The Broken Victory

Chapter 28: Retribution is Part Distribution

My past lay before me, scattered in bits across the covers of my bed. Moonlight hit the worn cross, burnt passport, and scribbled file of my mother. Only one had been given to me; the other two I had had to fight to secure. And that was all.

I thought about Jiminy that night. The last time I had seen him, he still hadn't fit into his arms and legs. His smile had been sadder, that time after my first year at Hogwarts. He had said then that he was waiting for the Crevantis to pick him up and take him through the picture in the corner of the office; then his eyes would lighten, but only for a moment. I now could only remember them as dim, and even they had become blurry. An age had passed, and so had his memory.

Sean wasn't at the orphanage anymore to protect him. Sean was older than I... I wondered if he did ever go to live at sea. No, that was a lie. I didn't wonder, and there was no possibility that he had. He had no skills at being a sailor and no money to learn. If he even had a job, I would be surprised indeed. Did his pride sustain him now?

A funny thing, a memory is. It's not thinking. It's not even remembering. It's not an act, but an entity all unto itself. It tucks itself away inside everyone, teasing with glimpses of a past twisted and reversed since formed. Sammy once told me about her cat, Mischief. He was enormously fat and haughty and only deemed her grandmother worthy of his purrs. He lived under their brooms, his back always coated with broom polish. She remembered his size clearly, as clearly as she remembered the hunt for a gigantic box to put his body in. She recalled how she had cried in her front yard when her grandmother came up to her with the cat's still body, having been ravaged by gnomes. A teary funeral was prepared, one whose details she could recall at a moment's thought. It was bright in her mind, vivid in color and emotion.

The problem was, it never happened. Five years later, when she brought it up to her family, they said with some confusion that Mischief had run away. There had been no body. There never was a funeral with a large box and detailed cushions and hymns sung too high and tight in the throat, as she had claimed. No tears...no truth. A memory she had, yes. But one without an ounce of truth to it. "Funny, isn't it?" she had mused. "A false memory."

Funny indeed. So had Jiminy ever really looked so bright? Had Sean ever seemed strong? Or were his tears of rage truly tears of grief?

Had Mr. Blunt ever looked like me?

I honestly couldn't tell. I remember how I thought of him, but not how he appeared. His image was hidden from me now, shrouded behind years of neglect. How had he seemed tired? Was it his voice, or his eyes? His clothing had been old...or had it simply been misused? His approach patient or hopeless?

Hopeless. Sadistic. Malicious, foolish, uncaring, soulless, hypocritical, pathetic, mocking, sad...satisfied?

With Mrs. Blunt?

Blunt.

Haha. How drolly clever of him. Had he worked on that one? Or was it, by some laughing sneer of fate, the real name of Mrs. Blunt? Had he taken on a woman's name, if Mrs. Blunt could be called that?

The real name of Trevor. My brother.

I tried that on. My brother. My half-brother. Half-brother of a half-life. Worked out correctly, he was as nil to me in blood as he was to me in soul. No, he was born before my father married his mother. But he had had several months between leaving my mother and knocking up Mrs. Blunt.

Busy man. Busy father. Father.

Mr. Blunt. Mr. Riddle. Mr. Riddle, Sr. No, not exactly. His middle name wasn't Marvolo; mine was. Had he a middle name? He certainly had known mine. Shoved it down my throat. Too many Toms, indeed.

Around and around went my mind, sometimes sifting and sorting, something racing and burying beneath the memories within it. I could think clearly only to find my mind swirling up the thrusting fog of pain, the soaking ache of my own ineptitude. How long had I searched for this? How many years had I stumbled and tripped along, only to overlook the abomination of disguise before me?

All the while, a darkened night, without a fight, the lonesome man resided.

I laughed at what sounded like the beginnings of a poem in my mind. It sounded high in my ears, leaving me cold as if its pattern had beaten out the warmth my heart pumped into my being.

Lonesome seemed like a good word. Yes, he was alone. Who would have him, truly as he was? A partner of bestiality in his own mind. A deserter. A pathetic thing that had let the mere thought of me run him from his own name, his own identity.

Not even his God would take him. I prayed for that, with my soul on its knees. I cradled my chain, realizing I had never seen Mr. Blunt wearing one. He couldn't even face his own Lord hanging on a bit of metal. Weak. Pathetic.

And I wore his God on a chain wrapped around me, worn from my hands, to do with as I wished.

Fitting. I enclosed my hate around the cool silver, planning on giving it a proper farewell.

I spared no new feeling on the man or his martyr. The hate was an old wound, tempered but lingering. What I hadn't shed in blood in the Chamber, time had ebbed away. Like my love for my mother. Unrequited love can only burn in hopeless vanity for so long in a rational mind. It was futile, and it was hindering. The rage only boiled if I let it, but now I had a direction for it to flow through.

It was the same. The love and the hate. Had my father bested them both, when he managed to break free from his sinful tryst with my mother? Did he praise his will power for his ability to avoid our temptation in his desertion? Or were the thanks given to his God in his pitiable plea for salvation? He had, after all, given me over to his Devil and this Hell for his benevolent Savior. Let him now place his sanctimony against the grown blood of Slytherin. And may the best Lord win.

"Have any plans for the summer, Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore's voice chirped at me in the halls late that semester.

"A few. I might go visit Mara, the woman I healed in London. Or see Sammy in Italy. I'm even feeling a bit nostalgic. I might stop by the orphanage."

Dumbledore wore the surprised expression I expected. "Really?"

I shrugged, not intending on leaving him with any firm commitment from me. No firm plans, no easily ruined alibi. "Well, I have no money, and the country is at war. There aren't that many options."

"That's true." Dumbledore gave me his suspicious glare, which I ignored. He continued, "I suppose it does get rather stifling, staying at Hogwarts year round. But do be careful, Mr. Riddle. The last thing we need is any more devastating news."

"Of course, sir." I smiled politely and stepped away from him. He was too caught up in Grindelwald to pay much attention to me of late. Not that even if he had, it would have done him good.

~Oh, cocky, are we?~

I froze, my heart pumping icicles through my chest in fear. I stopped dead in the hallway, as the voice said, ~Do carry on. Don't make a scene, little Mudblood.~

The voice dripped with the sting of loathing. ~Oh, we aren't so much the Mudblood now, are we? Reinvented ourselves? Impressive. Though I always knew you had it in you. Even before Dumbledore. You're feeling nostalgic; you remember, right?~

The orphanage and the man with the blue robes. I knew he had been Grindelwald. "Did you know?"

~About your father? Oh, yes.~ The voice was flippant. ~I would have told you, but you were so rude to me! You'll pay for that.~

A shriek sounded in my ears moments before I realized it was mine. My body wasn't mine to control, but succumbed to the writhing waves of agony brought upon it. Sharp needles impaled my head, and leaden weights whacked my gut and chest. An invisible hand reached down and twisted my insides, wringing it into knots and setting flames to my blood.

~Shriek, little Mudblood. But see, no one comes. Everyone has forsaken you, no matter what form you take. Even I grow weary of you now. Perhaps you will amuse me more later...until then.~

Light came back to my consciousness first. First its warmth, and then the brightness. I forced my eyes open, staring out. At a safe distance, members of the school stared back in horror or curiosity. And they only stared.

**

A friend in need was an unwanted thing, according to Snicks. Nevertheless, he had tracked down to the orphanage for me the day after my encounter with Simon. For that, I would feel gratitude toward him. Grindelwald's words left me no more hollowed than life so far had. An emptiness I intended to fill and choke him with, when the time came. But there was an older ill that needed addressing first. One I knew would be more satisfying than any ever to come. For indeed, it would be a beginning. The real beginning.

I knew that every summer at the end of June, Mr. Blunt vacationed away from the orphanage for several weeks. I also knew that Mrs. Blunt and Trevor never went with him on these trips, since they always moped about it. Mr. Blunt said it was for business reasons and left it at that.

Snicks came back in slithering glee the day we were to leave for summer. Little Hangleton, he informed me. As seen in the passport, it was another place of residence for him, one he apparently still used. Snicks shook his tail as if it had a rattler, and then his proud look shifted as mine hardened. He wouldn't be accompanying me, he hissed. At least he didn't lie. He wouldn't risk a scale for me, which was just as well. I was alone, and what I was about to do was for myself only.

I rode the Hogwarts train back to London with Sammy. From her eyes, it was evident Simon had told her about Blunt. From that moment, neither Simon nor I had any contact outside of classes, giving the Slytherin rooms the electric air of instability. No doubt Sammy had sensed it and understood better than most. She was quiet for once, as if deciding how to play her new knowledge. For myself, I sat in equal silence, fingering my chain in my pocket. It had been years since it had wrapped round my neck, but it had never been far away.

"Your mother was a Slytherin, right?" The question came out very soft, and still her gaze met only the empty bench across from us.

"Does that matter?"

"Yes." Her soft voice carried more weight than I would have thought her flippant self capable.

I gave a shrug, though I knew she couldn't see me. "Well, you all but accused me of being the Heir of Slytherin last year. That would fit in with your little idea, wouldn't it?"

Her eyes narrowed, but kept their steady focus away from mine. "You're mocking me."

"Never."

"Stop it."

I stared at her upon hearing that. "You're telling me to stop?" My amusement rang out in a cold, high tone. "You?"

"Tom, I - I just don't know." Her face scrunched in an ugly, pinched pose. I was coming to understand she didn't handle real conflict well. The strain in the power chain in Slytherin had thickened, especially now that Damien was gone. Sammy, knowing she couldn't grasp the high spot, was floundering for position and stability.

If any part of her was truly sympathetic, it wasn't worth the risk to assume. I therefore withdrew my anger for cautious distance at her next words. "Part of me doesn't care who your father is. No, I take that back. Most of me doesn't care. You are the one who cares about it. You're the one who won't let it go."

"Let what go? I have never even brought it up," I snapped.

"You carry it around every single moment of every second. It isn't enough for you that you are the best student Hogwarts has ever seen. That you're a prefect and now Head Boy. It isn't enough that all the teachers love you, that the Minister already wants to hire you, that you're an Animagus, that you saved the school, that you got perfect O.W.L.s, that you've proven yourself over and over again already -"

"I learned from my past. It's the only thing it's good for." We stared harshly at each other, years of buried arguments rising.

She finally broke the silence. "I think you've learned enough. Let it go."

"Charming. It's like speaking with a parrot of Simon's. Let what go?" I asked glibly.

"Everything. Simon."

"Everything about Simon?"

"Stop it." Her voice was sharp now, too hard for even me to miss. As if I really were hurting her by not taking her seriously.

"You, carrying the torch of care for another? Samantha, I am shocked indeed. Or are you just afraid that I'm seeking some pathetic revenge on all who Simon blabbed to?"

Her eyes grew cold, but her words were even. "I just think you should be careful." If she knew of anything particular, she wouldn't say. All the better for her.

"You and Dumbledore. So worried about my well-being. Let me give you some advice then, as is only fair since you so kindly shared yours with me. Make a decision." I stared into her eyes. "You're a smart girl. I'm sure you'll have no trouble, but I'll give you the summer to think things over. At the end, I am sure things will seem ever so much clearer."

**

At the platform I hid round a corner of the old station. I had no money to take the train, and I didn't feel like walking to Little Hangleton. Flying seemed a much better option. I breathed deeply and drew my thoughts inward. In a moment, the spell was over.

But not quite. I opened my eyes and felt the chill of the concrete on my stomach. I tried to push myself upward with my raven wings, but found I could not move them. Nor feel them. I tried to move my feet, but they didn't work as well. In a panic, I dragged myself along somehow, in a sliding manner that felt scratchy and odd. I was at the level of people's shoes, and they darted around me as I hastened for a puddle. Glancing down, I was amazed at what I saw before me.

A snake. Myself, as a snake. There was no mistaking it. My mind trembled in curious wonder. I couldn't recall an instance in history when someone's Animagus had changed...when their very essence had been converted. I breathed in air through my flat nostrils, my tongue flicking at the water. I heard no sound, but felt every pulsing vibration through the ground. It was as if the movements of others were drawn to me, and I converted their essences to meaning.

A raven. The bringer of change, of tricks and magic. A trick or fate...a trick of fate, for I had indeed tricked her several times. A magical change of a self-transformation. I was no longer a bringer of change. I was change itself, and I directed its course myself now. I knew I had become something else.

And what had I become? A snake. A Slytherin, at the core. A cleansing heir. A new changer, who was about to take the position not only given, but also earned in blood. The tears of blood would flow forever from me. For all.

For Little Hangleton. I honestly expected more from it. I had slithered onboard the train, making the day's journey, only to be dropped off in a place called Great Hangleton. I already could see the people had delusions of grandeur...if this little cesspool was Great Hangleton, I could only imagine what Little Hangleton would be like. All I saw in Little Hangleton's great neighbor was a sea of blank faces, a stone police station, and a marketplace near the station. The policemen swaggered around, with more character in their uniforms than in their actual personage. I overheard someone say that the police wagon was broken again..."Hope nobody needs help outside of a mile radius!" they joked.

Little Hangleton faired worse. I am sure some, particularly the inhabitants, might have called it quaint. All I saw was an underdeveloped hideaway. A pub seemed the main center of activity, which certainly said something about the people who lived there. I slid around for a bit, ending up on the creaking boards of the entrance to the pub. The Hanged Man was its name, burned into a piece of rickety wood that hung at an angle over the splintered door.

For such a memorable outside, the inside of the pub was surprisingly clean. A bit sparse and morose, but not a filthy pit. I could stand in it without worrying what I might catch...and what I might catch it from. I didn't even see a rat. There were a handful of inhabitants found inside. Grizzly long-timers, twitchy young men off business, and several women just coming on as the night hour began. Over the bar hung stolen street signs, a few dingy paintings, and a banner that read, "Careless talk costs lives." It was a common enough war slogan throughout Britain.

"Can I help you, hun?" A throaty voice filled with the scent of peppermint and smoke blew by me. I turned to see a woman dressed in an apron wearing flat heels. I assumed she was a hostess or waitress.

"Is this your pub?" I asked.

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. "Mine? Oh, Lord, no. I just work here. Normally I have a name tag, but my daughter took it to play with. Anything to keep her quiet." She gave me a weary smile. "Name's Dot."

"Simon," I said. Looking about, I replied, "Friendly place."

She gave a bark of laughter that didn't become her. "You don't know the half of it, sonny. Whole town's in a depression, both figuratively and literally. Only one with something to smile about is those Riddles."

My heart leaped and hammered. "Riddles?"

Dot nodded, ushering me to a nearby table with some shells and a used napkin on it. "Yup, the infamous Riddles. Own a house up the hill over there." She pointed out a window to the south. "They might as well live here; they practically own everything. They came in years ago, when the town began to go under. Skinned every honest man here, and now are war profiteers. Lousy people. Feel sorry for them, though." She shook her head.

"Why?" I couldn't hold the question back.

Dot sighed and gave a glance at the barkeep. His attention was elsewhere, so Dot eagerly pulled up a seat next to me. Gossip lit her smudged face as she began her tale. "Oh, it was quite awhile ago now. Before I was born, even. The Riddles were a wealthy family, but let's just say, money doesn't buy everything." She gave me a knowing wink. "The lady Riddle, Clara van den Moore originally, couldn't conceive. They tried for the longest time, but nothing worked. Finally, the doctors said it might be the stress and bad fumes of the city. So Mr. Riddle moved his wife where the environment was cleaner and where he was starting to make a profit."

"Here," I said.

Dot nodded. "Right, here. Anyway, before long, they finally got pregnant."

"Lovely."

She wagged her finger at me. "Ah, but Mr. Riddle was often away on business...when he was home, he spent most of his time here. Not that I blame him; Clara is an insufferable witch."

I smiled at her use of phrase. "I know someone like that. Several people."

"Oh, honey, you are too young. Anyway, soon afterwards, they fired their cook, just like that!" She snapped her fingers. "Now, Clara had a terrible temper, and Mr. Riddle usually deferred to her to keep her screeching down. She fired most people, but still, there was always talk about who really fathered little Tom..."

"Little Tom." A smile curled up my mouth. Even though it was most likely rubbish town gossip, my father had grown up under the stigma of being a bastard.

"Adorable name, isn't it? Anyway, Little Tom had so many troubles! He was an introverted, peculiar little boy. He seemed slower than his peers in most things. Most assumed it was retribution by God for Clara's sinful tryst with the cook. It wasn't until his later school years that his marks picked up. Mr. Riddle was beaming, of course. Little Tom went to university, and we all thought God's anger had subsided. But..."

She held her pause dramatically, brushing her hand through the air. "Suddenly, he showed up with this young lass!" My heart clenched as she continued, getting into her tale. "We never saw Tom with a girl before...we all just assumed, well...that he was different in that sense. But no, here was this little lady, who wore the most bizarre fashions. She was from France or someplace. They dress oddly there."

"Do they?" I hoped my lack of interest would spur her on to finish her story.

"Oh yes," Dot said with an authority she certainly didn't have from experience. "Anyway, Little Tom dropped out of college, claiming he was to marry this young thing."

"Why?" I couldn't help myself again.

Dot seemed surprised by my question and then laughed. "For love, sweetie! Oh, come, you're not too young to know about such things, I'm sure." She gave me a teasing grin.

I ignored the taunt. "She...they...loved each other, then?"

Dot shrugged, as if this were an inconsequential part of the story. "I'd assume so. He walked about all dreamy...like he was under a spell."

"I highly doubt that," I said coldly.

"Ah, ah, ah...just you wait and see," she teased with a wagging tongue. Then her expression took on the faux pity of one who secretly relished the troublesome parts of the tale. "Anyway, his parents were just furious. She was a heathen, a monster, they said. Honestly, no one really knew what they were talking about. They didn't discuss it with us. Some said she might not be Christian, and that was the trouble. Others said things far worse."

"What things?" I could imagine.

"That she was...unnatural. A demon, a witch. Just when God forgave them and Little Tom had a future, someone snatched it away. The devil's work."

"Sounds like a vengeful God," I said.

Dot shook her head at such blasphemy. "You young people. The Lord is mysterious, but loving. His ways are right. No, it was the work of a demon or devil."

"Fine. What happened?" She wasn't worth arguing with.

"Well, one day he just came back. Said he saw the light and was drawn away from her downward spiral. Some said it was because he had a half-demon child with horns and four arms. He seemed a bit sad, then. Always has since. But he embraced religion like a fervent reborn. He begged forgiveness from all, including his family. I thought he might become a priest, but the Lord saw other plans for him. He was blessed with finding a new family, one that needed him. He dedicated his life to saving helpless children, running an orphanage. Although his new wife is of lower birth, which Clara still sneers at, I think it's wonderful how it all turned out. It is sad, though, for many. I wonder what happened to that odd girl of his."

"I'm sure she got what Mr. B...Riddle wished. Thank you, Dot. That was a very...informative story." I pushed my chair back and stood.

Dot waved me back. "Wait; don't you want a drink or something to eat? You look famished!"

"I always do. No, thank you. I just stopped by to get some rest. I've just returned from school, and I'm anxious to see someone."

"Ah, a pretty, young lass!" Dot's eyes became dreamy. "Ah, young love. I remember it well." She heard a slam from the entrance and turned. Frowning at what she saw, she said, "Bugger all."

"What?" I wasn't sure I really wanted to know.

Dot shook her head. "Nothing for you to worry about. It's just Frank. He works for the Riddles, actually. Seems he's just come off work in his usual good mood. Honestly, those people could make a clown cry. I'd best go serve him. Say hi to your lady from me. And come visit soon!"

With that, Dot was off to acquire the newest bit of gossip. It seemed the only thing sustaining her in this desolate surrounding. The lights began to hang low...I had best be off.

So south I went, where upon a hill sat what appeared a black orb with the sun's beams shadowing its form and detail. I slipped back into snake form and slithered along the rocky, cobbled road leading up the hill. As I drew closer, a house took form. A house with a shingled roof and a wide yard meticulously cared for. A garden and vegetable patch grew, and blooms surrounded the fence. I slid easily through the bars, and up to where a door appeared. An ordinary door, not as majestic as even the classroom doors at Hogwarts. It had brass fixtures and a knocker in the shape of a dragon.

It was firmly locked, but a nearby window was cracked open, letting in the sultry, summer breeze. I slithered inside, noticing how cool the floor of the house was. It was clean and dark, with a faint lemon smell. Off in a distance, I heard echoing voices. My snake heart almost beat off my scales...although far-reaching and fogged, it was a voice I had remembered. A lilt I could never forget. And no, I was now sure it did not sound like me in the least.

I followed the voices...one high and nasal, one low timbered and tired, the last broken and sad. It was coming from the dining room, I discovered. I crept into a small concave in the wall, watching from that distorted angle the three Riddles.

Clara Riddle was everything I had pictured from what Dot had said. She was thin and tight-lipped, with eyes containing constant scorn. Her thin arms folded around her silk blouse, and she kept sniffing whenever either male Riddle spoke. In the distance, I heard a record player scratching some classical music, giving the entire atmosphere the somberness it cried for.

Riddle, Sr. was a plight for my eyes. Even in his late years, he was tall and gaunt, age giving him more angles than girth. His hair was striking black where it wasn't gray, and his eyes were blue and sharp.

So were Little Tom's...blue, at least. But dull, like I remembered. He had the distorted frame I remembered, as if his genes were fighting with his habits to retain their skinny form. His clothing was old, and I smelled the dust from my crack in the wall. He was everything I remembered, and yet...so much more. Or less.

"And how is...Penny?" Clara's voice was dry as she swirled a drink.

"Victoria," Mr. Riddle said evenly, to which his wife shot him a glare.

Little Tom looked like I imagined I did when caught with Dumbledore. "Vicky's fine. So is Trevor. You should see him."

"Yes, well, so should his father," was Clara's snippy reply. "Who was it again, some sailor?"

"A cook?" was Mr. Riddle's scathing retort, directed more at his wife than a guess at Trevor's parentage.

Little Tom's eyes gained some edge. "I am Trevor's father," he said coldly to his mother. I fought back an urge to strike at him. I breathed deeply, forcing myself to listen to the conversation while the fury built inside me. "Victoria is my wife, and we are a family. You'd think, after all these years, you would give in just a little -"

"To what?" snapped his mother. "To your attempt at retribution? What, was your childhood so bad you needed to punish us for the rest of our lives? First, with that - that freak, that abomination of Satan -"

"Salome was a mistake," Little Tom said quietly. Bowing his head, he replied, "A regrettable mistake."

"Are there any other kind?" Mr. Riddle asked. "Son, we have no problem with you bringing Victoria here...well, I don't. It's the most we could hope for, after that witch..."

"Must we speak of it every time I come?" Little Tom appeared dull, his soul wearied beyond respite. "Why do you insist I visit every summer? To remind me of the worst time of my life? I apologized, to you, to God..."

"There is nothing you can do," Clara said harshly. "Rummaging around with filth like her...almost spawning with that thing. Could you imagine if you brought such a wretched creature into the world?"

Little Tom closed his eyes. "No... not anymore."

"You always were a caring soul, son. But some things are damned beyond saving. Creatures like that are to be pitied and disposed of as quickly as possible. It's the only humane thing to do. It's all they can understand. The Lord saw that and rewarded you for it." Mr. Riddle said this with a warm sympathy.

"Yes. It was not up to me. A creature like that...cannot exist." Little Tom spoke words he had convinced himself were true. "I wish it had never happened."

"We all do, son. The whole world does. It is up to us to take care of the creation God implanted, and, while you strayed, you returned. Sin like Salome and her seed are better off dead. Hell shall welcome them for their misdeeds, for the wickedness of their creation." Mr. Riddle sat back at the end of his speech, swirling his brandy around. In a far more casual tone, he offered, "Well, I'm glad we covered that nonsense again. Did you hear, Tom, that our steel mill procured a seventy percent profit last year? Remarkable. Looks like we can go for a long vacation this summer to visit your relatives in Holland, Clara. If this war could just bloody end."

"A bloody end sounds about right." I heard my voice, quiet and calm. I had returned to my human shape...what I, at least, called a human.

Mr. Riddle frowned, twisting and glaring at the shadows where I stood. "Frank? Is that you? I thought we told you to fix the shed; you can't possibly be done. I've had more than enough of -"

"Quietus Totalus."

Mr. Riddle shouted...but nothing came out. His eyes bugged, and he grasped desperately for his throat. Clara shrieked, leaping from the table with more flexibility than I had thought possible in her rigid body.

I gave her a smile. "If you don't stop speaking right now, I will charm your lips to eat your head. You would most likely choke." Clara kept screeching until I pointed my wand at her. Then her face turned still, and she slunk silently into her chair.

"Good Muggles," I said.

A choke was heard behind me. I then turned to my father...the Little Tom. His face was blank, and his mouth kept silently gaping like a fish. His lips finally managed to speak, "Muggles..." No doubt it was a word he hadn't heard in a long time indeed. He sat there, shivering, fear and sickness blatant on his face. But no one reached out to comfort him. How truly similar we were indeed.

"You know. Non-demons."

"Oh, dear Lord," Clara whimpered, cowering behind the shredded napkin she held in her tiny, shaking fists.

I raised my eyes. "Yes, your Lord. Where is he?" I made a show of spinning around, searching the room. "Where is your savior? The great protector, the comforter of all who suffer. Perhaps he is on vacation? Or maybe he is rusty, since he can't even seem to dispel a dictator from your Germany. Or maybe," I turned back to my father, "He doesn't care as much about you as you thought. Wouldn't that be a cruel joke indeed?"

"What are you?" Little Tom whispered. Revulsion shook his face into a frenzied glare, with spittle descending from the corners of his mouth. "What damned thing are you?! Leave my family alone, for the last time!"

"Your family? Your family?! You call this your family?" I fought to regain control. "And what a family it is. You are right about that."

I turned to glare at Riddle Senior. He was bucking in his chair, hands still at his throat. The stare he gave me was one of revulsion and of fear. A finely chiseled fear thrust straight at my eyes with a defiance that dared me to strike him further.

I was more than willing to accept the dare, when my cool reason interjected. There were widows all around the room... Turning, I nodded my head at the stairs. "Move. Now."

In silent terror, Clara stood, reaching for her husband's hand. Mr. Riddle moved in front of her, blocking her from the demon that was me. How chivalrous...I waved them apart. Seeing an act of kind nobleness on any of their parts was too ill-fitting, raising a flood of bile in me. Little Tom followed them, his eyes roving for the nearby doorway.

"One move and I'll kill your son," I said softly. Little Tom spun round, eyeing me, searching for my bluff. He saw none and quickly followed his parents up the stairs. I shifted them into another dark room, this one more cramped and ignored than the others. Old trunks lay scattered, along with a coat rack, desk, and two sofas. It was one of the idle, useless rooms of the rich. What did they care? They didn't have to take care of it. It need only look big, pretty, and could be as damn useless as it desired.

Standing there in the chilled corner, Little Tom threw back in a voice as cold as mine, "What do you know of my son?"

"Which one?" I thrust back with more venom and hate than I acknowledged. It came out in cool, lazy tones, with my hatred freezing to ice between us, chilling the air near where I spoke.

All three Riddles paled, growing smaller as if the earth was swallowing them. I continued, watching them shrink before me. "The begging bastard you were saddled with, or the demon seed you kept by your side for eleven years?"

Clara shrieked, and I said in vague annoyance at Mr. Riddle, "Engorgio!" Immediately he began to balloon up, his face turning purple and twisting in agony. I let it run for a bit, saying to Clara, "If you don't shut up for the last time, madam, I promise you, your husband will die. Do you really wish to be responsible for that? No? I didn't think so. Now silence."

"Tom."

The word came out slowly, just as slowly as I turned to face him. He said it again, stronger. "Tom...Marvolo...Tom..."

"Yes." My eyes met his. "Aren't you the clever one."

He no longer looked afraid, only repulsed. "Is it really...oh, God...I should have...I should..."

"Have treated me better? Yes, I should say so."

"No." His voice was quiet, but with the solidity of a rock as he thrust at me again and again. "Not that."

"Then what? Never brought me to the orphanage?"

"Killed you for sure when you didn't die the first time." He stepped up to me, his eyes alight with the flame of passion. He appeared more alive than I had ever seen him in his anger. "Your mother ran when she drank the poison the doctor gave her. She drank it willingly, by the way. Then she got scared, begging me to go with her to your freakish world to stop the abortion, but I had had enough. I knew of her evil ways, and I was intent on repairing my life. So I left her to her cult games. I was sure you would die, anyway. When I heard you hadn't, I at least thought you'd be too deformed or destroyed to do any damage, so I took you in. Then, I quickly realized how deformed you were. You were a worse abomination than your mother. But I tried, against everyone's wishes. Even those who didn't connect me with you knew of your putrid birth. But you were beyond damnation, Marvolo. I prayed to God for you, but even He, though I am sure He wept, saw you were not something of Him."

"I am better than him," I said with a steely edge.

All the Riddles sucked in their breath, as if afraid the air I breathed would be poison to them. But Little Tom droned on, his frenzy rising. "What did you think, that I'd fall at your feet and beg your forgiveness? That I would cry for your mercy? You made your choice years ago, Marvolo. I owe you nothing. I only owe my repentance to others that you exist."

I glowered, my chest heaving so hard I thought my rib cage would break. He was a sad, pathetic man. He didn't know what he was saying. He was speaking in fear, in fear of what I was. Because he knew how great I was, knew the power than ran through my veins. It was absurdity and delusion that stirred him. His taunts were the bites of a rabid dog out to take down all who stood near him in one last strive for leaving an impact. I would not give that to him. I would not let his words strike me...pierce me...this wretched soul, this ignorant who blindly swallowed sanctimony as comfort. I would rip it away, as he had ripped away every second of my life he had filled. I was suddenly happy he had a family, for it meant that he had something very dear to lose.

"I am afraid that you will owe that repentance to many by the time I'm through. Avada Kedavra!" I turned and pointed at the elder Riddles, the huddled old crones. I saw the whites of their eyes blaze bright in the dark, alight from the energy pulsing from my wand to their hearts. I saw them gasp, and cry, and reach outward to each other...and fall...just outside of each other's grasp.

Not even a beat passed before I dismissed them. "Unfortunately, none of them will be alive for you to apologize to," I said.

An undeniable fear crossed my Little Tom's face...making him little indeed. In a strangled voice, he said, "What was I to do? Do you think any of this would have turned out differently? That you would have had a nice, happy family? If I had claimed you as my son, do you think anyone would have accepted you anyway? Your mother and I would have been hanged; you would have been in an orphanage anyway or, most likely, killed...I tried to do you the least amount of harm."

"Shut up!" I shouted. I couldn't listen to his reasoning anymore. It was sick, and it was manipulative, a pathetic case built on such false foundations that I longed to wrench the truth out of him. I was prepared to do just that; the curse was on the tip of my tongue, when he spoke again.

"It wouldn't be any different. I came to realize that long ago. It finally gave me peace. The Lord won't let you harm my innocent son, but to me, do what you will. No matter what you do, I shall be at peace, with myself and with my Lord."

I stepped over to him, finding him at eye level. A wrecked man, a desperate man... a contented man. The shards of his self were held together by a single strand, one he thought too impenetrable to dissolve. But I knew there was nothing that couldn't be struck... and it was with an aching, vengeful pride, an instinctive strike aimed to perfection, that I ravaged the last anchor of hope to which his soul clung.

"How tragically unfortunate is the timing of your confession of blind faith. You see, I killed your Lord. And your son." The lie about Trevor rolled easily out, causing Blunt's face to show horror and denial. I did not let up, tossing spitefully, "And though I do hate to give you credit, I did inform Trevor I couldn't have done it without you. Rest in peace with that." I dropped his cross on the ground, watching his eyes fall with it.

I waited. I was patient. And then, "Avada Kedavra... and what the hell - Amen."

~Amen indeed...~