    Tom’s not even sure why. But he has an inkling it had nothing to do with Tom. What he’d seen in Marvolo’s eyes is the type of hurt one can only feel for one’s self, not on behalf of others. 

    But he knows, as certain as he is the sun will rise in the morning, that it was Marvolo. 

    Or Lord Voldemort, who is not bound by caution, reason or political concerns. Just led by a primal fury. 

    (-)

    The death count reaches thirty one, the Daily Prophet reports come morning. Five of them were children. 

    Tom pushes away the plate of food Walburga is trying to feed him. 

    Has Marvolo always went on a killing spree after a fight with Tom, and he just hid it better? 

    He doesn’t think so. Tom’s seen Marvolo furious, frustrated, aggressive, but never vulnerable as he’d been the day before. 

    When Tom feels vulnerable, he too wants to assert control over something, anything, and when he’s at Hogwarts, he can duel his group, let the victory assure him he is the furthest thing from vulnerable. 

    When he’s not at Hogwarts, when he’s at his home, he seeks out Marvolo, to feel safe. 

    Marvolo has no one to keep him safe, Tom thinks with dread. 

    He’d never considered it, because it’s Marvolo- he’s transcended the need to be kept safe, the need to be comforted. But there must have been a time, in his childhood at least, where he had needed it, but no one came forth. 

    I suppose I raised myself. 

    No mother, no father. No food. A war going on around him. 

    It was the best I could come up at sixteen. 

    Marvolo had no one to protect him, so he created Lord Voldemort to keep him safe. 

    Tom’s seen that shift with his own eyes. Seen a powerful, cold, calculated man transform into something even more, into a god of rage, all instinct. 

    He remembers a time, as a very young child, when he’d pretended to be someone else, when his courage faded in the face of bigger, stronger children. Tom would imagine he was a brave knight he’d have read about in one of his books or a mighty King and he’d find courage like that. 

    Marvolo had imagined something far more efficient.

    (-)

    Walburga is the next to be banned from the Duelling Club.

    To avoid a mutiny, Dumbledore bans Fleet alongside her. 

    They both cheated. In fact, Fleet had started it by casting a split second before Walburga had stepped into her assigned spot. 

    Dumbledore claims he hadn’t seen this, but he did see Walburga string of prohibited curses the Professors had written on the board, with bold letters. 

    Overwhelmed, Fleet ended up kicking her in the abdomen. Even Dumbledore can’t ignore such unchivalrous behaviour from one his lions. 

    Tom has to restrain Orion, while Abraxas does the same with Alphard. They yell threats at Fleet’s retreating back, promising a painful retribution. 

    “You don’t even like her,” Tom reminds Orion. 

    “What’s that got to do with anything? She’s a Black.” 

    In the Common room, Alphard calms and explains to Orion they can’t get their revenge yet, that the smart thing to do is wait long enough that they won’t be immediately thought of as suspects. 

    Walburga watches them fight from the armchair. 

    Tom knows she’ll deal with Fleet before Alphard has the time to come up with a plan.

    It’s one of the things he admires about her. Walburga fights her own battles, she doesn’t need Tom, or anyone else, to fight them for her. 

    There’s the matter that they are seeing each other in secret, but even if it weren’t for that, Walburga would not want to hold Tom’s hand in the hallways or have him escort her around the school, like all the other couples behave. 

    She doesn’t want to be given flowers, like Clara did, or for Tom to offer her his coat when there is a draft. 

    For the longest of times, Tom thought her behaviour is born from the desire to show the bigoted students that girls are just as capable as boys. 

    And he isn’t wrong, not entirely. 

    Walburga wants to prove to herself that she’s just as good as her male peers. 

    Tom smiles, remembering her reaction at Abraxas suggestion that perhaps it’s unwise she gets tattooed with their secret mark, because girls aren’t supposed to mar their skin.

    Tom thrills in seeing the mark on her arm, because he put it there, and it’s permanent. She might marry Orion, she’ll always belong to the Blacks, but he’d have left his claim on her, forever. 

    Still, when two nights later she pulls out an invisibility cloak from her bag just as they are ending their Prefect Patrol, Tom hesitates. 

    “Do you want me to come with you?” 

    She gives him a mocking smile. “Aren't you sweet?” she drawls. “No. If it’s just me, he won’t complain to anyone about what I’ll do to him. It will be too shameful to admit a girl bested him.” 

    “Well, well. There is some Slytherin in you, after all.” 

    She grins, disappearing under the cloak. 

    Tom waits for her under the trap door. It’s quite comfortable. It’s also where he keeps books he’d be expelled for if some of the teachers would find them on his person. 

    He tries to pen a letter to Marvolo, but everything he writes dissatisfies him. 

    There had been no contact since Hogsmeade. 

    Tom writes dozens of inches of parchment before vanishing it away. 

    Too personal. 

    Too cold. 

    Too much. 

    Too little. 

    He’d never spent as much time staring at a black parchment, waiting for inspiration to strike him, as he did in the last few weeks. 

    He hears the knock above him and Tom puts the quill into its place before hissing at the trap, allowing Walburga to descend inside. 

    She’d acquired a few shallow injuries, but her triumphant smirk tells him all he needs to know. 

    He heals a cut right under her rib, and he has to take off her blouse to do it. 

    As always, the sight of her naked is the only thing to awake inside him something that it’s not tinted with anger. 

    “I hope the Mudblood didn’t tire you too much,” he says, and she laughs, pulling at his tie. 

    Her body is more familiar to him than his own. He doesn’t spend too much time examining himself, after all. 

    He still does his best to avoid mirrors, not liking his own reflection staring back at him. 

    He’s most comfortable in the dark, but it makes her anxious not to be able to see anything. 

    Tom compromises, and he thinks it’s the only compromise he’s willing to make for anyone, besides Marvolo. 

    But it’s imperative she feels at ease, so he allows the tiniest of flames to burn as far away from them as possible. 

    They’ve been doing this long enough that the rules are established. 

    Walburga can be on her knees or laid on her back, but she can never be on top of Tom, in any way. 

    She doesn’t seem to mind it. 

    (-)

    They’re just about to head back to school after the last visit to Hogsmeade for the semester when the street erupts into chaos. 

    One minute all is normal, the next people are screaming, running around like headless chickens.

    In the distance, Tom sees a small formation of masked men in red robes. 

    “Fuck!” Abraxas exclaims, his eyes focused on the foreigners. 

    Walburga’s fingers curl around Tom’s arm and she runs too, holding him with her. 

    For a few moments, Tom goes along with it, his mind reeling. 

    “We’re running into an ambush!” he says and stops a second later.

    Everyone is heading towards Hogwarts, students and villagers alike. Tom assumes that is because Grindelwald’s men had erected Anti Apparition shields. 

    As if to prove his point, someone screams further ahead. 

    It gets even worse. Those at the front try to turn back. Those at the back are still trying to press forward. 

    So many bodies against him, in a tight crowd. 

    Now is not the time for your little episodes. 

    Still, a few more moments being shoved that way and Tom thinks he’d rather take his chances with the masked men. 

    He takes out his wand and starts throwing cutting hexes around. Abraxas gets the idea and does the same until they clear a path big enough for them to slip away. 

    “Now what?” Alphard has to yell to be heard over the general ruckus. 

    “Find a fireplace,” Tom says, though he’s sure the Floo Network had been shut as well. But standing out in the open is out of the question. 

    They head towards a secondary street. 

    Some people had barricaded themselves in stores and establishments. 

    The foreigners walk in pairs, peering inside them, clearly looking for something.

    It’s utterly ridiculous. There can’t be more than a dozen of them and there must be close to a hundred villagers around and yet they all hide. No one even tries to gang up on the intruders. 

    Just as he thinks it, the window of the Three Broomsticks breaks, a red-robed man flies out of it, landing on his back. 

    Hagrid comes through the window next, roaring in rage, swinging his fists around. 

    The man stands back up and Tom looks away. 

    Walburga’s grip on him is so tight, she’s cutting off circulation. 

    “Let go!” he sneers at her, but she doesn’t, eyes wide with fear. 

    “Put it back on!” Alphard yells at Orion, who had sneaked into Hogsmeade with Alphard’s invisibility cloak. 

    Orion pays him no mind.

    Tom takes them through a shortcut on a more deserted street. 

    Whatever the men are looking for, it’s clearly situated on the main one. 

    It’s as if he jinxed it. 

    Two of them come rushing from behind a corner and everyone stops, their groups facing each other. 

    The taller one points a wand at his own neck and says something in German, that resonates across the village. 

    Tom is not very proficient in german, but it sounds suspiciously like “found him.” 

    His eyes are trained on Tom. 

    What?

    “Run!” Abraxas yells and Walburga is still clinging to Tom, once again taking him with her. 

    “What did he say?” Alphard asks as a spell whooshes past their ears. 

    “They’re looking for Tom,” Abraxas clarifies. 

    “Why?” 

    Tom has no idea. He’d like to know himself, but that’s not relevant at the moment. The most important thing is to get out. Prioritise. 

    Tom leads them into a house, locking the door behind him after they are all in.  

    The fireplace is disconnected, as he suspected.

    “Now what?” Orion asks.

    Tom pulls his arm out of Walburga’s grasp. “Get yourself together,” he tells her. 

    Alphard is panicking, as white as the wall behind him, wand hand shaking. 

    Abraxas doesn’t look too good either. 

    Tom wishes Rodolphus was with them. 

    Someone’s trying to break the door. 

    Tom points to the other one, at the back, thinking to sneak out. 

    They move in silence, Tom catching snippets of conversation from the men behind them. 

    As soon as they are out the back door, three more masked men appear. 

    Abraxas flees, dragging Alphard with him. 

    The men let them go, their eyes, the only feature visible behind the mask, focused on Tom. 

    “Waly! Orion!” Alphard yells, but Walburga stays by Tom. And so does Orion. 

    Tom erects a shield just in time to absorb a stunning spell. 

    “Go with them!” Walburga yells, as Tom doges another curse, just barely. 

    “No!” Orion’s high voice comes from somewhere on the left. 

    “Confringo!” Walburga says and something blows up, rather spectacularly, but sadly it’s not Tom’s attackers. 

    It just serves to piss them off and one of them turns towards Walburga. 

    Tom dashes back into the house, taking Walburga with him by the hair. Orion sneaks inside a second before Tom seals the door behind them. 

    “You stupid little shit!” Walburga yells at her cousin. She’s bleeding from her shoulder. “You should have gone with-”
“你这个愚蠢的小家伙！”Walburga对她的表弟大喊大叫。她的肩膀在流血。“你应该和——”

    “Silence!” Tom commands. 
“安静！”汤姆命令。

    His ears are ringing, due to the adrenaline, he supposes. The panic is yet to settle in, but he’s sure it’s coming. 
他的耳朵在响，因为肾上腺素，他想。恐慌还没有平息下来，但他确信它即将到来。

    They run up the stairs, even though he knows it’s a dead end, but the spells he put on both doors won’t hold forever and they have nowhere else to go. 
他们跑上楼梯，尽管他知道这是一条死胡同，但他在两扇门上施加的咒语不会永远存在，他们无处可去。

    They end up into a bedroom and he locks that door too, charms it more heavily than the other ones. He cuts his finger and inscribes three protective runes on it with his own blood, a ritual he had found in the 'Secrets of the Darkest Arts'. 
他们最终进入了一间卧室，他也锁上了那扇门，比其他门更吸引人。他割开自己的手指，用自己的血在上面刻下了三个保护符文，这是他在“最黑暗艺术的秘密”中发现的仪式。

    Just as he finishes, he hears one of the doors breaking downstairs. 
就在他刚说完的时候，他听到楼下有一扇门被打破了。

    Walburga is struggling to shove Orion into a closet. “Hide here-”
沃尔布加正努力把猎户座塞进壁橱里。“躲在这里——”

    Orion slaps her hands away. “We jump, when they’re all up?” he asks Tom, joining him by the window. 
Orion拍开了她的手。“我们跳，等他们都起来了？”他问汤姆，和他一起走到窗边。

    Tom nods. All his muscles are tense, strung up. 
汤姆点了点头。他所有的肌肉都绷紧了，绷紧了。

    He points his wand at Orion and Disillusions him, before doing the same to Walburga and himself. 
他用魔杖指着猎户座，让他幻灭，然后对沃尔布加和他自己做同样的事情。

    “I can’t believe Abraxas and Alphard just left us,” Orion says, very carefully camouflaged. Walburga snorts.
“我简直不敢相信阿布拉克萨斯和阿尔法德就这样离开了我们，”猎户座说，非常小心地伪装起来。Walburga哼了一声。

    Tom can believe it. He has a harder time believing these two stayed with him.
汤姆可以相信。他很难相信这两个人会和他在一起。

    “When we’re down,” he says, surprised his voice comes out as steady as ever. “You run and hide,” he tells Orion. 
“当我们情绪低落时，”他说，惊讶地发现他的声音一如既往地稳定。“你跑，躲起来，”他告诉猎户座。

    “But-” “可是——”

    “You’re thirteen. You’re more a hindrance than an aid.” Tom cuts over him, sharply. Heavy steps are coming up the stairs. 
“你十三岁。你更像是一个障碍，而不是一个帮助。汤姆猛地打断了他。沉重的脚步正在上楼梯。

    “Listen to him,” Walburga whispers, very close to Tom. “Orion, just go, alright? Try to get to the Owlery. Send a letter to your father.” 
“听他说话，”沃尔布加低声说，离汤姆很近。“猎户座，走吧，好吗？试着去猫头鹰。给你父亲写一封信。

    The door is vibrating as several spells are cast at it. 
门在震动，对它施放了几个咒语。

    And finally, the two men under the window break into the house as well. 
最后，窗下的两个人也闯进了房子。

    Tom waits for them to join their friends up the stairs. 

    “What did he put on this door?” someone says, in a French accented german. 

    Tom smirks. 

    “Use a levitating charm to soften your landing,” he whispers to the others. 

    One man grows frustrated enough to kick the door. As if that would help. 

    “Stand aside. I’ll deal with it,” someone else speaks, and there’s something in his deep voice that lets Tom know that man is to be avoided at all costs.  

    “Now!” Tom orders and jumps. 

    He barely regains his footing when someone equally camouflaged cries out. “They’re down.” 
他勉强站稳脚跟，一个同样伪装的人喊道。“他们倒下了。”

    These aren’t stupid men. Tom warned Marvolo not to underestimate them. 
这些人不是愚蠢的人。汤姆警告马沃洛不要小看他们。

    But that’s alright. Tom expected they’d know that would have been the plan. He just needed a few seconds. 
但没关系。汤姆以为他们会知道这就是计划。他只需要几秒钟。

    He runs.  他跑了。

    “To the left,” Orion yells, still with them, and Walburga shoots off two consecutive stunning spell in the direction of his voice. One of them must hit Orion, because they hear him falling. 
“在左边，”猎户座喊道，仍然和他们在一起，沃尔布加朝着他声音的方向连续发射了两个眩晕咒语。其中一人必须击中猎户座，因为他们听到他倒下的声音。

    For a second, Tom thinks to stun her too, because they apparently only want him.  
有那么一秒钟，汤姆也想把她打晕，因为他们显然只想要他。

    But he doesn’t. He’d rather Rodolphus or Abraxas back him up, but he prefers her over being alone. 
但他没有。他宁愿鲁道夫斯或阿布拉克萨斯支持他，但他更喜欢她而不是一个人。

    They don't get too far. The wizards from the house land around them in a circle.
他们不会走得太远。房子里的巫师们围着他们转了一圈。

    Frustrated, Tom lets go of the Disillusionment Charm. Clearly, it isn’t fooling anyone and the charms will just uselessly drain his power. 
沮丧的汤姆放开了幻灭咒。显然，它不会愚弄任何人，护身符只会无用地消耗他的力量。

    “Back to back,” he tells Walburga. 
“背靠背，”他告诉沃尔布加。

    She obeys him, even if she’s trembling like a leaf. Tom is scared, too. He doesn’t want to die. He can’t die. That fear is starting to grip his heart, paralysing him. You’re not dead yet! But you will be, if you freeze. 
她服从他，即使她像一片树叶一样颤抖。汤姆也很害怕。他不想死。他不能死。这种恐惧开始抓住他的心，使他瘫痪。你还没死呢！但如果你冻结了，你会的。

    He ends up facing three men. They move towards him and it’s the disrespect that finally awakes Tom’s anger, the fact that they’re keeping their wands at their side instead of aiming them at Tom. 
他最终面对三个男人。他们向他走来，正是这种不尊重最终唤醒了汤姆的愤怒，他们把魔杖放在身边，而不是对准汤姆。

    Tom’s done fooling around. 
汤姆已经鬼混了。

    Only let loose when your life is in danger. 
只有当你的生命处于危险之中时才放松。

    “Bombarda!” he yells and aims at one of them, who laughs and easily sidesteps it. He stops laughing and starts screaming when he lands right into Tom’s nonverbal Cruciatus. 
“Bombarda！”他大喊着，瞄准其中一个，后者笑了起来，轻而易举地避开了它。他停止了笑声，开始尖叫，当他正好落在汤姆的非语言十字架上时。

    They take him more seriously after that. 
在那之后，他们更加认真地对待他。

    Walburga’s yelling every spell she knows behind him. 
沃尔布加在他身后大喊着她所知道的每一个咒语。

    Tom raises another shield around them; it takes so many hits it disintegrates immediately, with a gong like noise. 
汤姆在他们周围举起了另一个盾牌;它受到如此多的撞击，它立即瓦解，发出锣般的噪音。

    “Serpensortia! Attack them!” he orders as soon as the cobra materialises. 
“蛇形！攻击他们！“眼镜蛇一出现，他就下令。

    Walburga is hit by something, because she slumps against his back, whimpering in pain. 
沃尔布加被什么东西击中了，因为她瘫倒在他的背上，痛苦地呜咽着。

    One of Tom’s blood boiling curses puts one of the enemies down. 
汤姆的一句热血沸腾的诅咒将其中一个敌人打倒了。

    But it’s useless. The other two deflect all he throws at them, and Walburga’s clearly not having much luck. 
但这没用。另外两个偏转了他扔给他们的所有东西，而沃尔布加显然没有太多运气。

    “Kill the girl,” the man with the deep voice, the one closest to Tom, says. 
“杀了那个女孩，”那个声音低沉的男人，最接近汤姆的人说。

    In English, to make sure they understand.
用英语，以确保他们理解。

    Tom knows he says it in English to inspire terror in them. 
汤姆知道他用英语说这句话是为了激发他们的恐惧。

    It doesn’t mean they won’t do it. 
这并不意味着他们不会这样做。

    Fuck it, Tom thinks. 
去他妈的，汤姆想。

    Desperate times call for desperate measures, and even if he never casted it before, because it’s insanely dangerous, Tom points his wand and a roaring giant snake comes out of it, in the red-orange flames of Fiendfyre. It splits into another snake before it’s even out of the wand and the masked men rear back, desperately raising their wands. 
绝望的时刻需要绝望的措施，即使他以前从未施放过它，因为它非常危险，汤姆指着他的魔杖，一条咆哮的巨蛇从里面出来，在恶魔的红橙色火焰中。它甚至在魔杖离开之前就分裂成另一条蛇，蒙面人向后退去，拼命举起魔杖。

    Tom grabs Walburga, turning around, forcing his wand to spill more fire towards the others. 
汤姆抓住沃尔布加，转过身来，迫使他的魔杖向其他人喷出更多的火焰。

    The heat is instant, stifling. 
热量是瞬间的，令人窒息。

    Tom ends the curse, but he knows it will do nothing to the flames already out, that will just devour everything in their path, multiply as they go, unless Tom stops them. 
汤姆结束了诅咒，但他知道这对已经熄灭的火焰没有任何作用，它只会吞噬他们路上的一切，随着他们的前进而繁殖，除非汤姆阻止他们。

    Tom’s not sure he could stop them, but he doesn’t even try it, dragging Walburga after him, as he tries to sneak out of an opening in the rapidly advancing wall of fire. 
汤姆不确定他能不能阻止他们，但他甚至没有尝试，拖着沃尔布加跟在他身后，他试图从快速前进的火墙的开口中溜出去。

    She screams in pain and Tom spares her a fast glance, enough to confirm that whatever curse hit her had been a bad one. There’s a gaping hole in the right side of her abdomen. Tom can see the muscle, the white bone-
她痛苦地尖叫着，汤姆快速地瞥了她一眼，足以确认无论她受到什么诅咒，都是一个坏诅咒。她的腹部右侧有一个大洞。汤姆能看到肌肉，白色的骨头——

    He swallows and presses forward. 

    The dangerous voice from before yells out a curse and Tom lets go of Walburga and dodges. It flies past, inches from his head. 

   “Tom!” 

    Walburga cries for him and Tom looks, faltering, the panic finally sinking in-

    Another curse hits her, and she goes down. 

    Tom turns and flees. 

    I’ve no choice, he tells himself. If he stays with her, they’ll both die. 

    It’s becoming impossible to breathe, the smoke clinging in his nostrils, clouding his vision. 

    The Bubblehead charm provides some relief, but it will be temporary. Nothing resists Fiedfyre much. 

    He has no idea where he is, he can barely see two feet away-

    Another one of Grindelwald’s men smashes into him. He clearly hadn’t meant to, had been a simple accident, the man as blinded as Tom. 

    He hears the others all around, trying to extinguish the flames, incantations in Latin and German echoing in the distance. 

    But they can’t. 

    Because he’s Tom Gaunt and he’s that powerful, not even dark wizards can stop his curse.

    The man struggles to point his wand at Tom, but he’s far too close. Tom knocks his hand away. 

    There’s been a time, long before, when he’s been an orphan with no wand and a fleeting control over his magic. 

    This wizard is certainly a pureblood and had surely never engaged in hand to hand combat in his life. Tom wrestles him to the ground, seeking to rip the wand out of his hand. 

    The man won’t let go. 

    Tom leans in and bites his cheek, hard, until he can feel a chunk of meat coming off the bone, hot blood going down his throat. 

    The pain and shock disable his opponent momentarily and Tom takes his wand, stands, and stomps his foot on the other’s face, hard. 

    A sickening, crunching sound follows that Tom can hear even above the roaring of the flames. 

    Hungry, the fiery snakes whisper. 

    Tom’s hungry too. He spits the blood out. It leaves a metallic flavour in his mouth. It tastes like victory. 

    “Tom!” 

    Tom swears, viciously. 

    Of course she doesn’t have the decency to just die, silently. 

    He turns back. 

    He has two wands in his left hand, and he fights his way through the smoke and flames, until he reaches Walburga. 

    He bends and lifts her up on his shoulder, furious with her and with himself, for being such an idiot. 

    “Point me,” he barks at the wands. 

    The light leads him through the smoke and dancing flames, onto an alley. He barley gets to breathe some clean air, when, like a nightmare that won’t end, three more men emerge.

    Tom’s done running. There’s nowhere to go, anyway. He drops Walburga to the ground and faces them. 

    Their leader, the one with the deep, calm voice, is amongst them. 

    But they’re not as cocky as they were before. They don’t advance on Tom, wands raised, more careful. 

    One of them- he thinks it might be the one that suffered his Cruciatus- even takes a step backward when Tom raises his own wand, dropping the extra one. 

    “It belonged to one of your friends,” he tells them, stepping on it. 

    He doesn’t bother with shields anymore, going in with a bone breaking curse, followed by a decapitation one. 

    The first misses, but the second hits one of them, though not in the neck. It severs his arm, right at the shoulder. 

    A bubble of triumph burst inside Tom. 

    He’s all in. All those curses he read but had no one to try on. He tries them now.

    “You cannot win,” their leader says, in broken English, deflecting an ancient Armenian curse Tom had read in one of Marvolo’s books. “Stop. Come with us, willingly, and I will not hurt you.” 

    Dark Magic sings inside his veins. Tom waves his hand and a pole collapses, right on top of one of the three, bringing him down. 

    He knows very well what they want him for. To use him against Marvolo. Tom will not let that happen. They will not get him alive. 

    The flames had found them, and it distracts the leader, trying to keep them at bay, giving Tom a shot to deal with the remaining soldier, one on one. 

    But the one that fell down is rising again. 

    Tom doesn’t know how long it lasts, but it is exhilarating. Freeing. Tom lives, truly enjoys life, right before he thinks he’s about to die. 

    He takes many hits, he’s bleeding and in pain, his vision blurry, but the fear only comes when his wand is summoned away from him. 

    Tom watches it arch high into the air, and into the leader’s hand. 

    A traitorous part of him wants to beg, to say he’s changed his mind, he’d do anything, as long as he’s spared-

    You’re not a coward, he tells himself, even if deep down he thinks he might be. 

    But he thinks of Marvolo, how composed he would be, where he in Tom’s place. Well, Marvolo would never be in Tom’s place. He’d have dealt with these men easily. 

    Either way, Marvolo would not beg or be frightened. 

    So neither is Tom. 

    He performs some wandless spells- the men swear in surprise, but they’re not very powerful and Tom’s drained of the little he had left. 

    He falls and knows this is the end. He tries to get back up, doesn’t want to die on his back. Walburga is laying a bit further away, eyes open, glassy and unseeing. 

    Don’t be scared, don’t be scared, he tries to comfort the petrified child inside him. You went down with dignity. 

    He wishes he’d see Marvolo one more time. His biggest regret is leaving him alone. Who will make him smile if I’m gone?

    His magic tries valiantly to lash out. It comes out in a blast, sending the man approaching him to the ground. 

    Tom still can’t climb to his feet. 

    This is it. Marvolo will be furious.

    “You’re quite the surprise,” the leader says and Tom stares up into blue eyes. “Your father’s son indeed.” 

    Tom can’t duck the next spell, it hits him straight in the chest. His limbs go numb. 

    “My father will find you and destroy you,” Tom promises, with his last strength, feeling a vicious satisfaction, knowing that no matter what happens to him, this man will suffer for it at some point. 

    The flames surrounding them part, abruptly. 

    The other men shout a warning to their leader. 

    Through the red-orange fire, a tall man steps. He waves a hand, and the fire dies, as if it had never been there. 

    Just like that. Effortlessly. 

    Power radiates from him in a calm but sure wave. He should look ridiculous in his pink and blue robe. 

    Instead, Dumbledore looks terrifying. 

    Tom is saved, he knows it in his bones. His eyes are closing, the many curses clinging to him, the blood-loss; Tom can’t fight it anymore. And he doesn’t have to, he thinks with relief. 

    The world fades to black. 

Chapter Text

    Tom has a fever. He’s six and the doctors just took away Jimmy's dead, cooling body. Petrified, he hugs his knees to his chest, feeling he’ll be next. Every moment he closes his eyes, he sees Jimmy's bluish skin, his limp arm as they had taken him from the bed. 

    It’s alright. I’ll live. I will. And now I’ll have Jimmy’s things for myself, I won’t have to share the room anymore. All will be fine, as long as I don’t develop a fever. All will be well. Coughing sounds reverberate through the walls of the orphanage, continuously.

    But Tom is burning up, he can feel himself boiling from within and death is close, is coming and moans-

    I’ll see mama. I can see how she looks. She’ll be there for me, on the other side. 

    "No, Tom. You’re going to Hell,"  the priest whispers in his ear. No one can deliver your soul from evil. No one but me-if you only stay nice and quiet, that’s it, that’s it, don’t flinch away, I’m just touching you-yes, doesn’t it feel good Tom? It’s God’s touch. And if he touches you, if he gives you his love, you can live forever, in his everlasting Kingdom. Forever, Tom, just stay quiet, lie down, that’s it, good boy, my good, beautiful boy.

    Tom gasps, bolting up. 

    “Don’t touch me!” he snarls when a hand goes on his shoulder, trying to lie him down-

    “Don’t touch him!” Another voice, stronger and a big block of black obscure Tom’s view, makes the hand go away. 

    Marvolo. He calms. Marvolo killed the priest. Nothing can happen to Tom.

    He falls back asleep. 

    (-)

    “Mr. Gaunt, your son is in a precarious situation. I can’t fathom why you would want to deprive him of expert care.” Dumbledore. Voice cold but insistent. 

    “Sir, please, a couple of the curses spreading through him are truly dark in nature and long lasting. St. Mungo’s has experts that-”

    “Step away.” A growl, low and menacing, and Tom wishes he could talk. 

    “His body won’t take kindly to Apparition, Mr. Gaunt! Be reasonable!”

    Tom tries to open his eyes. It’s all a blur, but he sees a slim woman wearing the coat of a Healer. 

    “I understand that you must not be thinking clearly, with the fright but-” Dumbledore again.

    Tom’s eyes close, a deep pain located in his neck explodes out of control and he’s trying so hard to cling to reality-

    (-)

    He is bathing in cool waters. It feels amazing. It takes away the terrible heat. He dunks his head underneath, and it’s perfect, perfect; he opens his mouth and water goes down his parched throat-

    He blinks awake. Marvolo is supporting his head, keeping a glass of water at his lips. Tom swallows, obedient. It tastes cold, but bitter. 

    “You will be alright. The worst has passed.” 

    Tom feels so weak, his muscles are twitching all over. He nods and Marvolo lays his head back down onto a very soft pillow.  

    Tom grabs his sleeve, trying to talk, pulling him closer. 

    “What is it? What do you need?” 

    “-see you.” Tom attempts to talk and Marvolo’s face appears in his field of vision. 

    Tom breaths in, deep. Coughs, but keeps staring, reassured. This is reality. Marvolo is really here. 

    “I thought I’d die without seeing you again,” he whispers, voice hoarse.  

    “You will not die, child.” There’s something different in the way those red eyes watch Tom. “But you came close. Too close,” he whispers and rests a hand on Tom’s cheek, and Tom leans into it and falls back asleep.

    (-)

    He wakes up feeling much better. Very weak, but the fever’s gone, and he breathes with ease. Morgana is purring loudly, sleeping next to him on the pillow. 

    Tom sits up, carefully rests his back on the headboard. Marvolo is sitting on a chair beside the bed; there is no book or paper in his hands. He just looks at Tom. 

    “Drink this”. A goblet filled with a bluish potion floats in the air. Tom takes it, swallows it in one go.

    “How long was I asleep for?” 

    “Three days,” Marvolo says, slowly. “If I would have let them take you to St Mungo’s you’d be there for weeks, at the very least.” A muscle jerks in his jaw and Tom remembers fragments of conversation from Hogwarts’ Hospital Wing. “You are alright now.” It sounds like both a statement and a question. 

    “Yes. Just hungry.” By habit, he reaches under his pillow. “My wand!” he says, alarmed when he doesn’t find it there. 

    Marvolo hands it over and Tom calms. 

    “I can’t believe they took it away from me,” he says, mortified, unable to meet Marvolo’s gaze. There’s a scratch on the otherwise perfect wood, and it upsets him to see it. “There were so many of them, they kept coming…” He tries to justify his failure, but stops. 

    There is no excuse for losing his wand. He dares look up to see Marvolo watching him with all the intensity in the world. 

    “Tell me what happened. After the girl stunned Orion; he told me what occurred prior.”

    “Is he alright?” Tom asks and then, with a sharp stab, he remembers Walburga, her beautiful broken body laying motionless, eyes open and glassy. “Where’s Waly?” 

    He tries to stand. 

    “The boy is fine. She-” Marvolo spits. “Is at St. Mungo’s. Last I heard, her condition was serious.” 

    Tom is upright. The room spins around him before it comes back into focus. 

   “Sit down.” 

    Tom attempts to go to his wardrobe, despite a fresh wave of dizziness. “I want to see her.” 

    “You can’t do anything for her.” Marvolo stands. 

    “She stayed behind for me.” Tom still can’t quite believe it. “Can’t you help her?”

    “If you insist.” Marvolo places a hand on Tom’s back and directs him to the bed. “Tell me what happened.” 

    Knowing he’s not getting out of it, Tom goes over every single detail, except one. He doesn’t mention going back into the flames for Walburga, makes it seem like she just followed him until the end, in that alley. 

    “I did all I could,” he says, when he ends the story. “I’m sorry.” He’s never been so ashamed in his life. “I’m sorry Dumbledore had to save me. It irks me but I bet it angers you-”

    “You did well.”

    “I lost,” Tom points out. “You wouldn’t have lost.” 

    “You are sixteen!” Marvolo says, exasperated. “You haven’t even taken your O.W.Ls yet.” He rubs at his temples for a second, before re-assuming a lifeless expression. “You will tell no one, of course, that you cast the Fiendfyre.” 

    “Won’t Grindelwald’s men talk?” 

    “They’re dead,” Marvolo sneers, displeased about it.  

    There is only one reason Marvolo would ever be unhappy with the news of someone dying. 

    Because he hadn’t killed them himself. 

    “Dumbledore killed them?” Tom asks, shocked. 

    “No.” Marvolo’s sneer deepens. “Dumbledore and his so called morals-” He shakes his head. “It is a common practice, in Grindelwald’s ranks, to fight with a poison capsule in their mouths-”

    “Right. Yes. I read about it.” Tom’s upset too, hearing those men got the easy way out. 

    “Slughorn used the Floo to contact me when he first realised something is going on in Hogsmeade,” Marvolo speaks. “But it took him precious minutes to do it. When I arrived, the Anti-Apparition wards were still up. I ripped through them, but by the time I reached the part of the village that was most devastated, Dumbledore had already taken you and Black back to Hogwarts.” His eyes spark with fury. “I found your wand in Stein’s robe and retrieved it before the Aurors could get hold of it.” 

    “Stein?” 

    “One of Grindelwald’s generals.”

    Tom well remembers those blue eyes behind the mask. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget them.  

    “Won’t the Aurors want my wand, anyway? For the investigation-”

    “Oh, there had been some requests,” Marvolo says. “I put an end to that. They will not bother you. However, they found Black’s wand.” 

    “Fuck.” Tom remembers Walburga yelling out at least two Cruciatus. 

    “Arcturus got it back eventually, and he had a talk with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She’s a daughter of the House of Black, the most ancient bloodline in Britain. A minor, fighting for her life. Nothing will happen to her. The privilege these people have is endless,” Marvolo says with spite. 

    Tom could remind him they’re privileged too, enough so that the Aurors will not go over Marvolo to demand Tom’s wand. 

    But Marvolo had to fight for these privileges. Blacks are simply born into them. 

    “They examined the german wands and saw none had cast the Fiendfyre.” Marvolo looks at Tom. “But there is one wand, damaged, that they cannot recover information from. They assume it must be the one to have cast the curse.” 

    Right, the wand Tom snapped. 

    “There is the problem that its owner died in the fire and they found his wand far from his remains, but I will make sure they look no further into the matter.” 

    Something coils in Tom’s stomach. He remembers the man he wrestled to the ground. Last Tom saw of him he was writhing in pain, clutching his face. 

    Of course he died, wandless in a tornado of cursed fire. What did you expect? 

    Tom shakes the ominous feeling off. I didn’t kill him, he tells himself, even if he had been the one to release the flames and then disarm the man. I left him alive. 

    “Did anyone else die?” he asks, his voice low. “Did they kill anyone? Or the fire-” 

    “Three villagers, in direct combat.” 

    Tom nods. 

    He was trying to hurt you, his mind says, persuasive. His own incompetence killed him. 

    “What did they want with me?” Tom asks, dispelling the stranger from his head. “Their leader tried to convince me to go with them.” 

    Marvolo’s jaw twitches again. 

    “They tried to get me a few times; they failed. I never considered they would come for you. I never had anyone, before, that could be used to hurt me. I did not imagine you would be in any danger.” 

    He looks at Tom thoughtfully, a slight tilt to his head, gauging his reaction. 

    It pleases Tom, a comforting feeling chasing away any lingering feelings for the dead german. Grindelwald is not a stupid man. He had judged coming after Tom would hurt Marvolo. And Marvolo just confirmed it. 

    “I warned you to take him seriously,” Tom whispers, but without any reproach.  

    “It is an old habit of mine, to underestimate people.” Marvolo still searches Tom’s face for any reaction. “It is good that you are more careful.” 

    Tom settles snugly on the pillow. They sit in silence for a while, looking at each other. But it’s not rigged with tension.

    Perhaps the attack had been a good thing, Tom thinks. Otherwise, who knows how long it would have taken Marvolo to get over their last talk, how their first encounter after it would have gone. 

    It still gnaws at Tom, some of the things he’d said in Hogsmeade. Marvolo is seemingly content to pretend it hadn’t happened, but Tom isn’t. He doesn’t want the bitter remarks to remain between them, unresolved.  

    Bitsy is the closet thing I have to a parent. If you wanted to act like a father, you should have started sooner.

    “I didn’t mean it.” He breaks the silence. “What I said when-” 

    “You did.” Marvolo cuts over him. “I’ll ask for a meal to be brought up.” He stands. “Lest you accuse me of starving you, next. You certainly seem to have a long list of grievances against me.” 

    It’s not a long list at all, but Marvolo is already defensive. And he’s the same as Tom. Defence, for them, means aggression. 

    “It came across uglier than I would have wanted,” Tom says. 

    Marvolo gives him an indecipherable look. “Doubtful.”

    (-)

    Mr. Black takes Walburga home against recommendations. 

    In the chaos of her arrival, Tom sneaks into her room without anyone taking any issues. Her mother is by her side and her father paces back and forth. 

    She looks frail, smaller somehow. There is a nasty open wound on half her face, extending down her neck. It hadn’t been there when Tom last saw her. He knows it must have been something that spread silently, and no one at St. Mungo had been able to heal it, apparently. 

    She struggles in her magically induced sleep and Tom would take her hand if her parents or Marvolo weren’t around. 

    “I have never seen someone survive such curse combinations,” the healer that brought her home is saying as Marvolo examines her. “Especially the flesh eating one- and it had spread so far already, even if we stopped it, I do not know what you could do.” 

    Marvolo gives him an annoyed look and Pollux orders the man out of the room. 

    “Will she survive?” Pollux asks, jaws locked together. 

    “She will.” 

    Marvolo doesn’t hesitate. 

    “But the scars- they’ll be so terrible-” Her mother intervenes. “Is it not possible to-”

    “Her life is what is most important, Irma.” 

    “I need to be alone with her,” Marvolo demands, and her mother protests, but she’s dragged out by her husband and Tom has no choice but to follow, though he lingers in the doorframe. 

    Marvolo’s eyes turn red, which Tom presumes is the reason they were kicked out, because he cannot maintain the glamour during the healing process. 

    Tom worries, just a little, leaving her alone with him, but he closes the door behind him and goes to Orion’s room, where he finds all Black siblings. 

    “I’m sorry,” Alphard says as soon as he sees Tom. “I’m sorry I ran, Abraxas is sorry too.”  

    “No, he isn’t.” 

    Tom knows Abraxas well. He’s loyal and helpful until things get messy. It is in his nature. It is in all their nature. 

    Except Orion’s and Walburga’s it seems. 

    Orion gives him a small smile. 

    “You should have been a Gryffindor,” Tom tells him and Orion’s smile widens. 

    “That hat considered it, truth be told.” 

    “Merlin, don’t go around repeating that, even in jest,” Lucretia admonishes him. Her eyes are irritated, she must have cried before Tom’s arrival. 

    Cygnus is unconcerned, looking bored. 

    He’s the youngest of the lot, so they don’t spend too much time together. Though Orion is only a year older and his siblings take him wherever they go. 

    Even in the room, Cygnus sits alone by the window. Tom will ask Walburga about it, when she recovers.  

    The next morning, she wakes up. After her parents fret over her, Tom is allowed to see her, as a concerned friend, even if her parents send Orion along. 

    Her face is normal, skin as perfect as always and he’s a little surprised Marvolo hadn’t left her disfigured, seeing how he’d hated her since she was but a small girl. 

    She blinks, slightly disorientated, pale, tired and still undoubtedly in pain, even though many flasks of pain relieving potions are on her nightstand. 

    “You stupid bitch,” Tom whispers fondly, sitting beside her. 

    She gives him a strained, but sincere smile. 

    He doesn’t know what to say, how to respond to what she’s done. 

    Orion is a brash, brave boy that would have stayed behind for any of his friends, without a second thought. But Walburga, he is keenly aware, would have only done so for Tom. 

    He takes her hand in his and she grips, though she lacks the strength to do it properly. 

    “Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Just kiss her!” Orion snaps. “I’ll look away.” 

    Tom does. 

    (-)

    Marvolo is in a foul mood. Tom imagines he must be tired and hadn’t appreciated waiting for Tom’s little visit with Walburga, on top of having to cure her, at Tom’s request. 

    “You could have gone home,” Tom says defensively, later in the day, when they finally return to their house. “You shouldn’t have waited for me.” 

    “You are not leaving my sight until Grindelwald is dead,” Marvolo says but then proceeds to do the exact opposite to his declaration and storms up the stairs to his room, closing the door with unnecessary force. 

    Tom retreats to the library, asking Bitsy to get him his mail. 

    Dozens of letters await him from various students. 

    Get well. I wish I’d have been there with you. Rodolphus is short and to the point, as is his character. 

    Abraxas’ later is long and filled with excuses.  

    Tom has no issue with Abraxas and Alphard leaving. He’d have left too, if the target had been one of them. 

    But he supposes they are friends, and they must understand the concept more deeply than Tom, since it moves them to guilt over such perfectly reasonable attitudes. Still, Tom will take advantage of the guilt Abraxas feels. 

    You owe me, he writes back, just those three little words, smirking when he imagines how Abraxas will fret over them. 

    Both Dippet and Slughorn wrote to assure him that even if he misses his O.W.Ls, it will be arranged so that Tom can take them during the summer. 

    Tom huffs. There are almost two more weeks left until the exams start. There is no way he will be missing them. 

    He picks a book randomly, opens it but finds himself just staring at the pages, unfocused. 

    “You went back for her. You placed yourself in danger.” 

    Tom must be a little jumpy, because he startles at Marvolo’s voice. As always, he hadn’t heard him approach. 

    How would Marvolo know about it? Unless-

   “You went into her head?” Tom asks, incredulous.

    It’s not that he’s concerned with Walburga’s privacy, but she has several memories about him and saving her is on the bottom of the list of things Tom really doesn’t want Marvolo to see. 

    He slams his book shut. Marvolo stands in the doorway, without any expression on his face, but Tom can feel he’s angry. 

    Well, so is Tom. 

    “I placed myself in danger,” he spits out, mocking. “I was already in danger. Moving forward, moving back- it didn’t matter.” 

    It doesn’t convince Marvolo. 

    “She stayed behind for me.” But even as Tom says it, he knows Marvolo won’t get it. Even Tom still doesn’t understand why he’d take that risk, small as it was. 

    “You didn’t ask her to.” 

    “I’m their leader. I’m responsible for them-”

    “Spare me.” Marvolo sneers, stepping inside the room. “Look at me and tell me you would have turned back for Malfoy or Lestrange.” 

    “Maybe I would have,” Tom lies, just because he can’t admit whatever it is Marvolo wants to hear. 

    “You could have died,” Marvolo speaks through his teeth. “And for who?”

    “I almost died several times that day.”

    “No. They would have taken you, to blackmail me. Fiendfyre would have killed you, however.” 

    Tom stands. “Oh, I see. You want to blame me for what happened? You’re angry because I could have died? Them I guess I can blame you, since that whole situation happened because you decided to piss off Grindelwald.” 

     As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. Marvolo’s face doesn’t change, but Tom knows he went too far. 

    Another part of him doubts that his words could ever hurt Marvolo, who seems beyond hurting. And yet, Tom remembers the way he’d looked at Tom, as he was healing, and he knows Marvolo can indeed be hurt. 

    Grindelwald had guessed it as well. The only weak spot Marvolo has is Tom. 

    He feels so guilty over it. 

    “I didn’t mean that,” he says, trying to lower his tone, to put his anger aside. It’s misplaced, anyway. 

    Is it? For a while, he’s always angry with Marvolo, with good reasons. 

    “She’s not worth it,” Marvolo says, after a few seconds, though his mouth barley moves, jaws clenched. 

    “I calculated it. There was no way -I knew I could take her out without risking anything,” Tom tries to explain, though he’s not sure why he needs to defend himself.  

    “I know,” Marvolo hisses. 

     Tom spreads his hands. “So why are you saying all this?” 

    Marvolo walks towards the window, turning his back to Tom. 

    “You are getting attached.” 

    Tom can’t deny it. He likes her, he enjoys her company and not just in a sexual way. He wants her close by. He doesn’t love her, he’s not attached in ways he saw other boys being attached, but either way, whatever he is feeling towards her, no matter how little, it is too much by Marvolo’s standards.  

    And by his own, as well, if he’s honest. 

    “It’s not what you think,” Tom says, slowly. “You know I’m not one of those people to-“

    “I know what it is,” Marvolo talks over him. 

    “I’m not sure that you do,” Tom says. 

    He runs a hand over his face and he’s surprised to feel the stubble on his chin. It’s getting really irksome, shaving, what with having to look at his face in a mirror for it. 

    “I understand the instinct.”

    Do you? Tom can’t see Marvolo getting attached to anyone, in whatever capacity. He’s barely forming a connection with Tom, and he’s an exception. 

    “Black women have a certain charm.” 

    Tom remembers the conversation they had in his fourth year and he’s just as jealous to hear it now, as he was then. 

    “I too did things for Bella that I would not have done for any other.”

    Bella. Is she off the French Black family branch? And then he’s forced to imagine Marvolo doing anything for a woman and that is far, far worse than just thinking he’s a man with needs that occasionally slept with an attractive witch. 

    “What things?” Who is this bint, exactly? 

    “Reckless things, like heading into battle to save her.” 

    This is shocking, to say the least. Somehow, with all the thought Tom gives to Marvolo, he never can quite grasp the concept there was a life before Tom. He imagines Marvolo reading, drinking his tea or writing. Going on killing sprees perhaps, plotting with important men. But further than that, Tom can’t imagine an actual life and it’s distressing to hear it existed and there was an important person in it. 

    “Where is she?” Tom can hear how angry he sounds

    He doesn’t think he’ll get an answer, but it comes a few seconds later, as Marvolo turns to look at him. 

     “She’s dead.” 

    Tom breathes a little easier. He thoroughly examines Marvolo’s face for any sort of emotion, but it’s blank. 

    “They all die. And there is nothing you can do about it, but watch it happen. Walburga doesn’t hold a candle to Bella. She was a warrior, fierce and wild. She died young, fighting.” And there it is, right in his eyes. Anger. “Walburga will die too, even if old and wrinkly in her bed or whatever else takes her, it will happen. Best avoid the messiness.” 

    Tom doesn’t give a shit just then about Walburga and her eventual death. 

    “You cared about this woman,” he says, upset. “I never heard you talk well about anyone, in all these years. What could she have had to make you care?” 

    Tom would really like to know. 

     It’s just inconceivable. Beauty won’t cut it. So many beauties have been around Marvolo. Young women, older women. Intelligent. Powerful. None, ever, got a second glance from him.