Chapter 22
November 25th, 1943
Hope
Adding some lemonade to my tea, I sit and happily drink it while Dumbledore looks on in disgust. Since the drink hasn’t been invented yet, if at all in this world, I let the old man have his opinions. His office is as lovely as ever, but my mind keeps returning to the answers I got out of Malfoy. At least I know that he reported my answers back to Riddle, unfortunately that is the only thing I’m sure of anymore.
But, I don’t need to think about him right now. When I got back to Ravenclaw Tower last night, Mary and Anthony demanded every detail I was able to share with them. Both were happy to find out that Malfoy genuinely wasn’t courting me, and even more happy when I showed them all the goodies he paid for. Naturally, I made sure to pick out some of their favorite treats. If Malfoy was going to pay for as much as I wanted, then I figured it would be okay if I shared the spoils.
Taking another sip of my Arnold Palmer, I almost choke on a laugh as Dumbledore shoots me another judgmental look. “You should try it, in my world this is a very popular drink. Maybe it’ll be your new favorite beverage, could change your life if you give it a chance.”
“I am quite content with my life as it is, Miss Mikaelson,” he says, his tone laced with humor. “Although, there is one thing I would like to change, now that you mention it.”
Turning a suspicious eye on the sneaky man, I hesitantly ask, “And what might that be?”
The cheerful smile lighting his face makes me nervous, “You have so much background knowledge on me, yet I’m still unsure of what a nice Yule present might be for you. Won’t you share something of substance you like or enjoy?”
“Oh, that’s completely unnecessary! We’ve talked about this, you’re giving me enough,” I say, waving off his light concern. He’s bought me nearly everything I own in this world, gives me pocket change regularly, and still keeps trying to do more.
“Only, you are now my niece in every sense of the word that matters,” he tuts like only a teacher could. “I’m perfectly aware that jewelry or clothes would likely result in you balking or returning the items due to cost. However, beyond cooking and magic, you have not shared one interest with me. Let an old man spoil the only woman in life, yes?”
The dubious expression I give him feels well deserved, and I almost mention my hunch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Dumbledore was not-so-subtly hinting at his dead sister. Who is currently looking at me from her portrait like I’m fighting a losing battle. Although, calling someone out on using a dead family member against on you always ends up sounding distasteful. My real question is; why is he trying to butter me up?
Sure, Christmas is around the corner, a holiday that does include a gift exchange. Which he’s already said is his favorite holiday, when he dressed up in Yule attire for Halloween…Okay, I can concede that I might be paranoid in this instance. Perhaps this time, Dumbledore isn’t metaphorically raising a pig for slaughter. At least, not without my consent.
After a sigh, I set my tea down and look at Dumbledore head on, “Alright, I guess painting supplies would be nice. Although nothing crazy, I don’t need you booking me a magical portrait teacher or anything like that.”
Dumbledore nods thoughtfully, his gaze softening, “Painting supplies, a fine choice. I will do my best to abide by your wishes, however I believe this is a worth while endeavor, and would love to see what you might create. Art is a unique expression of the soul, don’t you think? It provides clarity, even in the most tumultuous of times.”
Raising an eyebrow, I reply, “I suppose. But, it’s really just a hobby, something I do to relax or clear my mind.”
“Perhaps,” he says, smiling as he lifts his teacup. “And yet, some hobbies have a way of revealing truths we might otherwise overlook. I find it fascinating how people’s pastimes often reflect their inner worlds.”
Taking a sip of my drink, I wonder what exactly he’s getting at. Nearly every conversation we have has double meanings, and I’m not entirely sure I want to know what he has up his sleeve.
Knowing that Dumbledore is mischievous is one thing, but I have enough on my plate without worrying about what he might do. Thank the heavens for Anthony, the only man in my life that I don’t have to decipher every sentence that comes out of his mouth.
“Do you always turn casual teas into philosophical conversations?” I ask with good humored skepticism.
“Only when the company is as stimulating as yours,” he replies, his tone light. A beat of silence passes before he continues, his gaze fixed on me. “And how is young Mr. Malfoy? I understand you’ve been invited to the family estate while I am in America.”
Well, I guess I should be happy that he’s getting to his point. Although, the timing of this conversation is awfully interesting.
Suppressing an eye roll, I grumble, “He’s as well as ever, I’d imagine. But, Malfoy Sr. is who invited me over for the holiday, apparently here it’s frowned upon to decline an official invitation from someone like him.”
A light chuckle escapes him, “Yes, our world has retained some outdated practices. Once, the Malfoy’s were regarded with the same respect that a Duke might in the muggle world. Although the Council of Wizards was disbanded centuries ago, the importance they accredited to certain families has carried on to the present.”
“Of course,” I mutter, shaking my head at my luck. “Is there a socially acceptable way for me to let them know that I have no interest in becoming a Malfoy?”
Abraxas already admitted that this is what his parents want, despite it being a terrible idea. Worst case scenario, I could let them know that my blood line is cursed. Telling a very powerful man that I’m a werewolf isn’t smart, but I don’t have to share every detail. Although, I might need to threaten Abraxas to make sure he doesn’t tell his parents what exactly I am.
“No, I suppose there is not. However, after yesterday I am unsure whether Malfoy Sr. will believe a lack of interest is the cause,” Dumbledore tells me with a pointed look.
This time, I do roll my eyes, “Please, I went to Hogsmeade with Abraxas as a favor. You’re the one that suggested I be friendly with them, or whatever. Now, are you saying that you have a problem with it?”
Dumbledore’s gaze doesn’t waver, though his smile softens. “I am simply curious, Hope. My suggestion was for you to understand them better, not to be swept into their world unawares. The Malfoys, for all their charms, are not without their… expectations. Or their scheming, for that matter.”
“Expectations?” I echo, trying hard not to glare at my ‘Uncle.’
He takes a leisurely sip of his tea before continuing, his tone mild. “Armond Malfoy is a man who sees relationships as investments, particularly when it comes to matters of legacy. He is not the sort to invite someone to his estate without a great deal of thought—and purpose.”
Taking a sigh of relief, I lean against the back of my chair. I’m already prepared for that, but what a round about way of getting to this point, “Oh, that? Yeah, Abraxas already confirmed my suspicion about that. I’m perfectly aware that they want my magical abilities to join their bloodline, I’ve actually been thinking of ways I can convince of the opposite. Do you have any real advice, or are you just going to keep hinting towards danger?”
His smile sharpens, just a touch. “Advice? Very well. Tread carefully, Hope. The Malfoys are masters of veiled intentions. Armond may seem gracious, but his motives often extend beyond the surface. And while young Abraxas may appear… agreeable, I doubt he’s entirely free of his father’s influence.”
I cross my arms, feeling a sudden urge to defend Abraxas despite myself. But, I stop to think about his words. No matter how honest with me Malfoy was yesterday, it still served his purposes.
He found out just as much about me as I did about them. Telling me about the pressure his father has been putting on him, once again, got me to help him out. For all I know, he could be using the modicum of goodwill I feel for him against me. Feeling a bit like a sucker, I glare at my tea cup.
“So, what do I do? Because my instinct is to avoid Malfoy like the plague now, but something tells me that would go against whatever it is you’re trying to get me to do,” I ask exasperated.
With a small sigh, Dumbledore tells me in a soothing voice, “What I want is for you to live the best life you can. I cannot say that becoming a Malfoy will result in the quiet life you want, especially given the interest his housemates have shown you. If I may offer you one more piece of advice today, might I suggest taking a page from the Slytherin book?”
Giving him a dubious expression, I don’t even let my mind cycle through the many things he could mean. There are too many traits to sort through, too many stereotypes for me to figure out the answer to this riddle.
After staring Dumbledore down for a while, he chuckles before continuing, “Divide and conquer, Hope. Divide and conquer.”
***************
Hope
Opening the door in front of me, I finally let my shoulders relax at the familiar sight. Without the patience to go back to Ravenclaw Tower, I find myself back in the Salvatore Boarding School living room. Well, Hogwart’s recreation of it, at least.
My tea time with Dumbledore left me with zero patience and a headache. Not the state I should be when walking into a room likely containing at least one persistent suitor. I try my best not to snap at the boys in my house, but right now I don’t think I could help myself.
My Arnold Palmer was delicious, but I pour myself something a lot stronger. Moving to a couch, I lay down, placing my drink on the floor near my head. Everything is so complicated, and I don’t understand why just one thing cannot be simple. Knowing that Malfoy Sr. wants me to marry his son is nice, understanding a person’s motive is half the battle.
But, for a brief moment, I almost found myself trusting Abraxas thanks to an afternoon of honesty. How silly, especially given what he told me about Riddle’s intentions. That might be his truth, but thinking that baby Voldemort has anywhere near good intentions for me is comical.
Learning that Dolohov is holding a grudge from the first week of school is interesting, though. Which is ironic since there’s no way that he asked me to duel with him of his own volition. After Malfoy insisted on me being his Potion’s partner, they really must have thought I was stupid.
It’s not even like I kicked his ass, just made him dance a little. Everyone forgot about it after a day or two, surely that isn’t the worst thing to have happened to him? Although, being a Pureblood, maybe it is. I’m sure that Dolohov has inflicted worse, but that probably doesn’t matter to him.
Hearing the door open, I sit up quickly, prepared for a fight. Seeing Tom Riddle enter the room, I can’t say that I’m shocked. Learning that simply wanting to be alone isn’t enough for the room to lock others out is annoying, but if anyone was going to find a way in, it would be him.
“This is the space that you showed Malfoy,” he states simply.
Turning away from him, I go back to laying down before telling him, “It is, now feel free to leave me alone. I’m not in the mood for more cryptic bullshit.”
Riddle chuckles as I hear him stepping further into the room. I merely groan before taking a deep sip of my drink. The burn of the alcohol helps my irritation a bit, taking most of the edge off listening to Riddle explore the space.
He leaves me be for a while, scouring the room, checking out the books, likely looking for anything magical from my world. He doesn’t know that I have plenty of grimoires stored in my bracelet, I have no need for the Room of Requirement to summon any. From what I’ve seen, they’re mostly novels or textbooks that I’ve read. Nothing of any real importance.
When he eventually sits on the couch opposite me, I spare him a fleeting glance before turning to the ceiling. “You’re a vampire.”
Closing my eyes, I let a small smile sprout, “Not yet I’m not.”
I hear him shift, and then his voice sounds slightly closer to me, “Are vampires as different as werewolves are in your world?”
Sighing, I sit up and glare at the man, “What part of ‘I’m not in the mood,’ did you not get?”
“I’m not being cryptic,” he tells me with an eye roll, his elbows resting on his knees. “You said nothing about plainly asking for what I want to know.”
That makes me laugh, catching me on a technicality isn’t making my patience grow. Knowing that Voldemort was obsessed with never dying, given his many Horcruxes, I’m not about to spill the secrets to my relative immortality. Even if he would lose his magic after the transition, Riddle could still easily control and kill people.
“I’m tired of answering your questions and schemes. Why don’t you answer some of mine for once,” I say while trying to keep my patience.
That makes Riddle laugh, “Okay, what would you like to know?”
“For one; why are you also going to the Malfoy’s for Solstice?”
“To ensure nothing,” he pauses, bobbing his head dramatically in thought. “Unwanted happens while you’re away from Hogwarts.”
I manage to limit my reaction to the widening of my eyes, “Who do you think I have the most to worry about; the parents or Abraxas?”
Tilting his head to the side in amused curiosity, “His parents, of course. Abraxas has a type which exclusively includes witches his parents don’t want him to end up with. You could honestly be his soul mate, but the simple fact that Armond Malfoy II wants you as a daughter-in-law is enough to make that stubborn boy turn and walk the other way.
“Which his Father is perfectly aware of, so anything nefarious happening to you would also be happening to their son. I’m actually more of a surprise, although I have an open invitation to stay in the manor at certain times.”
The easy shrug he gives doesn’t quite feel right. I swear the corners of his eyes tightened, just ever so slightly that I would have missed had I not been paying him avid attention. And that’s when I remember how Tom is forced to spend his summers. In the orphanage he must hate so much, the one that I’m supposed to know nothing about.
The one that I shouldn’t ask leading questions about, the one that I shouldn’t be curious about. It doesn’t matter that, among our pears, we’re the only orphans. Sure, I technically have Dumbledore, but Riddle and Slughorn likely trust each other the same as I trust Dumbledore. I can’t speak on how much he trusts me, but I’d have his back in a fight. Which I haven’t actually shown him just how good I am in one.
“Would they go so far as to drug the food they feed me? Make me bathe in some weird, old world potion without me knowing it?” I ask, completely serious.
If this is a matter of my safety, then I really do need to know how far they might go. Jumping to worst case scenarios and working your way back is simply how my life tends to go. It really speeds up the problem solving.
Riddle regards me warily with wide eyes before taking a moment to genuinely think on it. Looking away from me and biting his lip, there seem to be scales teetering in his mind. If I had to guess, his immediate answer would have been a ‘no,’ but something stopped him.
“This quickly?” he says thoughtfully. He continues with a more determined tone, looking at me head on, “Likely, they wouldn’t go that far. However, his parents are not to be taken lightly. His mother is just as devious as any other Slytherin, Hazel is one of the most bigoted witches I’ve met, and twice as bloodthirsty as her husband.
“Which let me tell you, is saying something. While Armond might be fully ready to forego blood purity in the next generation, I’m unsure whether she will see the benefit. At least, until somehow getting you to do an exorbitant amount of magic. That is what worries me.”
In a weird way, that makes me feel better. I should be worried, like he genuinely seems to be, especially because a true demonstration might damage my plan to scare them off my genetics. But, I can at least handle that problem while getting some good food out of it.
Hopefully, that is, but I can’t imagine someone living in a manor doesn’t eat delicious food on the regular. From what I understand, I’ll be staying for three nights, so granted a lot can happen. But, I’m a big girl, I can make it out of a long weekend without a husband.
“Good to know,” I say firmly after a long pause. “So, just to make sure we’re on the same page; the goal for that trip is for me to return to this castle just as soul bonded as I am right now, correct?”
A smug grin crosses his face, but he nods all the same, “Correct. There will be zero ceremonies of that nature over Solstice, I can assure you.”
Giving him a skeptical look, I decide to leave that can of worms unopened, “Do you have any advice on a good way to get Malfoy to abstain from telling his parents just what I am?”
“The best advice on the matter I could give you, is to thank me,” he replies. His voice and expression unwavering as he leans back against the couch.
Cocking my head to the side and narrowing my eyes at him, I debate whether he’s being cryptic or just insufferable, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you honestly think I would allow you to walk in there with little miss sadist knowing everything about you?” he scoffs, his lips twitching in amusement, and rolls his eyes at me. “She likely wants to skin you alive for being a Halfblood, imagine if she knew the rest before she realized just how powerful that makes you.
“Hate and rage would blind her from all reason, and I doubt she would tell her husband of her plans. Being perfectly aware that he would likely stop her. No, the moment Abraxas told me, I swore him to total secrecy. The ministry would have a field day if they found out just how different you are from the rest of the student body, too.”
Well, that stumps me for a moment. I’m not used to people helping me without asking, let alone acting like I’m ridiculous for expecting anything less. The reminder that he didn’t do it for my benefit is sobering, but not as much as it should be.
Leaning into the small, indignant feeling encroaching on my mind, I cross my arms and glare at him. Deigning to ignore the unsettling warmth spreading through my chest.
“Let me guess, you did so because ‘you protect what’s yours?’” I ask sarcastically, using air quotes to get my point across.
His brilliant smile flashes in the light, looking like a cat who’s cornered it’s prey, “Now you’re starting to understand.”
“I don’t know why you keep saying that,” I grumble. Annoyed that my attitude hasn’t effected his. “Last I checked, I haven’t agreed to anything, and belong to no one except me.”
Riddle’s chuckle is deep and velvety, shaking his head as if I’m being goofy, “Simply because you haven’t realized the truth of the matter yet, does not mean that it isn’t so.”
“And what truth is that, exactly?” I ask, my voice sharp enough to cut through the coffee table separating us.
“That something is pulling us together,” he says smoothly, his tone softening just enough to be infuriating. “Whether it be chemistry, magic, or fate. I feel a…a call to be near you, to get to know you. As if you’re holding the pieces to a puzzle I’m trying to assemble, and your contribution will make the picture all the more clear. You feel it too, don’t you? When you aren’t fighting it, fighting me.”
His gaze is steady, unrelenting, as though daring me to contradict him. Every rational part of me screams that I should. That the one thing his list is missing is his own delusions.
But the way he speaks, the way his words wrap around me like a spell, makes it hard to breathe—let alone argue. Begrudgingly, I admit to myself that I have felt something when it comes to Riddle. If it wasn’t for my mind keeping most of my actions in check, who knows how I would act with my body calling the shots. Every time he touches or kisses me, I get a small taste of what that might be like.
No matter how hot and passionate we are when we collide, I can’t forget who Tom is for long. But, he doesn’t need to know about the war happening in my head; whether Riddle is already too far gone to get anywhere near, or if Dumbledore is right and he could choose a different path.
Tom leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, the coffee table, feeling more like a battleground than a barrier.
“If you would stop denying that pull,” he continues, his voice dipping into something almost intimate, “perhaps we could get to all the good parts.”
And then he winks, a maddeningly casual gesture that sends a jolt of heat and irritation racing through me.
“Even if you were right,” I reply, keeping my tone annoyed and firm. “You have no idea what I like or what I want in life, let alone if you could provide it. We wouldn’t have a future, just a passing dalliance that isn’t necessary.”
Resting back against the couch, the smugness comes back to his expression, “So, tell me. What is it that you want then?”
“I want a comfortable, quiet life. One where I don’t have to constantly look behind my back or have enemies threatening those I care about,” I state simply.
Riddle rolls his eyes, “Oh, please. You’re smarter than that, Hope. The closest you’ll get to a quiet life is becoming the Lady of some manor where you’ll be expected to pop out heirs before raising them to be exactly like their father. Quiet lives are for ordinary people, those with average qualities, not someone like you.”
“You don’t know that!” I nearly shout, my hands clenching into fists. My anger might keep distance between us, but it also makes me hotheaded. “I could very well scare all of the Purebloods off me, make sure they know just what adding me to their line would mean.”
Tilting his head to the side with an air of amusement, Riddle challenges, “How exactly would you do that?”
“My bloodline is cursed, duh,” I tell him with an eye roll. “Any child of mine could activate the curse and then have every bone in their body break on a regular basis. Even the most greedy of Purebloods would second guess their plans based on that fact.”
“How did you activate your werewolf side?” he asks casually, and that’s when I realize what I’ve shared.
I feel the blood drain from my face as I shake my head. Reliving that trauma will not help me hold my ground in this conversation. There’s a point to be made, one where admitting that I might be more like him than he originally thought would not help at all.
“That is neither here nor there, what matters is that people obsessed with protecting their legacy will not want to curse it by adding me into the mix,” I tell him with no lack of finality.
Riddle stands, keeping eye contact the whole trip from his couch to mine. He sits next to me, resulting in me scooching away from his warmth and suddenly charming smile. The further I get away from him, the closer he insists on moving towards me. By the end of our antics, my eyes are as wide as saucers, one side of me is crushed against the arm of the couch, while the other is firmly pressed against him.
“Come now,” he lilts, looking at me with enough fondness to sink a ship. “If that is your plan, then you must know that you will be firmly pressed on the matter. Scheming your way out of an advantageous marriage is tricky work, it might be smart to enlist someone to help. Perhaps someone already familiar with the families in question, someone who has spent years in their circles.”
He clearly means himself, but there’s more than one person to fit that bill, “You’re right, I bet Mary would have some great ideas.”
Laughter fills the space, much heartier than I’m comfortable with, “That plan only works if you’ve shared your secrets with Weasley. Someone as secretive as you, I doubt you’d risk their weak minds with someone like me around.”
My frown is answer enough, and Riddle nods before resting an arm on the couch behind me. Leaning away, I ignore the instinct to cozy up to him. My nostrils fill with the scent of smokey oak and cloves, he’s so close that I swear I can taste the cinnamon smell attached to his skin. Reminding me of a masculine dessert, I do my best to convince myself I don’t want of taste of it.
“I’m sure you’ve realized by now that I won’t share what you tell me,” he continues, unfortunately aware of the effect he has on me. “What’s the harm in letting me know?”
I should know better than to think Tom Riddle could be led off the scent of a secret, especially one of mine. This is the usual dance, I accidentally let a detail slip, and he yanks and tugs until I inevitably tell him anyways. Wanting to disrupt our pattern, I pull a page from Malfoy’s book.
“If I tell you, then you have to tell me something of equal importance,” I firmly state, looking at him intently.
Despite being taken aback, his smile barely falters, “Deal, however you first. There’s no need for me to spill my deepest, darkest secret only to find out that your curse activates on a specific birthday.”
Rolling my eyes, I look away and take a moment to mentally prepare myself before continuing, “To activate the werewolf curse, you have to cause a human’s death.”
With his leg still pressed against mine, I feel Tom stiffen briefly. I don’t want to look at him, to see if there’s pride or sorrow in his face. No matter how he feels about murder, that was an awful, terrible day that I couldn’t remember well even with a lobotomy.
“What happened?” he asks softly, his tone lacking any judgment or positive emotion. If anything, he sounds almost…sympathetic.
“My Mother was killed because of me, I put her in that situation and she sacrificed herself to save me. The vampires that killed her, my Father and Uncle rounded them all up into an abandoned church, and then let me release my anger, my pain.
“They were going to come for the rest of us next, it was kill or be killed. I didn’t restrain myself, didn’t hold back. It was…sobering realizing that all those lives were lost, that I was the hand that took them. Then we heard a noise. No one was supposed to be there, it was supposed to be empty.
“But, two people were in the back, one of them…one of them was too far gone for magic to heal him. I didn’t mean to kill him, but that doesn’t matter. I did, and it activated the curse,” I explain, my voice shaking with the volatile emotions that still live within my chest.
My lower lip wobbles slightly, but I manage to keep my eyes from watering too much. Forcing myself to take deep breathes, I clench my fists while keeping my gaze locked on a random book on a shelf. My family put their best efforts into convincing me that neither of my parents deaths were my fault, but my Mother’s death especially feels like my fault.
Sure, the vampire extremists were coming for her anyway, but I practically handed her to them on a silver platter. I could blame my idiocy on being young and missing a Father that all but abandoned me in those days, but my biggest mistake was trusting a handsome boy telling me pretty lies. Something a little too close to my current situation.
“I’m sure your Mother’s death was not your fault—”
“I put her to sleep and magically locked her inside a casket, in an attempt to force my Dad back into my life,” I interrupt his misguided attempt to make me feel better, shaking my head at my own stupidity. “A boy named Roman pretended to like me, pretended to date me, and like a stupid, blind, lovesick girl, I trusted him with my Mother’s location.
“Before I knew it, my Mother was taken as a hostage by crazy extremists that wanted to kill my family for not being the right kind of vampires. Thanks to me, their plan started working, and then they had me too. Roman would have killed me, had my Mom not sacrificed herself to take out the bitch behind it all.”
Pausing, I turn to him, the residual hate I feel for myself filling my body with fire. Riddle just looks shocked, as if he never expected this conversation to take such a dark turn. His expression delights a sick part deep inside myself, like somehow I enjoy destroying whatever ill conceived notions Tom has assigned to me.
No matter how hard I’m trying in this world to be normal, my past is anything but. Even if the pain and trauma still haunt me, keeping me up on nights where I can’t run from my mistakes, I’m still more than aware of what my life has been like. No one here could guess half the shit I’ve been through, and clearly Tom is firmly in the same boat, despite being an evil genius.
“It was my fault,” I whisper, not breaking eye contact.
Tom’s mouth twists into an emotional scowl, looking at me like he’s never seen before. A small part of me hopes that he runs out the door, realizing that getting my magic isn’t worth the hassle of dealing with a deeply traumatized witch. But, then he takes my hand in his, gently rubbing my knuckles with his thumb.
“You did not kill your Mother, Hope,” he tells me softly, seeming unsure of himself all of a sudden. “I know that, because I killed my Father.”
A small gasp of surprise escapes me, I had wondered but didn’t know if he already had. Riddle studies my expression, but I wait in silence for him to continue. Even if I knew that he would, I don’t actually know the reason why. It felt so easy to judge and dismiss Tom Riddle’s evil actions as a teen when I was removed from this world, when it was just me, MG, and Josie talking shit about fictional characters.
Sitting next to him, watching him debate how much of his soul to bear, I can feel the hurt he’s trying so desperately to keep hidden. The sudden tension in his features and shoulders, the way his grip on my hand tightened every so slightly, as if he’s afraid I’ll pull away from him during this confession. Squeezing his hand, I give him a small, encouraging nod, surprising the both of us.
“You see, my Mother was a witch who fell in love with a muggle, one that didn’t want her. Whether she was crazy or selfish, I don’t know, but she drugged him with a love potion. Forcing him to marry her and conceiving me before she released him. In her delusion, she thought that a child would keep him around, but quickly realized how wrong she was.
“From what I understand, her family was as willing to care for me as my muggle side, and she died after child birth as an abandoned witch. Ending up in that awful, muggle orphanage was terrible, and I naively thought that any family of mine had no idea that I was trapped in that hell. Last year…last summer I went to my parents home town, found my Father and my Grandparents. While the latter was shocked to learn of my existence, my Father figured it out quite quickly.
“Screaming at me that I was proof that Merope Gaunt was sent from the devil to ruin his life, that I was the sick, disgusting result of her treachery, and that I should have died in that orphanage like he’d hoped. Like he’d prayed for. He didn’t care that he was living in a mansion, that he never wanted for anything, and that I spent my childhood starving in an abusive hole left to rot because of choices I did not make.
“Between him screaming profanities at me, wishing I was dead, the obvious wealth surrounding me in that manor, and my own volatile emotions…I snapped. I pointed a wand at them all and killed them one by one. You did not kill your Mother, Hope. You are not at fault in the same way that I am,” he explains, letting out a deep sigh when he’s finished.
For being two people that are so completely different, I feel a strange amount of understanding passing between us. My parents loved me, there is no doubt in my mind that they did, that they still do wherever they are. But, plenty of people have wished for me to die.
Most that would fit into that category aren’t still breathing in my old world, and I was raised by a man who hated the person he thought was his father. Sitting in front of Tom Riddle, hearing the ache of being unwanted, I find myself relating to him more than I should. More than I want to.