Patricide Is Like Falling In Love (tom Riddle, Probably)

patricide is like falling in love (tom riddle, probably)

~inspired by a moodboard thing I saw on here where TMR says murder is like falling in love~

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

“You are my son,” Tom Riddle chokes out, his gaze roving helplessly over his dead parents’ bodies as he clutches a crucifix, dangling from a small silver chain. 

His voice is wrecked from the pain.

Weak. 

“I made you. You’re a monster.”

Tom laughs. “No one made me, father. I made me.” He feels his head tilt, his eyes focus. “You’re sixteen years too late to claim me, now. You left me. I came for you. You see?”

“Your mother bewitched me!”

“That may be so,” says Tom, twirling Morfin’s wand and laughing as his father shrinks back. “She’s dead. Died giving birth to me. In Wool’s Orphanage, London. My poor, dead mother stumbled into the orphanage, weak and starving on the coldest night of the year. They couldn’t stop the bleeding or the fever, and she only lived long enough to name me.”

“I’m sorry,” says his father, though Tom doesn’t want his pity. He hates pity. He hates his pathetic, neglectful, sobbing father.

How could two weak people produce him?

“This is wrong, Tom!”

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Shakespeare.” Tom points his wand at the battered copy of Hamlet on the bookshelf, laughing. It catches on fire.

“What do you want?” He sounds tired.

“Nothing much, father,” says Tom sweetly. His father, who left him, like everyone else. His father will never read him a bedtime story or wipe the sweat away from his face when he is sick or hold him when he is sad. (Not that he needs any of those things — he doesn’t.)

His father is the reason he is broken. Broken from birth.

It doesn’t matter, because Tom is something better than human now. (There is only power.)

“Daddy,” he says, like a small child. He has never said the word before, and it rolls off of his tongue with surprising difficulty — the agile tongue that pronounces Parseltongue, Latin and Arabic spells, and Ogham runic chants with ease. “Why did you leave me?”

“She bewitched me — she lied to me, you don’t understand how violated—“

“I want to see the light leave your eyes,” whispers Tom, in a tone that befits a love confession more than a death threat. “I hate you.”

“I grieve for your soul,” says his father, trembling with fear. “Repent, demon. Show some remorse, for your own sake!”

But Tom doesn’t intend to meet judgment. Tom intends to live forever.

He is burning, burning, he has never burned like this, he is so full of exquisite hatred that aches so good, and all Tom has to do is to let it all go.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Now, Tom is sitting on the floor in the Riddles’ dining room. He is running his fingers through his dead father’s hair, handsome, just like him, admiring his frozen, horrified expression. 

Tom sits in his grandfather’s chair and cradles his dead father, like the Pietà, with two more dead bodies strewn at his feet. His head tilts gracefully down, mimicking the Virgin Mary’s silent compassion and suffering, but feeling none of it. Tom Riddle is gone. He is dead. Tom lays his head on his father’s chest, but there is no more heartbeat, no more breath.

His brown eyes, just like his son’s, blown wide with fear. Lips parted in surrender. 

He leans forward and kisses his father’s forehead sweetly, presses two chaste, cold lips to still-warm skin, like a priest’s blessing. 

The twilight sky is darkening, turning dark violet like ink has spilled on it.

It is beautiful. It is perfect, yet the despair is not gone. His heart still beats with anguish, and Tom Riddle is left more broken than ever and aching for more.

It is like falling in love.

He knelt down to inspect a staring glass eye, then a desiccated finger, curling his toes against the coins concealed in his shoes.

“Can I help you?” called a gruff voice.

Tom straightened up, turning to face the shopkeeper, and adopting the mask of innocence that he used on every adult he wished to placate.

“No, sir. Just looking around. You must be Mr. Burke? Or Mr. Borgin?”

He added a charming smile for good measure.

The shopkeeper looked at Tom strangely.

“You don’t happen to know a Tom Riddle, do you?”

Internally, Tom panicked, his hand tightening on the wand concealed inside his sleeve. How could he know my name? Why did I come here? How could I have been so careless? Everyone must know that Lord Voldemort used to be Tom Riddle, and he’s certainly old enough to know.

“Sorry?” he managed to stammer. Perhaps, he could lie his way out of this.

“Worked here for near enough fifteen years, as soon as he left Hogwarts. Always came to work on time, gifted at handling customers, never missed a day — damn good employee. Then just up and left one day. No trace of him. Apartment empty, no notice. And you,” the shopkeeper shook a finger at Tom, “you look exactly like him. It’s remarkable. He must be nearly in his seventies, by now… You could be his nephew, perhaps? But he never did mention any siblings… son, maybe?”

“Sorry?” Tom repeated, shocked out of his wits. So, he had graduated from Hogwarts, then not only taken a job as an assistant at Borgin and Burkes, but he’d stayed there for nearly fifteen years! Had the Horcrux creation damaged his brain as well as his soul?

Good God, no wonder the entire world domination plan had gone tits-up!

“No relation, then?” the shopkeeper continued, looking disappointed. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Term’s just finished,” said Tom, still uneasy and suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was wearing school robes cut in the style of fifty years ago. The shopkeeper, however, seemed satisfied with their discussion and began to putter around the shop.

“What’s your name?” asked the shopkeeper, looking greedy.

“Tom,” he said without thinking, then instantly cursed himself for doing so.

It was probably the first time in his life that Tom had ever been thankful for having such a common name. The shopkeeper barely batted an eyelid at the coincidence.

“Year?” the shopkeeper barked, clearly trying to recruit him.

Well, leading him on couldn’t hurt. Especially if the man had known him for fifteen years — Tom might be able to get some information out of him.

“Just finished fifth year, sir. Look, Mister?“ He smiled charmingly up at the shopkeeper, stroking the rough fibers of a hangman’s rope.

“Borgin.”

“Ah. Mr. Borgin, you haven’t happened to have any unusual sales, say, last August? Perhaps, a small book — a diary?”

Tom shuddered as he remembered his prison. (He was awake in the diary like the dead in their coffins.) He could still feel the layers of loneliness clinging to his skin, seeping through his ribcage and filling his chest with emptiness.

Tom was going to be sick; he felt his throat and stomach squeezing involuntarily, but he couldn’t. Show no weakness.

Look, color. Long ago, the griminess of the shop might have disgusted him, but all Tom could do was delight in the muddy browns and inky blacks of his surroundings.

He could smell the greasiness of Borgin’s hair. He could feel the weight of his clothes against his skin. He could hear Borgin clearing his throat. He was alive. He was free. It was going to be okay.

“I take customer privacy very seriously, Mister?”

Tom only barely managed to stop himself from saying “Riddle.”

“Gaunt,” he offered, still smiling at Borgin (loathsome git). Tom bent down, retrieving a few coins from his shoe.

“What price is your processing fee?” asked Tom.

Borgin’s beady eyes sparkled with greed. “Six Galleons,” he said.

Six Galleons! Tom did the conversion quickly in his head. That had to be the equivalent of at least fifty pounds — but, ah, inflation. Tom hadn’t though of that. Six Galleons was probably about five pounds or so, but even that was exorbitant in his opinion.

“All right,” he said finally, bending down again to retrieve six fat, golden coins.

“So, who,” asked Tom, as Borgin counted the money, “bought the diary, sir?”

Borgin shook his head. “No one, Mr. Gaunt. I attempted to purchase it from a certain Lucius Malfoy.”

Malfoy. Tom shut his eyes reflexively, trying to quell the unbidden spike of fury. So the bastard had a son. But how did he get hold of an object containing part of my soul?

I bet he stole it from me. I bet he’s working against me.

“You must be familiar with his son, Draco. He’s a second-year at Hogwarts.”

Tom smiled so hard that his cheeks hurt. “Of course,” he lied. “The diary?”

“Ah, yes. Mister Malfoy refused to sell it to me; he’d come in to sell off some poisons and such before the Ministry started poking around. I was interested it its magical qualities, of course — felt very powerful, had clearly been enchanted by a truly skilled witch or wizard.”

“And?” pressed Tom. He’d wasted six Galleons on this?

“That’s all,” said Borgin, shaking his head. “Were you interested in its purchase?”

No! thought Tom. Thank God it’s destroyed, because I never want to see it again. The sight of it… the thought of it makes me sick.

But he simply smiled as he prepared to sweep out of the shop, nodded at Borgin, and said: “It’s personal.”

Where am I going to live, Tom wondered, as he wandered through Knockturn Alley. Borgin mentioned apartments… but even if I managed to convince the landlord that I’m of age, I’d need a job to pay my rent, I’d need official papers…

Tom stopped short, nearly colliding with a woman selling cursed wooden fishes, and laughed.

Of course. Gaunt. That was where he had been planning to go after the school year was over, anyway. He even still had the address, written on a fifty-year old scrap of parchment, tucked into the pocket of his robes.

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

Chapter One: The Tragedy of Tom Riddle

June, 1943

The cry of the jackal was high and mournful as it regarded the lone boy standing in the courtyard. Smoke trailed from the fingers of his left hand.

Tom lifted the lit cigarette to his mouth, closed his eyes, and winced. The sound was penetrating. He exhaled bitter smoke, looking around surreptitiously. The last thing he needed was Mulciber or Avery, or worse yet, a professor, coming around the corner.

He did not relish the thought of having to explain a nicotine addiction at this present moment (or any moment at all), because that would require explaining the Blitz, too, and Merlin knows these morons were oblivious to the world war that was currently going on. Pureblood society wouldn’t stoop to concerning itself with Muggle politics even if the bombs were exploding over the heads of the entire Sacred Twenty-Eight.

On second thought, he’d quite like to see a bomb exploding over the idiots’ heads.

At any rate, he had to be careful. Especially considering what he was intending to do later today. He already had an inordinate amount of detentions with Dumbledore — Professor of Transfiguration and the only person Tom considered a serious threat to his plans — as it were, and unfortunately only a finite amount of patience. 

Undoubtedly, this week’s session would involve advice on how to make friends, and questions as to why he liked to spend so much time alone.

He had to tutor that ditzy Gryffindor girl again today after he finished that extra assignment for Slughorn, and then he had patrol duty tonight with that irritating Ravenclaw git he’d been paired with — oh, fuck it all.

That and the essay for Merrythought — how could he have forgotten? He had an eighty-inch final paper due in Defense Against the Dark Arts on Friday, and he hadn’t even started it yet.

Even assuming he got through this behemoth of a week and everything went smoothly with the Horcrux, there were still his O.W.L. exams to worry about...

Continue reading at FFN | AO3!

Excerpt #1 (here goes?)

“Be patient,” said Tom, tilting his head. He thought that he heard the faint slip of scales on stone. In Parseltongue, he called out, Hello?  There is s-sssomething hidden, was the collective answer. Hidden in these walls, there you will find the truth you s-ssseek, speaker. He flashed the light across the cave once more. “Is that blood?” Tom went towards the rock that had caught his eye, and knelt. He reached out to brush the copper spots, holding his wand close to illuminate them. Yesssss. “What would we need blood for?” asked Ruby, stepping closer and kneeling to take a look at the rock. “Payment,” said Tom slowly. To the snakes, he asked, “Is that right?” Yesssss.

Read from the beginning at this link!

Year One: Pawns, Rooks, and Queens

Tom Riddle is awake inside the diary.

Lily and James Potter had another child.

Two mistakes, dire consequences. To begin with, Vernon Dursley is dead.

On the bright side, Harry Potter is a wizard. On the not-so-bright side, the man who murdered his parents is after him, and there are strange shadows following him around.

On the bright side, no one found out that Ruby Potter killed Vernon Dursley. On the not-so-bright side, the Slytherins are doing their best to make her life miserable.

On the bright side, Tom Riddle is a gifted sorcerer with a promising future in magical politics. On the not-so-bright side, purebloods are bigots, and World War II has just begun.

Year One officially begins at Chapter Six. Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

Chapter Three: Red Death, White Torture

Perhaps, Tom should have felt comforted, as the nurse patted his arm and smiled sympathetically; but all that he could focus on was the fluttering curtain. Now he could see Death, as the sounds of crying and sniffling dulled around him, as the room seemed to darken with the Reaper's presence (if he hadn't been so scared, Tom would have noticed that the sun had only gone behind the clouds).

Comfort wasn't something Tom needed. He'd never been afraid of monsters before; never shirked from dark corners or shadows dancing across the walls or shapes cowering under the bed. He liked spiders. Sometimes, he would let them crawl on him, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could make the spiders play dead or roll over on their backs.

Billy Stubbs had called him a monster once, when they'd argued. The next morning, Tom had gotten up before anyone else, while it was still dark outside, taken the rabbit that Billy was so fond of, a silly, white fluffy thing, up to the attic, and hung it.

He hadn't been intending to. Tom hadn't sat there and planned it. He just had to do it. In fact, he hardly knew what he was doing as he climbed up the rafters, the warm, fuzzy rabbit struggling in his hand, its heartbeat quick and frenzied against his palm. Nor did he know how to make a noose. No one taught him.

All he could think was punish Billy, he was mean to me, how dare he, I'm special. Tug. Loop. Knot. He had gripped the rafter between his knees, hard enough to leave welts, but it was worth it as he felt the rabbit stop struggling in the noose. Billy deserved it.

But as the fury burned out, he was sitting cross-legged and looking up at Billy Stubb's rabbit, its stupid ears drooping as it spun slowly, the grey twine knotted around its neck, as the room filled with morning light.

There was a black curtain in the attic too, fluttering against the window. The dead rabbit had been fascinating, and Tom had wanted to keep it in the box in his wardrobe, where he kept all of his secret toys. But it wouldn't fit, and it would stink. Dead things smelled. So, he left the rabbit, shutting the door and creeping back into bed, unable to sleep as he waited with glee for Billy's reaction.

"Well, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"

Tom remembered staring unrepentantly back up at Mrs. Cole, his face a mask of feigned confusion, but internally singing, he got what he deserved, stupid Billy, stupid rabbit. And Billy's crying; that had been music to his ears.

"No, ma'am. I don't see how I could have gotten up there, ma'am."

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!