Fifty Two Weeks

The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I walk up the extensive drive way. I look up at the repulsively magnificent house before me. He was living here while I was cooped up in some hovel of an orphanage, my entire room the size of one of their beds.

I climb the granite stairs up to the front doors. I pull on the lion head door knocker but they remain shut.

“Alohomora”

I hear the satisfying click and I slip through the heavy, wood doors, my footsteps echoing in the vast entrance hall.

The inside of the mansion is just as luxurious as the exterior had promised. Deep purple tapestries hang from the walls and the fireplace is large enough to stand in.
It is empty however, leaving the entrance hall I’m standing in cold and draughty.

“Homenum Revelio”

They are all here, together, in the drawing room.

I quickly cross the room; the crimson rug deadens my footsteps.
I pass room after room, each as lavish as the one before it. My strides are purposeful and unrelenting. I am so close to him, my link to the heritage I despise.

I don’t pass a single maid or servant as I stalk through the house, though it would be no matter if I did, I could easily silence them.

As I reach the drawing room, I can hear their quiet voices from inside. I slink silently up to the door and peek through a crack revealing a sliver of the room. Opposite the door, there is a fire burning, forcing shadows to dance across the walls, there is the man and the woman sitting together, their postures impeccable, their pronunciation perfection.

And then I see Him. And then I am forced to realise just how disgustingly similar we were, the same jutting cheek bones, the same sweep of dark hair, the same curve of our lips.

I push the door open slowly, the slight creak enough for the women to become aware of my presence.

“Who are you?” she demands as the man and his son both look up at me, “And how did you get in here? Who let you in? I let Marie-Anne leave a half hour ago.”

I don’t answer her or acknowledge her presence. I just stare at Him, never letting my gaze leave Him. I can see Him notice our obvious similarities and His face grows pale as He realises who I am.

“Why don’t you tell them who I am?” I ask Him softly.

“Tom?” The man questions, “Who is this boy?”

He doesn’t answer; He appears to be having difficulty swallowing.

“Really? Don’t want to introduce me?” I ask him sarcastically.

The man remains confused (“What the devil is he talking about, Tom?”), but I can see the woman looking at me and then looking at Him, I can see the slow cogs of her Muggle mind turning as she realises who I am. Her hand flies to her lips.

“Have you ever wondered what your darling little boy was doing those years he ran away? No? It was quite the scandal wasn’t it?” I look around at them all, “Did you figure it didn’t matter? He was back and that was that. No need to give the neighbours something to talk about.”

The man and women are listening to me with rapt attention, though He is beginning to look rather sick.

“Well, let me tell you what happened? He ran away. Eloped. With that strange girl from the shack up the hill. And then he fucked her and got her knocked up.”

“Mother! Father! I didn’t mean to, she… she bewitched me!” He pleads.

I continue as if I wasn’t interrupted, “And then, he left her. No home, no family, no money, nothing. He left her, all alone.”

“I didn’t, I… I… I don’t know.” The woman was now looking at her son with a mixture of horror and disbelief.

“She died you know.” I say softly, looking Him in the eye. "She died giving birth to the son you abandoned, the son you left with nothing, the son you left to rot in a hell of an orphanage. She's dead."

His mouth gapes like a fish, “I… I…”

“Wha-” the man starts to speak but his voice comes out too rough and he’s forced to cough, “What was her name, Tom?”

“W-what?” He squeaks.

“What was her name, Tom? The woman you married, fathered a child with, the woman you kil-” the man is forced to stop.

“I… I… it was… I… I’m not sure… I can’t quite…” He trails off pitifully. The woman let out a small noise, vaguely like a howl.

“Her name was Merope.” I say quietly. “My name is Tom. She named me after you, just before she died.” I let my words sink into the air as their meaning was realised.

I was always very good at dramatic speeches.

No one speaks for a long time. And then suddenly the woman stands up. She looks at me, her eyes are filled with tears, “T… Tom, come here, Tom.” I stare at her, unmoving, as she walks towards me, her arms outstretched.

Then I pull out my wand, the movement quick and practised.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The comforting flash of green and the woman drops, unmoving, to the floor.

“Mary? MARY!” The man leaps down beside his dead wife. “MARY!” He looks up at me, “What have you done? What have you done?”

I look at Him, He is shaking and pale, His terrified eyes look up at me in horror.

I turn back to the man on the floor.

“I did not come here for pity” I state simply.

For a few minutes there was no sound in the room besides the crackling of the fire and the shaking sobs of the man, crouched over the woman’s lifeless form.

And then a weak, pathetic whimper, “Why are you doing this?”

I turn my head slowly towards Him, my neck clicking as I do so, “Why am I doing this?” I laugh, short, cold, “Why am I doing this? I don’t know, maybe it’s because of what you did to my mother, how you treated her, you a muggle and her, a direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin himself! Maybe, it’s because of how you came crawling back here afterwards, wiped her away like an unwanted cobweb, no matter at all in your perfect existence. Maybe, it’s because you couldn’t even remember her name.” I watch him flinch as I snarl each of his atrocities, as if I were cursing him rather than accusing him.

As I list his crimes, I almost feel a kinship to him. However, my disgust for him far out shadows my appreciation for his misdeeds.

I slowly lope over to him and crouch down beside him, so close I can see the few grey hairs now trickling through the sheet of black. I lean in close to whisper to him the real reason, his final fault, “But then again, maybe, maybe, it’s because your very existence disgusts me, let alone the idea you are in any way related to me. Maybe it’s that everything about you repulses me, everything you do sickens me, every breath you take is a personal insult to my very being.” I watch my chilling words clamp down on the atmosphere, I observe the intricate emotions and thoughts flitting around his features: confusion, panic, regret. I smile at how deliciously terrified he is.

“Does that answer your question?” I murmur softly.

I hear the bumbling fool behind me get up, his breaths jagged and laboured, “What are you going to do to us?”

“Quiet, old man,” I say sharply, “Now, take your wife and sit her up in her place, where she was before.” I instruct the man calmly, my stare never leaving Him.

“W-what? Why?” he stammers.

“DO IT! NOW!” I whirl around and roar at the man, my eyes wild, my mouth structured in a snarl

The man makes a strange guttural noise in the back of his throat and tenderly picks his limp wife off the floor and places her on the sofa softly.

“Now sit down next to here,” I tell the man in a voice of deadly quiet. He does so without even a hint of hesitation now. I appreciate that, “Thank you, now, look at your son, look him in the eye.” The man’s eyes flicker to my wand before resting on Him. His son seems to be trying to form words but no sound escape his mouth, I note with satisfaction how His eyes are creased with regret and sorrow.

The old man looks at his son’s pitiful figure and closes his eyes as he appears to steel himself, he sits up straight and holds his chin up higher.

And when the man looks at his son again, it appears a though he cannot see him anymore, or that a stranger sits in his place, and I know He sees it too. A smirk plays it’s way onto my face.

“Your son is the reason this has happened, Thomas. But don’t worry, he shall be punished too.” I tell him.

“Avada Kedavra!”

As his father stiffens and then goes still before Him, He moans and burrows His face in His palms as His shoulders begin to shake soundlessly.

“I think you know what’s coming next,” I murmur to Him.

He looks up at me, His lower lip trembling slightly. I feel sickened by the thought of Him sharing my blood.

“I think it’s rather poetic, don’t you?” I say softly, though my voice reverberates through the utter quiet “You bring me into the world, now I take you out of it.”

“P-please! I’ll do anything!” He begs pathetically, “I’ve got money! Lots of it! I’ll give you anything you want! Anything!”

I laugh, so predictable! Everyone assumes all you could want is gold, riches, material possessions. No one can see the bigger picture, no has ever even imagined what I am going to achieve!

I raise my wand, the glorious moment drawing ever closer.

“No, no! Please! Please! Not your own Father!”

I freeze.

A cold fury builds up inside me, He recoils in his seat.

“Y-your eyes…” He looks at me in horror.

“I have no Father.” My voice comes out in a hiss of pure malice.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He falls still. His mouth stretched wide in a scream He never voiced.

I am breathing fast and heavy, I look around the room. The fire is still burning in the grate, the evening paper is placed exactly as it was, the three Riddles are sat as they were when I entered.

The only way you could tell anything had happened at all, were the looks of utter terror on each of their faces.

I quietly go over to the door and close it softly behind me. I stride through the house and into the entrance hall once more. As I walk onto the grounds, I look up to find an old man, standing with a limp, looking right at me.

We stare at each other for a moment. And then I smile.

The old man appears startled, as if there is something wrong with my face. I turn and stalk away, the gravel crunching beneath my feet.

Who knows, maybe I’ll come back for him one day.