Chapter 16 - Little Hangleton

Written by Nemesis

Fern Whitaker rubbed off a spot on the bar counter, listening to the gossip idly. She had been working at the Little Hangleton pub, the Hanged Man, for about a year now, and she decided that though it was a tough job, she would take it over an office job any day. The bell above the door rang as yet another person entered, and Fern prepared to take an order. The person who entered was taller than her by far, but he looked young, maybe sixteen at the oldest. He had blue-black hair that hung in his bright turquoise eyes and a very handsome face. He was wearing a longish black overcoat over a dark green sweater and black slacks, and Fern thought he looked slightly nervous. Fern watched with interest as he took a seat at the very end of the counter, looking around.

"Can I get you something?" Fern asked, ambling over. Strangers were rare in Little Hangleton, and the nineteen-year-old was, naturally, curious.

The stranger looked startled at being addressed directly, but he recovered himself quickly. "Yes. May I please have a strawberry soda?"

"Sure," Fern replied. As she retreated into the kitchen to prepare the drink, she noticed that the boy was studying a crumpled bit of paper. After five minutes, she returned. "Here you are," she said kindly.

"Thank you." The stranger took a sip of the soda, but seemed far more interested in listening to the conversations than anything else. Fern, however, did not have any more customers to tend, so she decided to interrogate the newcomer.

"I haven't seen you around here before."

"Hmm? Oh. I'm visiting somebody," the boy said. His voice was soft and straightforward, and it had mostly a Londoner's accent with a little Irish mixed in. Fern deduced that he must have been raised in London, but had, perhaps, spent a lot of time in the company of an Irish person or two. (Though Fern did not know it, she was dead right. Hannah Hiddy had been Irish.)

"What's your name?" Fern asked.

"Tom R--Tom," the stranger said automatically. He seemed about to say more, but decided against it, biting his lip. He gave a small smile. "I'm here visiting the Riddles," he added casually. "Thomas Riddle is my uncle by marriage. I've never met him."

Fern's face fell. She immediately felt sorry for Tom for having to visit relatives like that. She had run into the Riddle patriarch, Llewellyn, on more than one occasion, and did not like him at all. He had seemed rather stuck-up, and made a point of buying the only real car in Little Hangleton, a black Mercedes, in an attempt to show how rich he was. "That's nice," she said. "My name's Fern, by the way. Fern Whitaker."

"It's a pleasure," Tom replied, his eyes glinting strangely. He held out a hand and Fern shook it, noticing that his fingers were almost unnaturally long, and very thin, like everything else about him. "So… what can you tell me about the Riddles?" he asked.

Fern's eyes lit up. She loved spreading rumors, and here was someone who knew absolutely nothing about the Riddles, who had trillions of rumors flying around them. "Well, old Llewellyn Riddle's a bit of a coot." That was the understatement of the year, she thought. "Really rich, really pompous. His wife, Olivia, now she's an interesting one. Used to be a beauty, but mean as hell now she's lost her looks. Why, I've heard that she--"

"No offense, Miss Whitaker, but may I ask for solid, verifiable facts instead of town rumors?" Tom asked rather coldly. Fern felt slightly taken aback. Usually people loved to hear her rumors.

"Well… okay…" Fern thought awhile. "Well, old Mr. Riddle is quite the snob, if I do say so myself. Loves to flaunt his wealth." Tom seemed aghast at the idea. "And I know for a fact that the Missus fires a servant a week, two if she's feeling particularly snarly."

Tom looked strangely relieved. "And Thomas?"

She hesitated. "Oh, well, I'm not sure if this is true, but it probably is. Thomas Riddle got married about sixteen years back. Moved to London, the whole shebang. They say his wife was a real knockout. Absolutely beautiful." She noticed that Tom looked slightly tenser than before when he heard this statement. "Everyone heard about it when he sent a letter back home saying his wife was expecting. Anyway, about a half-year later, he came back to live with his parents. No wife, no baby. Told us all they'd died in a car crash." Fern leaned in conspiratorially. "That was codswallop. Mary Beaker found a letter that had blown out of their garbage can. It was from this hospital in London, asking Thomas Riddle to come and take his baby. Apparently, his wife died when the baby was born. But he didn't do it. No one knows why he was suddenly so put off by his baby--I mean, he was really excited about it before. And that means he must have ditched his wife, too. Doesn't make any sense to me."

"What's he like now?" Tom demanded. There was a definite gleam in his eyes, one that looked almost red.

"Bitter," Fern sighed. "He's never been the same since that whole thing with his wife. Didn't used to be so bad, apparently, but he went all sour. He never leaves the house, and he ignores all visitors." She bit her lip. "Sorry… guess I haven't warmed you up to the man any, eh? Maybe he's better with relatives. Blood is thicker than water."

Tom laughed at this statement, and Fern shuddered. His laugh was icy, cynical, and rather high. "That is not always true. Well, I'd best be going."

"So soon? Oh well… Bye, Tom. Come by again sometime."

"I might," Tom said cryptically. "Oh, one more thing."

"What's that?"

Tom looked around to make sure nobody was looking, then drew what looked like a rod-straight yew branch out of his inside coat pocket. Pointing it at Fern, he said, "Obliviate," and she completely forgot ever having seen him.

********************

Tom pocketed his wand, placed ten pence upon the counter, and strode out of the pub. The bartender--Fern or whatever her name was--had given him all the information he wanted. If his relatives really were as awful as Fern made them out, he would hopefully have no problem with guilt. Now all he had to do was find the house.

Trying to look like a local, Tom wandered down Maple Street, looking at all of the houses. It took him very little time to find the right one; indeed, it was hard to miss. His father and his family must be rich, quite rich, for their house was a mansion in every respect. Tom narrowed his eyes and tried to get a closer look. It seemed that servants were swarming around the place, and the gardens were magnificent. His curiosity got the better of him, and he crossed the street to get closer. He halted at the gate, gazing up at it. "A shame, really," Tom thought. "Under different circumstances, I might have liked to live here."

"What're you doing here?" a voice suddenly asked. Tom tore his eyes away from the manor to see a man hobbling toward him across the lawn. He was only about thirty years of age, but he had a cane in his hands.

"Just looking," Tom said quickly, giving the man a fake smile.

The man scoffed. "You aren't supposed to be here. Go back where you came from, boy."

"Make me," Tom said softly, the smile leaving his face.

"Listen, laddie, I've faced Nazis, and I damn near lost my leg to them. I'm not about to be afraid of a kid not out of grammar school. Now, clear out."

"It isn't against the law to look at a house, last I checked," Tom said smoothly, his eyes blazing.

"GO!" the man barked. Tom rolled his eyes and strode away. He had a sudden idea. If he turned into a cat, he could explore without getting funny looks. Tom came to a shady, deserted avenue. Making sure nobody was looking, he transformed, then retraced his steps back to the manor. The man was now planting a few flowers in the garden. Tom supposed he must be the Riddles' gardener. Resisting the urge to go scratch him, Tom wandered up the winding drive to the veranda. Two maids were hanging out laundry nearby, and the cook was outside, instructing three assistants on what to buy at the market. Tom wondered what anyone could do with so many servants.

He spent the rest of the day wandering around the grounds to his grandparents' estate, waiting for the servants to go home, or to retreat to their own quarters. Finally, around dinnertime, the place seemed devoid of all life except in what looked like the dining room. It seemed all the servants had gone. Tom scurried up to the veranda and turned back into a human, drawing out his wand. "Alohomora," Tom whispered, tapping the doorknob with his wand. The door swung open, and Tom closed it behind him by magic. He knew that leaving fingerprints on anything would get the Muggle police involved, which was the last thing he wanted. Besides, every last one of his fingerprints were accidentals, which meant that it would be even easier for the police to catch him.

The place was beautiful on the inside, with high ceilings and luxurious carpets. Muffled voices came from a room a ways away, but other than that, the place was silent. Tom crept, still very much like a cat, along the corridor toward the voices.

"…Ella, now there's one I wouldn't mind sacking. She's not punctual enough." This voice was high and shrill.

"Mother, honestly, why is it that you insist upon firing so many good people? Ella's fine," came a second voice. It was much deeper, and Tom's heart gave a jolt as he realized it was his father's. There he was, mere meters away, the person who had created him. Tom was struck by a sudden idea, his cat instincts once again coming to effect. It would be fun to play with them a bit before striking. Patronuses, it hit him, looked very much like ghosts…

"Leave your mother to her own devices," the third voice barked.

"Not that it matters to me if Ella leaves," Tom's father added hastily. "Come to think of it, she is a bit of a--"

"Expecto Patronum," Tom whispered, pointing his wand into the dining room. He peeked around the doorframe to see what would happen. As always, there was the ghostly figure of his mother, looking around for the dementors, confused. He heard three people stand up sharply.

"Good God! Is that--is that--" Olivia Riddle shrieked.

"Maria," Tom's father whispered. Tom heard (but could not see) him backing away and tripping over something. "What do you want from us? Go away!" he cried to the Patronus. The image of Tom's mother frowned.

"Run!" Llewellyn Riddle said. "Come on, the sitting room--" The Riddles clambered out of the dining room, and Tom heard them lock a door behind them. He let his Patronus die and entered the dining room. One door led to the kitchen, the other to the sitting room. Tom performed the Unlocking Charm again and threw the door open.

The room was pitch-black, but from the sound of the terrified cries, Tom's father and his parents were sitting in a corner nearby. "Who's there?" Olivia called. "Stay away from us, Thomas is the one you want!"

"MOTHER!"

Tom muttered a spell, and every lamp in the room blazed to life. For the first time in his life, he saw his family. His grandmother was rather bony with white hair, his grandfather was muscular and had a very jowly face, and his father… Tom had nothing in common with his father. Thomas Riddle had straw-colored hair and grey eyes. He was tall, but not exceptionally, and he had a medium build instead of a slight one. Right now he was sheet-white with fear. "Hello, Father," Tom said stiffly.

"Oh my God…" Thomas went even paler.

"What kind of nonsense is this?" Llewellyn demanded.

Tom turned his eyes to his grandfather, and they were starting to look a little red. "I'm sure you already know," Tom spat. "My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, the son of Maria Katya Salamair and--alas--Thomas Wills Riddle." He riveted his eyes on his father again, and they suddenly turned a more brilliant red than ever before. "You abandoned me," Tom said, his voice dangerously soft. "You left my mother to die and refused to accept responsibility for me. You knew that would catch up with you, though, didn't you?"

"It wasn't my fault," Thomas snapped. "She was one of those--one of those--creatures! She was barely human! And you… you are the same, aren't you?"

"Very much so," Tom whispered. "Unfortunately for you." He took a step closer, and the Riddles were practically crunched into their corner. "Do you have any idea the kind of hell you put me through?" Tom hissed. "You left me in a world without a family, where they would torment me, starve me… it's a miracle I'm alive today. And my mother--you killed her, Father. Mum is dead because she missed you so badly. She grew so depressed that her health failed her." Tom's lips suddenly curved into that twisted smile. "But now, Father, I can fight back. I'm not a shy little boy anymore, I'm a wizard. And I do not appreciate what you did to me, not at all."

Thomas Riddle now did something which clearly cost him every ounce of resolution he had. He took four steps forward and held out his hands, looking scared out of his wits. "Tom… she named you after me, didn't she?… I… I'm sorry--"

"Malarkey," Tom scoffed, his eyes glowing. "Pure balderdash. You aren't sorry. You're afraid. Afraid of your own flesh and blood, Father. How… intrepid of you…" Tom waved his wand almost lazily, and his father flew to the side of the room, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Riddle out in the open. Tom whirled on his father again. "I want you to experience the sort of pain I went through," Tom said, his voice still so soft that it was barely audible, but the others were hanging onto his every word. "Let's do it in chronological order, shall we?" Tom's merciful half was sobbing miserably, but the other half's cackling was drowning it out. "First… let's see… I lost my mother."

Realizing what was about to happen, Olivia Riddle made a break for it. Tom got there first. "Avada Kedavra!" he shouted. Olivia froze, her knees buckling. Tom bit his lip and turned away, trying to concentrate on the task at hand so that he would not have to comprehend what he had done. His eyes, now glowing so brightly they seemed to give off a light of their own, flicked back over to his father. "After that, I was abandoned by my own father, and it was almost as though you were dead. 'Almost,' needless to say, is enough for me."

"What?!" Llewellyn was in a panic. "No--please, I--"

"Avada Kedavra," Tom repeated, and Llewellyn halted mid-sentence. Tom turned his burning eyes back to Thomas Riddle, whose face was blank with disbelief. "You can see my situation, Father," said Tom in a would-be casual voice, though he faltered slightly. "Alone in the world, left in the care of people who could give a damn if I lived or died. It couldn't get any worse, could it?" Tom had that evil smile on his face once more. "You know, I was beaten, Father." An odd shudder passed over his face, and he stopped smiling abruptly. "I'm sure you don't want to see the scars. I am the only living person who has ever seen them, and considering that you just ate dinner…" He trailed off. For an instant, all the evil left his eyes, and he looked just as vulnerable and lost as ever he had. He recovered himself quickly.

"It's all your fault, Father, that I even have these scars. If you had taken me in, or if you had overlooked Mum's talents, then my life would not have been miserable."

"No good ever comes of that magic nonsense!" Thomas squeaked. He was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest like a little boy.

Tom ignored this. He raised his wand again. "I want you to relive every second of the agony I was put through, Father. I want you to feel the pain I have felt, to suffer as I have. And then, Father, only then will you truly understand what you have done." Tom hesitated, chose to ignore the pleading voice in his head, then acted. "Crucio."

The screams of pain that filled the room were so noisy that Tom immediately performed a Blanketing Charm, lest someone in a nearby house hear them. He watched for what felt like hours, boiling hate rising in his throat. Finally, Tom removed the curse, though reluctantly. His father, panting and gasping, sprawled on the ground. "Tom," he rasped. "Tom, please--"

The hate in Tom's mind had risen to a fever pitch. He never wanted to hear the name Tom again, for everything belonging to the treacherous Muggle must be abandoned. "I'm not Tom anymore," he hissed. "I am Lord Voldemort, soon to be the greatest sorcerer the world has ever seen. You and your whole bloody race can burn in Hell for all I care, you hear me?"

"I'm sorry!" Thomas Riddle wailed, and Tom could tell, deep down, that he truly meant it. He had scrambled to his knees. "Please, Tom, I'm sorry! I'll do anything!"

This time, both sides of Tom's brain agreed on his next action. One thought it would be the merciful thing to do, the other thought he had finally given his father what he deserved. "Avada Kedavra," Tom whispered, his eyes like orange-red coals flaming in their sockets. Thomas collapsed, and Tom did, too. He had burst into hysterical tears, and was sobbing into his arms. "Dear God," Tom murmured. "Oh, Mummy, Mummy, what have I done?"

Tom's eyes, though very shiny with tears, had returned to their usual color, and his face was deathly pale. The cruel creature he had briefly become was now gone, and Tom suddenly completely realized what had transpired over the past twenty-four hours. He had performed two of the Unforgivable Curses repeatedly, had run away from home, had broken every major wizarding law in the book… and he was a murderer. A murderer, at the age of thirteen. Three people were dead at his hand, and, Muggles or no, Tom almost wished he had not done it. He looked down at his hand, which still had the wand clenched in it. The hand--and the wand--that had killed these people. How could he go on with life as usual, knowing that he was responsible for the deaths of three fellow humans?

Without really noticing what he was doing, Tom left the house once and for all. He made sure everything was as it should be, and locked the door magically behind him. Stepping out onto the porch, he shivered in the night air. This was not out of cold--on the contrary, the night was quite warm--but out of disbelief, out of misery. He struggled to remember the proper name for his crime. Patricide, was it? What an ugly word. Ugly word, ugly crime, he thought bitterly. He ran off the porch at top speed, his long black coat flying out behind him.

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