Chapter 15. Post-Factum

"If only I could, I would cry." A greasy drop of ink fell on the last word of the sentence, neatly written on the yellowed sheet, and slowly spread out in thin spider legs. There was a deep breath. A young man pressed his lips together so hard that they turned white in an instant. With a feebly visible movement, the blot formed a tiny blob that hovered over the page and then obediently sank back into the tin on the shabby wooden table. He carefully closed the black diary. Three golden words glittered in the bright sunlight: Tom Marvolo Riddle. A shadow of disgust and distaste slipped across his face. Unwilling to see the name, he flipped the diary over and took up the local paper.

There were other people on the summer terrace of a cozy little cafe in a village called Little Hangleton. They slowly sipped cold drinks and had small talk. Middle-aged men, obviously aristocrats, accompanied by similar ladies, were seated at the next table from Tom Riddle. By the way, he fit in perfectly, perhaps because of his appearance. At the age of sixteen, he was already distinguished by his well-built figure and dignified manners. His long fingers, his pale face with razor-sharp cheekbones, his black hair - literally everything about him shouted that he was unquestionably of noble birth.

Tom took a sip of cool green tea with melissa and turned the page of the newspaper, but the next moment something made him take his eyes from the utterly boring reading. He stared at a passing man and woman, who addressed each other by their first names, Mary and Thomas. Behind them was a man in his forties, and if you were careful, you could see an uncanny resemblance between him and Tom: the same tall, stately man with an insanely handsome, but cold face. All three of them were dressed to the nines.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Riddle!" said a passing gentleman.

"Good afternoon," Thomas Riddle answered, but his face showed no positive emotion. On the contrary, his smile seemed to distort his face. The young man, apparently his son, did not react at all. Even for the sake of decency he did not deign to drop a greeting, but rather arrogantly raised his head higher and walked past.

Tom followed their every movement carefully until they were out of sight. Then he took a sip of tea, picked up the black diary, and disappeared among the streets, leaving the paper and a couple of shillings on the little street table.

The summer turned out to be quite hot. The bright sun was so hot that most people preferred to stay at home, or carried sophisticated snow-white umbrellas with them. The village of Little Hangleton was located between two hills. It wasn't very popular, but, admittedly, the nature here was insanely beautiful.

In this smallest settlement was a large house with a garden. Built on a hill, it towered visibly over the village. The beautiful Riddle family mansion was the grandest building in the whole neighborhood. On the slope of the second hill was the exact opposite of the rich manor – an old, dilapidated house, with only one country road leading to it. Here too, though, nature had added its beautiful touches: honeysuckle and other shrubs grew densely along the roadside, filling every inch of the summer air with a pleasant fragrance.

The soft shuffling of footsteps was almost inaudible because of the light tread. And the road to the house must not have been used very often, so it was overgrown with grass. Tom stopped at the old, dilapidated gate. His cheeks bulged; there was no single sign of disgust on his handsome, stony face any more. He strode confidently to the entrance and knocked loudly, then pushed the door open. A musty, unpleasant smell wafted up his nose, and he had to stand still for a moment. Those seconds were enough time to realize that the small living room looked very untidy and poor.

"Who's here?" There was a husky, gruff voice. "Who's here?"

At the door leading to the next room appeared a stocky man of an average height. His clothes were shabby, and even seemed to be stiff with dirt. His hair was thick, but so tangled that one might think he had never washed or brushed it.

"Huh!" he snorted and grinned. That made it obvious he was missing a few teeth. The small dark eyes flickered from side to side. "It's you, filthy Riddle! Go back to your mansion! To your filthy Muggle parents!"

Tom watched in silent disgust as the impoverished relative, who led parasitic lifestyle, sputtered as he reprimanded the young man, mistaking him for Tom Riddle Sr.

"Hello," Tom finally said. "I'm looking for Marvolo Gaunt."

"Ah..." The man fell silent. He was confused when he heard the language of serpents. "I thought you were somebody else!" he blurted out and stared into the face of the young man who spoke Parseltongue fluently. It was obvious that the unexpected guest was not Tom Riddle. This man looked much younger, and was obviously a wizard, not a bloody Muggle.

"I'm looking for Marvolo," Tom said again.

"Ah, Marvolo!" the man cried out, coming closer. "Unfortunately, Marvolo passed away..."

The stocky figure was too close, and the unpleasant smell wafted right up the nose. A gag reflex came to the throat, but Tom just closed his eyes and reluctantly took a deep breath with his mouth.

"Who are you?" he asked the question and headed inside the small living room to the cherished chair so he could sit down and not smell sweat, dirt, and rotten teeth anymore.

"I'm Morfin Gaunt! Son of Marvolo," he boasted his name as if it were a royal title. "You know who we are, right?" Without waiting for an answer, Morfin immediately trumpeted, "Descendants of Salazar Slytherin!"

As if tasting this loud, self-aggrandizing statement, Gaunt smiled. In his dark, small eyes flashed a glimmer of narcissism, arrogance, and pride.

"Is there anyone else besides you?" Tom's voice sounded soothing as he spoke in Parseltongue.

With a slight wave of his hand, crumbs fell from the large, once dark maroon chair to the floor. Only then, with a graceful undoing the buttons of his black jacket, Tom sat down.

"I had a sister..." Morfin began to answer as his demon eyes darted behind the chair. "There you are!" he yelled angrily and darted forward.

Tom immediately followed uncle's movements and saw a small, dark brown snake slithering across the floor. Morfin grabbed it and began to shake it as hard as he could, squeezing the scaly body behind its mouth.

"Stupid, stupid snake! I'll find myself a new one!"

It was obvious that Morfin had not been taught kindness and friendship, not to Muggles or other wizards, but even to snakes. Disgust and irritation took hold of young Tom. Even he had never allowed himself to treat reptiles like that! A thud on the floor of an already dead snake. Morfin walked imposingly to the chair opposite and sat down, continuing his speech:

"My father was a wonderful man! He understood the importance of blood purity like no one else! It's a good thing I still have his ring..." Morfin drooped, his eyes filled with sadness, but the next moment he hissed angrily, "But that vile girl! My sister Merope... messed with that filthy Muggle! And I always told her there was nothing worse than…" Morfin's nervous chuckle echoed somewhere in Tom's chest. "…relationship with a Muggle! I cast a spell on him once, disfiguring his pretty face!" The room was filled with crazy, unpleasant laughter. It was obvious that uncle Morfin was out of his mind. He had not even asked a single question of the intruder, or specified who it was; and it was his nephew who sat in front of him. "Serves him right! She also pocketed a family heirloom... Salazar Slytherin's medallion... Fucking slut! She has dishonored me! Marvolo! The whole house of Gaunt!"

"Where do the Riddles live?" Tom asked a single question that had been tormenting him for the past few years, and felt excitement from anticipation of the desired answer.

"Their house is on the second hill, you can't confuse it with any other, there..."

"Stupefy!" Riddle blurted out, coldly and quite unexpectedly.

Morfin Gaunt froze in his chair. He stared at one point, for even his small, piglet-like eyes did not move. Tom stood up and straightened his jacket, shedding with a household spell any dust or dirt that might inadvertently stick to the fabric. Then he walked over to his uncle and squeamishly threw back the hem of his more ragged-looking jacket. Taking a dark wand from his inside pocket, he headed for the exit.

"I'm not done with you yet, uncle Morfin," he hissed softly in Parseltongue. The sound of his voice filled the room, and for a moment it sounded like snakes rustling across the floor.

Stopping at the very exit, he confidently cast a spell, "Accio ring!"

The shelf of the old chest of drawers abruptly jumped forward. A small object flew out, rushing into Tom's palm.

☾

July was in full swing, and, as befits nature itself, it got dark late. The beautiful moon hung over the rich mansion. The coolness of the night was mercifully pleasant. It cooled the fervor of a sunny day. The smell of mown grass was in the air. The lights were out, and the gardener Frank was sleeping soundly in his cottage in the backyard, because he had been cutting the lawns around the perimeter of the garden all day. However, thirst made him wake up. Greedily swallowing cold water, he involuntarily looked out the window and noticed the young owner of the estate. Strange, what was he doing out so late? But, of course, it was none of his business, so he slumped back into his cozy bed and promptly fell asleep.

Meanwhile, the man Frank had noticed was approaching the gate. His movements were smooth, noiseless. One would have thought that he was hovering above the ground. Once at the gate, he froze, and something flashed in his hand.

"Alohomora!"

The gate obediently opened, and Tom Riddle continued to move confidently along the cobblestone road to the main entrance.

Crickets chirped monotonously, and somewhere in the forest that stretched behind the house, a bird sang continuously, singly, but beautifully.

"Alohomora!" Tom repeated, and his gloomy silhouette was swallowed up by the darkness of the sleeping house.

Tom looked around. The living room was huge. Straight ahead were the stairs that led to the upper floors. The house was perfectly clean, and the air in the hall was thick with the tart scent of black roses and jasmine. This smell stirred up a vague memory of incomprehensible feelings from childhood. Tom shook his head as if to fend off an annoying fly, and then headed for the stairs. He walked silently up the steps, his palm sliding along the banister. On the second floor he confidently turned to the left. His whole being tensed in agonizing expectation: now, in a few moments, the thing he had longed for would happen; the thing he had thought about day after day, exhausting his mind with anxious anticipation.

Tom confidently pushed open the big oak door. The bedroom was quite spacious. The moonlight fell on a shelving unit with countless books. In the middle of the room there was a bed on which a man and a woman of about sixty were sleeping. Tom confidently went inside and sat down on a chair that stood by the window, opposite the bed.

They slept in perfect comfort and affluence. While he, once very young Tom, lived every day hoping that his father would show up on the doorstep of the Wool's orphanage and take him away.

Uncle Morfin had sunk to a new low. Mother abandoned, choosing a miserable death over fighting for life. Grandfather is gone. The great heirs of Salazar had squandered their greatness, keeping the ancient magical gifts in their blood, but that was it. Tom flashed back to the poor, unkempt decorations of the living room in the Gaunt house. His cheekbones tensed, betraying the bitterness of disappointment, but above this disgusting aftertaste of meeting his uncle was the Muggle Riddle family. Mixed feelings consumed the mind: they had everything to give a perfect childhood, but they were only filthy Muggles.

On the scales were great blood, slumped to a miserable existence, and ideal conditions, but with the namelessness of a Muggle family in the magical world.

Tom had always known he was special, and the proof was now undeniable. Gently stroking the simple black stone on the gold ring that fit perfectly, Tom grimaced in disgust at the thought: but be named after a Muggle father? His fingers trembled, gripping the handle of the chair with force. The desire to grab the marble statue from the shelf and just smash the heads of those hypocritical creatures sleeping sweetly in their bed flashed like a bright lightning before his eyes.

Destroy, cut out everything that connect with the Muggle family even an iota. Salazar Slytherin was the greatest and most worthy wizard of all time, and he knew better than anyone what was best for the wizarding family. And Tom would follow those ideals.

Taking a deep breath, Mary rolled over on her side to the window. She opened her eyes, waking up from a deep, restful sleep.

"Tom?" she asked in surprise and squinted, peering at the silhouette sitting in the chair. "Son, what happened?"

When she got no answer, she fumbled, threw back the blanket, and then got out of bed. She went to the chair, which was flooded with moonlight, causing her son's face to be obscured by shadows. The white nightgown fluttered with her light movements.

"Son, are you sick? Why are you silent?" Mary was worried and came even closer. She suddenly froze in horror and barely whispered, "Who are you?"

"Hello, Grandma," Tom said, and slowly rose from his chair.

His grim figure grew taller and taller, making feel threatening and helpless.

"I-i-it can't be!.." Mary barely uttered and backed away in fright.

"What? Didn't your favorite son tell you he has a son, too?"

Tom was looming as a black substance. He was only human, but it seemed like it was ready to swallow the poor old woman at any moment.

"Thomas!" Mary cried out in terror.

Her husband, who had been sleeping soundly all this time, stirred in bed and was up the next moment.

"What's going on? Tom, what happened?" Thomas sounded cheerful, even though he had just woken up.

"That's not Tom!" Mary shouted.

Thomas lunged at the intruder.

"Why don't you greet me first, huh? Grandfather?" Tom hissed, and ducked away deftly.

Thomas froze, watching the young man's face with horror.

"That vile beggar," Thomas muttered maliciously, realizing that the young man opposite looked insanely like his own son.

It meant only one thing: he was not an impostor, but really a grandson. There would be no need to make a fuss, or the whole family would be at a disadvantage because of the newly minted offspring.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

A wave of a dark wand, which Tom quietly took out of the inner pocket of his jacket. Mary and Thomas Riddle froze like stone statues and immediately collapsed to the floor. There was the sound of hurried, approaching footsteps in the corridor.

"Mother, Father? What's going on?" There was a ringing voice that echoed inside Tom.

The man he had longed to see for so many years appeared in the doorway.

Seeing his parents immobile on the floor, Tom Riddle Sr. turned on the intruder.

"What have you done? Who are you?"

"They're fine. So far," Tom replied coldly. "Incarcerous!"

Tom Riddle Sr. collapsed to the floor, tied with invisible ropes that squeezed his legs and arms.

"What have you done to my parents, you bastard!"

"Oh. Bad manners!" Tom said theatrically. "I thought you'd been taught good manners... Father."

Cold, repulsive laughter filled the room. With this laugh, Riddle Sr. seemed to spit in Tom's face.

"Ah, that's it... The beggar's son has come to my house!" Riddle Sr., lying on the floor, unable to move, stared haughtily at his towering son. "What are you trying to accomplish by sneaking into my house in the middle of the night? To get money out of me, like your ragamuffin mother once did? I'll tell you a secret: I never loved that ugly-looking thing! She tricked me. It wasn't my decision. You are not my decision. You're a mistake. That's why I never cared about you, you know?"

Young Tom tightened his grip on the wand, which was the only thing that showed his inner tension. Outwardly, he remained unwavering. But inside... There was such hatred and anger inside! And the worst, the most heartbreaking thing about it all was the helplessness and resentment.

"You left Merope when she was pregnant with me. You didn't give her anything. You just ran off to your Muggle parents," Tom hissed. "Like some pathetic coward."

"I don't give a damn. Call me whatever you want! I never, do you hear? I never loved your mother. That little wretch tricked me. She was a witch."

Tom could no longer listen to the insults from the arrogant Muggle against his mother, who was Salazar's heir. He slowly pointed his wand forward. Yes, that's exactly what he would do, as a wizard, not as a Muggle. That way he would prove his superiority and put the father in his place.

"Crucio," he spat viciously.

Riddle Sr. convulsed. Pain. The infernal pain was so terrible that it felt like someone was breaking his bones from the inside. An eerie scream filled the room. But these sounds were sweet music for Tom. He only smirked faintly and waved his palm — a fireball hovered under the ceiling.

There was fear in Thomas Riddle's eyes, but he, like his wife Mary, laid perfectly still on the floor and just watched. If only he could... If only he could find the strength, he would immediately jump to his feet and strangle this black sheep with his own hands, who was not worthy of bearing the status of a grandson.

Tears were rolling down Mary's cheek.

"What, Mary? Do you love your son so much that you cry at the sight of his torment?" Tom chuckled. "It's a pity he doesn't have this quality. As we just found out, he doesn't care about his own son. It has always been so. There's no way I'm going to believe that you didn't know about me... So how true is your feeling of love?

Tom bent over the two bodies.

"Finite Incantatem."

The serenity in his voice seemed something savage, contrary to anything human. With what equanimity he waved his wand, talked and tortured... He even seemed to be enjoying himself! But the irony was that it didn't seem at all. He really enjoyed everything that was happening.

Surprisingly, Mary and Thomas felt relieved after the spell, though they prepared mentally for something terrible. They couldn't get up as quickly as they wanted, because their limbs were numb.

"Please..." Mary whispered, crawling on her knees to her grandson. She clutched at one leg and continued to beg, "Leave my son."

"As you wish!" Tom shrugged his shoulders.

Riddle Sr. stopped writhing with pain. He rolled over on his side exhausted and groaned softly, "Don't touch my parents. Just get out of here. You're just like her, you disgusting freak..."

Tom was silent, and the hatred he'd accumulated over the years was tearing his chest with tenacious claws, wanting to break free at last.

"You love your parents so much," Tom said. An unhealthy smile flashed across his pale face. "One problem... Father. I don't know what it is, because there was no one to teach me. So... I don't care."

"Are you taking revenge for your bad mother, the witch, who tricked me into marrying her? But then I realized. I knew she was crazy. And you are the same."

"Oh, yes. I am the same. I'm the great one," Tom whispered, and then he leaned over his father's body. "And you, you bloody Muggle, you were never worthy of her, you know? You are the filth and stench that stained my blood."

Tom turned abruptly to Mary and Thomas. A moment of greatness, power and superiority over one who humiliated before birth. This sweet moment of justice.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A green flash lit up the room.

"Avada Kedavra!"

An emerald-colored lightning burst out from the dark magic wand for the second time.

Tom Riddle, savoring the moment, turned to his father, whose face was frozen in horror. After a moment, their eyes met, and Tom grinned.

"See you never, Father."

A green lightning flashed brightly in the left window of the second floor. After a while, the front door swung open, and sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle came out on the threshold. He was in no hurry. Inhaling deeply, he held his breath, and then slowly exhaled. In the reflection of the moonlit night, just for a moment, there was a red glim in his eyes.

Who knows, maybe it was just a trick of the light. There was a loud bang, and there was no one in the place where Tom Riddle had been standing.

☾

The Gaunt family's dilapidated house looked even more gloomy in the night. Tom Riddle hurried up the steps, confidently opened the door and disappeared into the depths of the mansion. Uncle Morfin was still sitting motionless in an armchair in the small, dirty living room.

"Legilimens!" Tom shouted as he walked, getting into uncle's mind.

The temptation was too strong. Back to the past along the path of memories.

Tom saw images of a timid dark-haired girl of the most inconspicuous appearance. It was Merope. Morfin mocked her, sarcastically ridiculing her feelings. When he saw her staring at Tom Riddle as he passed by, he put a curse on him.

The next moment, the picture changed: a man, apparently Marvolo, was kicking her and mocking her as she hesitantly held a ladle over a cauldron in which a dark brew was bubbling. Merope shuddered and turned over the potion and got a slap from her father.

Morfin got an owl from the Ministry of Magic for using a spell against the muggle. Arrogantly marching to the old fireplace, he defiantly burned the letter.

Morfin received a message with an owl from the Ministry of Magic for using a spell against a Muggle. He strode arrogantly to the old fireplace and defiantly burned the letter.

Then a representative of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Bob Ogden, appeared on the doorstep of the shack. Marvolo and Morfin, perfectly proficient in magic, gave him a vile "reception", not wanting to give up just like that. The obscurantists were forced to intervene in the case. Both Gaunt, both father and son, received different terms of imprisonment in Azkaban.

Then a representative of the magic organization, Bob Ogden, appeared on the doorstep of the shack. Marvolo and Morfin, perfectly proficient in magic, gave him a vile "reception", not wanting to give up just like that. The Aurors had to intervene in the case. Both Gaunts, father and son, received different terms of imprisonment in Azkaban.

Turning everything inside out, Tom froze for a moment. What a shame! Merope was nothing special. She had only her last name... And if he could somehow come to terms with the fact that she was inept at magic, the fact that she was shamefully weak and actually abandoned him was infuriating.

Tom sighed heavily, and then began to erase himself from the uncle's memory. Afterward, he created a false one about the Riddle family's murder, to deflect suspicion from himself, and returned the wand to the inside pocket of Morfin's jacket.

"Sleep."

The paralyzing spell immediately receded, and Morfin fell into a deep sleep.

"It's a mercy," Tom whispered softly as he left the house, casting one last glance at his only blood relative.

☾

The next day, in the summer of 1943, law enforcement from the magical world appeared on the threshold of the Gaunt house. Morfin's wand was a proof of the use of the Unforgivable Curse against the Muggle, for whose attack he had already been convicted once before.

Morfin Gaunt was sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban for the murder of Tom Riddle and his parents. For the rest of his life, he was firmly convinced of his own guilt.