Draco Malfoy sat on the ragged couch placed inconspicuously in the middle of the living room. He turned his head to study the woman preparing tea in the kitchen.
"When's the last time you saw your son?"
Sara Riddle bustled around counters, heating a kettle as she started fixing up the tea.
"Oh! Uh- not too long ago actually. I- Yes I remember it clearly. He looked so grown up!" Her tinkling laughter cracked as she poured out two cups of tea.
“But oh so tired. And old! I don't know what they're teaching in schools nowadays but no young man should look that mature before even graduating." Reaching into the cabinet, she brought out a canister of sugar. "Now did you say you wanted two sugars or one?"
"Just one, thank you." Draco shifted in his seat and forced his gaze into curious indifference. "How was he, during his last visit?" Sara Riddle deftly poured in the sugars and placed them on a tray to carry into the living room.
"He was far more serious than usual." Bustling into the living room, she handed Draco a cup of steaming hot tea. Daintily sitting on the armchair across from him, she blew on her own cup.
"I hugged him just before he left and as I let go he-“ she sat back in her chair and sighed. "Placed his hand on my cheek and stared into my eyes." Her eyebrows bunched in confusion.
"I- I remember this because his hand was so cold! And his eyes seemed so... empty." Her eyes were frozen onto the tea in her lap.
"He simply stared into my eyes and I couldn't even tell what he was thinking! It was like he was trying to dissect me with how hard he stared." Her next sigh fogged the air and froze the room. "But there was something in his eyes I just couldn't place. I couldn't remember him ever looking at me like that before."
Draco shivered in the freezing air.
“Did he say anything else?.”
She immediately unfroze and warmth quickly seeped back into the room.
"Oh my! I have such bad manners! I haven’t even offered you a snack!” Her laughter came out shrill and sharp.
“Let me fix you up something." She set her teacup down so abruptly it slightly spilled out onto the table as she rushed into the kitchen.
He almost felt pity for her. A woman driven mad by her son and husband’s dangerous ambition then left to rot in a trussed-up prison. In the face of her unstable ignorance, he couldn’t help the feeling of pity welling up into his throat.
For a second, he dares imagine it. Taking her from her prison, helping her heal. Maybe if he hadn't already calculated his odds, if he was less ruthless, a more compassionate person, then he would do it. But to heal properly would take months, possibly years. He didn’t have the luxury of years. He had at most 2 months if he plays his cards right. And for all Dumbledore's talk of choices and finding his inner goodness, he doesn’t deal in the business of delusions.
He may be helping the people who are good, but he could never be like them. This way is far better, he has the stomach to play the parts they refuse and the ability to run in the circles they shun. With Voldemort only growing in power and becoming more and more ruthless, there was no time to play nice.
No, this is the best option. Being good may be helpful for rallying forces and raising morale, but kindness doesn’t win wars.
Though, to give credit where it’s due, he should give Sara Riddle more faith. Voldemort had been visiting her once every few months for the past 10 years, she obviously hasn't been left forgotten in an underground dungeon or tortured by his more zealous followers. Sara Riddle was important to Voldemort. Important enough that she warranted regular attention and protection from others. Keeping her alive could open a few more doors for him, especially if she remains as welcoming as she has been. With a grin, he revises his strategy and finally takes a sip of his piping hot tea.
Then stops.
And realizes:
This isn’t tea.
He recounts his surroundings. The woman was busy in the kitchen. The drawn curtains and the layer of dust smothering every surface. There's a cup of heated mud masquerading as tea in his hands. He'd seen the woman standing in the kitchen drink almost half of her cup.
Glancing into the kitchen, he takes note of its state of disarray and an open fridge with no light. She pulls out a container of mold and fixes a plate of rotten meat and stale biscuits.
Think.
Voldemort finds his mother important enough to keep her alive and hide her away. He doesn’t care enough to ensure she has fresh food or that she’s far too unstable to realize when she’s eating more mold than actual food. How was she still alive? Glancing at the kitchen, Riddle placed the plate in the microwave and began to heat it up. Draco slowly brought his sleeve up to his mouth to prevent from breathing in more mold. For a regular human being, they wouldn’t be able to last long in these conditions without serious repercussions, yet she seemed perfectly fine. Absolutely bloody insane but physically healthy. He runs through all of the spells that would keep a person alive in such conditions but they would all require the subject of the spell to be lucid to some extent. Except for possibly….
A rumor. Dark magic so evil, all mentions of it had been burned, its existence was only known in the farthest confines of the oldest wizarding families. The whispers he’s been chasing all this time, found in a cup, a locket, a diary, a child. Despite their destruction, Voldemort continued to grow his power. A Horcrux.
Voldemort consistently visits his mother yet can’t bear to stay for longer than half an hour. According to his mother’s description of his last visit, he loathes her existence yet still visits. The state of the apartment has worsened over time so presumably, her condition is a deteriorating one. Voldemort has continued to grow stronger. His eyes widen in realization.
Voldemort turned his mother into one of his Horcruxes. The act must have shattered her mind and his visits must have been to check on his bastardized spell of immortality and to draw more power. As a living being, the connection to her son and her own magic must be making him stronger. Sara Riddle is the source of Voldemort’s growing abilities.
Draco is not a good person. He is a testament to the traditions of his family, despite the weakness of his parents. He fights for himself, he fights to survive, and he fights to win.
Good men cant win wars.
And weak spots exist to be exploited.
Draco reaches into his pocket for a small vial of a clear liquid. He opens it and deftly pours its contents into the women's cup of mud. He barely manages to conceal the vial in his hand before she bustles back into the living room with a full plate of steaming green and blue mold.
"Here we are! A hearty meal for a growing fella like yourself." She sets the plate down and takes her seat.
"It's been so long since I've had other company in the house, I hope you can forgive my lapse of hospitality." He smiles at her, all signs of discontent or hesitation gone.
“Oh, It’s truly no trouble, I was the one who showed up unannounced." He keeps his smile plastered on, unfaltering as he raises his cup of dirt. "In fact, I would like to propose a toast", he gestured to her cup with his own, "to Tom Riddle, my brilliant friend."
Her face brightens and she eagerly grabs her teacup with shaking hands. "To my wonderful son! May the light enter his eyes once again!" She finishes her cup in one large sip. "I've missed him so much. There's only so long a mother can take an empty house before going a little mad, you know." She giggles into her hand as she sets down her cup. Before it reaches the surface of the table, she pauses, her face blank.
“It was loathing.” She murmured and the temperature turns freezing cold.
"The last time I saw my son, he looked at me with such... loathing". She brings the cup up to her chest as if cradling a child and her body deflates into her chair. "I don't understand."
Her eyes meet his. The air around them is suffocatingly quiet.
"Does he truly loath me? My only child?” Her whisper shreds the silence and she tenses up as though to defend herself from her own thoughts. Her laughter tears through him as he feels the air grow colder still.
"That bastard dares hate me, even after everything I've done to help him". The fight slowly leaves her body as she deflates further into her chair. "Should have left the monster where I found him. Rotting in that orphanage". His next breath condenses the air and his fingers begin to grow numb.
"Is this my punishment? For raising a devil?" Even if he knew the right words to say, he wouldn't respond. He’s already chosen his path. All he had to do now was wait.
She laughs again. “My moments of clarity come further and further apart now. Once every while, I remember exactly what he’s done to me before that bloody fog claims my mind again.” The poison is starting to take effect, her breathing grows labored and her arms lose their strength. Her cup tumbles from her hands and lands with a muted thump onto the carpet.
Her eyes fixate on its path to the ground and a look of realization enters her eyes. “I’m going to die, aren’t I,” she whispers with resignation. Draco doesn’t bother to offer her comfort. Instead, he continues to sit in his chair and watch as it becomes harder for her to breathe. Tears enter her eyes as her gaze locks onto his.
“I don’t want to die” His stoic face seems to tell her how hopeless her situation is and anger fills her voice. “Why. Why is it me who has to pay for his violence? I’ve done nothing but be a victim of his actions. He ruined me. I could have lived a million better lives! I’ve could have done so much. He ruined me. And now-“ she struggles to breathe as sobs fill her lungs. “Now I’ll die here. Alone. For a man who hated me.” Her tears flow freely down her face. “For the man who killed me long before you bothered to show up.” She chokes on her tears, lungs struggling to catch a breath. Draco still hasn’t moved, instead, he watches as she slowly chokes to death. His fingers are numb and she can’t breathe. He doesn’t dare move his eyes from hers. He waits until she stops moving, then waits a minute longer. The warmth seeps back into the room.
Draco closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
Feels the air enter his lungs.
Then lets it escape.
He laughs into the empty air. Laughs until his stomach hurts and there are tears running down his face.
Instead of imprisoning her or turning her to his cause, Voldemort kept his mother hidden here where no one could ever find her, merely so he could return time and time again to remind himself of his hatred and his final goal. The source of his growing power was the same source of his weakness.
Pathetic.
Draco still can’t stop laughing. So much time, so many killed. Hundreds wondering why. And the answers lost in the mind of a dead woman.
Still chuckling, he reaches into the holster by his ankle and pulls out a knife while making his way over to the still cooling body of Sara Riddle. He pulls her limp body off of the armchair she died on and begins to work.
It’s always the most interesting people that he ends up having to kill.