Chapter Text
Chapter One:
Antonin Dolohov holds Riddle in the highest regard, even experiencing several moments of fear in his presence. He recalls Riddle's former self at Hogwarts—quiet, sharp, with a distinct intolerance for noise and a fiery temper when faced with disorder. The memory of Riddle's wrath after enduring a crucio lingers vividly in Antonin’s mind, burning the back of his tongue like blasphemy.
Therefore, he is perplexed to see Riddle so captivated. Never did Antonin imagine Riddle being enchanted by another individual, curiosity lighting up his eyes, a hunger evident in his desire to possess and control, only to be denied by a flutter of dark lashes and a pouty mouth of temptation.
Even more bewildering to Antonin is witnessing Riddle comforting his child, offering solace by extending a hand. Evan, with his cheeks flushed with emotion, grasps Riddle's hand while holding his mother's with the other.
Antonin follows behind in a daze, watching as Riddle and his wife lift Evan off the ground in unison. The child giggles with joy before being gently placed back down, eagerly requesting more in his childlike babble.
As the cool March breeze tousles Antonin's hair, he contemplates that if anything were to befall Riddle's wife and child, the wrath within him would surge fiercely until it consumed the world in its entirety.
And no one, not even Riddle himself, would survive such a thing.
Arguments with Tom are wars.
Abraxas knows this very well.
"I don't need a guard dog," Harry asserts, boldly approaching Tom without a trace of fear. Abraxas acknowledges that he displays courage and recklessness alike. It is common knowledge that those who confront Tom are often met with his wand, swiftly and ruthlessly dispatched, so it is a surprise to see someone foolish enough to dispute with him so openly.
"You are unaware of what you truly need," Tom responds with heat. A flicker of tension runs through his neck, the veins on his throat visibly pulsating.
Abraxas averts his gaze, inadvertently locking eyes with Mr. Potter seated at the other end of the sofa. Evan is nestled in the formidable wizard's lap, munching on a digestive, oblivious to his parents arguing.
"You find Nott's protection inadequate. Very well, I comprehend," Tom persists, grappling with his escalating fury. "But, surely, there are other capable individuals among my ranks?"
Harry wrinkles his nose. An inferi curls around his ankle, nudging against his leg with a skeletal head. "Your underlings are imbeciles and deeply biased. A single drop of my impure blood would send them fleeing in terror. They couldn't even withstand me in the truth room for six hours. What makes you think they could last days in my company?"
Tom seethes, slipping into parseltongue. He spews what are most likely venomous words, prompting Harry’s features to twist with annoyance.
"Perhaps," Mr. Potter interjects. "I may have someone in my own ranks who could provide protection for Harry instead."
"Stay out of this," Harry's tone slices through the air like a blade, his glare fixed on Tom. "Just because I'm expecting and you want to study me in a clinical setting does not mean you get the right to confine me. I don’t like cages."
Tom's mask crumbles further.
Abraxas shrinks back into the sofa, wary of attracting Tom's wrath. It would not end favourably for him.
Walburga stands by the corner table in the parlour of her family's countryside estate, deftly trimming the stems of her roses. "I fail to comprehend what Tom sees in that deranged halfbreed," she remarks. "He's loathsome, devoid of manners, and viciously ill-tempered."
Orion skims his fingers along the bookcase, appearing disinterested. "Let him be," he replies. "He's in love."
"In love," Walburga repeats with a scornful twist of her mouth. "Our Tom, in love? Can you not hear the absurdity in your own words?"
Orion sighs, fixing a flat gaze on Walburga. He gestures with his thumb over his shoulder. "Did we not witness Tom blow smoke directly into Harry's mouth while they kissed by that window over there?" he retorts.
Walburga clicks her tongue. "It is merely a passing infatuation.” She insists. “It will fade in due time. By then, I'll have secured someone more suitable for Tom, someone with finer manners and purer blood."
Orion's lips press into a firm line of disapproval. "It's audacious of you to presume that Tom would allow a pregnant Harry to escape from in-between his bloody claws. He is as possessive as he is intimidating."
Walburga does not enjoy being talked back to in such a manner. "Perhaps,” she proposes, steering the conversation in a new direction, “we ought to consider having a child of our own.”
Her cousin lets out a breath of exasperation. "Just so you can manipulate them like a marionette? You forget, Walburga, that I have been acquainted with you since birth. Motherhood will not suit you."
Rousseau Lestrange emerges from Gringotts and unintentionally encounters Riddle, his wife, and their son. He does not mean to encroach upon their personal time.
Frightened, Rousseau respectfully lowers his head towards Riddle and bows even lower for his pregnant wife. His hand is already missing two fingers, and he harbours no desire to part with any more of his body.
An apology teeters on the edge of Rousseau’s tongue, but he accidentally swallows it as a cold hand seizes his chin, compelling him to straighten up.
"Give me your hand," demands Harry Riddle.
Rousseau hesitates, stealing a glance at his Lord from the corner of his eye. He is strictly prohibited from conversing with the Lord's wife and must never make physical contact with him, lest he upset him again.
However, Riddle narrows his silver eyes into a blazing glare and Rousseau jerks, extending his hand, flexing two fingers and a thumb. He winces with trepidation as Harry Riddle seizes his hand, twisting it around.
"Oh, relax," Harry Riddle reassures him. "I'm not going to kill you just yet."
In the frigid air, Rousseau struggles like a fish out of water, sweat beading on his brow as agony courses through his arm, chilling his veins from within. He hisses, stomach churning as bones protrude from the stumps of his fingers. The pain, though not as excruciating as a close-range crucio, leaves him gasping for breath.
"There," Harry beams, releasing Rousseau's hand. Sunlight gathers behind him like a halo. "Your magic should regenerate the rest of your fingers for you."
Wide-eyed and horrified, Rousseau stares at him dumbly. With no other recourse, he bows as deeply as possible in public, maintaining the position for five seconds before swiftly departing to avoid having his lungs extracted by his Lord.
Harry Riddle is unhinged. There is no other way to describe him.
Despite the tension and unease in the flat, Atlas Rosier expresses gratitude as he receives a selection of baked goods, perspiring under the penetrating gaze of his Lord.
Small hands pat against Atlas’s thighs, urging him to glance down near the edge of the table. Evan looks up at Atlas with wide, inquisitive eyes, the eerie hue of them glinting like an avada-kedavra curse.
"Snack," the child demands.
Atlas’s hand trembles as he picks up a jam rolly polly, offering it to Evan. As the room experiences a sudden and chilling temperature drop, the boy clutches the treat clumsily, stuffing it into his mouth without permeability. Atlas flinches, observing the wife of his Lord take a seat across from him at the dinner table.
Harry Riddle offers a disarming smile, his haunting green eyes creasing at the corners. Resting his elbow on the table, he props his cheek against his hand, and stares at Atlas like he desires to slit his throat open.
"Are you cold?" the lord's wife asks innocently. Frost materializes on the table, swiftly spreading across the surface, cooling the baked goods. A skeletal inferi leaps from the floorboards and into the air, landing atop the frost with a disjointed purr.
"Yes," Atlas confirms, terrified to his core. If memory serves him right, elemental magic and necromancy should not be this easy to wield.
"Good," Harry Riddle coos, his voice deceptively soft. “Let’s see how long you can manage.”
Atlas swallows hard, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. His fingers twitch beneath the table with the need to cover his ears. He has never felt this uncomfortable before.
Hands snug in the pockets of his coat, Cantankerus Nott leisurely ambles through Hogsmeade. Catching sight of the Riddle family in the near distance, he winces and swiftly ducks behind the nearest barrel outside an aged inn.
He has no desire to be spotted, let alone subjected to mistreatment by his Lord's wife. Cantankerus struggles to comprehend why he is so despised. He is competent, an adept torturer, and his bloodline is pure. By all accounts, the Lord's wife should hold him in high regard. Yet, instead of admiration, he regards Cantankerus with repulsion, finding fault even in the very sight of his dark hair, unblemished skin and light eyes.
Could it be because Cantankerus has yet to claim a life? It is widely whispered that his Lord's wife is a practitioner of necromancy, keeping a feline inferi as a pet. Cantankerus folds his arms across his chest, contemplating. He is capable of being a proficient killer. All his Lord's wife needs to do is grant him an opportunity. Is that truly so challenging?
"What of Mulciber?" His Lord's voice echoes nearby. Cantankerus stiffens behind the barrel, praying he remains concealed effectively.
"He's all brawn and no brains," The Lord's wife laments with a weary sigh. "I'd rate him lower than Nott, and that's solely because Mulciber lacks intelligence."
Cantankerus brims with glee. He is of use. Now, whom should he eliminate for the Lord's wife?
Seated next to Cantankerus on a plush sofa in the Malfoy family's parlour, Wilfred Mulciber is gripped by fear of his Lord and even more so of the Lord's wife. His nose, broken by the Lord's wife almost two weeks prior, remains black and blue, slightly askew. Despite the discomfort, he is forbidden by the Lord from seeking treatment.
Wilfred sniffs, wincing as a twinge of pain travels through his still-healing nose. He tentatively raises a hand to alleviate the ache, promptly dropping it as he feels the intensity of Walburga's glare fixed upon him from across the room.
A knock resounds at the door. "My Lord," Atlas announces, stepping in with his body drenched in blood. He leaves crimson footprints on the marble floor as he walks. "I've survived another week," he declares wearily. "The horrors persist."
"Sit down," their Lord commands impatiently.
Wilfred squirms nervously as Atlas slides into the vacant seat beside him. Blood oozes from the Rosier heir, staining his hair, fingers, and clothes alike.
"When will your wife cease this torment?" Abraxas dares to inquire, inspecting his manicured fingernail by the open window.
Their Lord closes his eyes, a hand rising to massage his temples.
"Good grief," Orion mutters. "Must you pose such questions? His wife is expecting. Can we not endure a few months of psychological warfare?"
Antonin snickers. "You'll cease saying that once our Lord's wife guts you open like a fish."
"Or when he forces you to pursue your unwanted aspirations of becoming a necromancer," Atlas adds, gesturing widely, sending droplets of blood flying into the cool air.
Wilfred nods in agreement. Just as he prepares to contribute to the discussion, Cantankerus swiftly silences him by forcefully pressing a palm over his mouth.
Right. Any input from Wilfred poses a significant risk of inviting a painful spell. He makes the wise decision to firmly keep his mouth shut.
Peering over the rim of his teacup, Orion contemplates as Harry stands before the kitchen counter, mumbling dishearteningly about his meal choices.
He understands the unease his friends harbour towards Harry. He is a whirlwind of motion with eyes as green as the killing curse and a tongue as cutting as any blade. He poses a threat to both wizardkind and muggles alike. A single tear shed by him could set Tom on a path of destruction, scorching the earth until there is nothing to remain.
Orion rationalises that this symbiotic relationship is beneficial. Tom requires something to fixate on, while Harry necessitates someone to anchor him.
His musings are interrupted by Evan, who approaches with wooden blocks for them to play with.
Walburga may doubt this child's lineage to Tom, but Orion never will. He settles his teacup onto the coffee table and smooths back Evan's unruly locks with the palm of his hand, perceiving glimpses of his Lord where his cousin will deny.
[Bonus.]
Tom occupies the foremost pew of a church in the Vauxhall district of London. With his hands folded in his lap, he observes the gentle dance of candlelight as it sways back and forth, the aroma of incense infiltrating his nostrils.
Despite the numerous exorcism attempts the orphanage put him through, Tom unfailingly gravitates back to this specific church whenever he feels overwhelmed. Though these instances are infrequent—few and far between—it is still a sign of weakness for him to be here.
The faint sound of gentle footsteps draws Tom's focus. He listens intently, recognizing the familiar cadence without needing to see the source.
Mrs. Cole halts beside the front pew, her eyes narrowing, indicating no astonishment at encountering Tom in such a location. He cannot fault her, for the last occasion he resorted to prayer in her presence was when he callously murdered his family.
"What brings you here this time?" Mrs. Cole inquires, settling cautiously at the pew's end, ensuring a noticeable distance between them.
"Harry," Tom responds, withholding any further details. There's no need for Mrs. Cole to be privy to his inner turmoil. Despite frequently deeming Harry repulsive, Tom often catches himself silently acknowledging his bewitching allure. Even though Harry proves to be consistently difficult and argumentative, Tom does not desire to separate from him.
Instead, he yearns to delve beneath Harry's skin, to nestle below his ribs and seize his heart with his teeth. These cravings, Tom acknowledges, are sinful.
"I see," Mrs. Cole murmurs, tucking her nose into her thin scarf. "You are uneasy about being wed to a man."
"No," Tom responds. He holds no qualms about that. Even if he and Harry were entirely different individuals residing on opposite ends of the world, Tom would still be able to recognise his wife with just a glimpse of his captivating smile.
"Hm," Mrs. Cole edges closer to Tom, settling beside him. The shift in her demeanour is inconveniently sharp. "Then, you are uncertain about your sentiments towards your spouse."
"Yes," Tom concedes. A sudden tightness grips the back of his throat. Conversing with Mrs. Cole has always flowed effortlessly. Their relationship is intricate. At times, Mrs. Cole exudes a maternal aura. At others, she appears fearful. She is a touch too human for Tom's liking—another individual to be catalogued as inconsistent and uninteresting.
He does not understand why his throat is so uncooperative.
"Are you encouraging affection?" Mrs. Cole questions. "Are you lavishing Harry with flowers and gifts? Yielding to his every whim?"
"I am," Tom manages to say. It’s the truth. Whatever Harry requires, Tom ensures it is provided. Whether it's something trivial or even the severed limb of one of his subordinates. He does so because he believes his little wife deserves the finest. And if Tom cannot yield all that he can, then Harry…
Harry might leave him.
A tumult of unease churns within his internal organs, coinciding with a surge of possessiveness coursing through his veins. Tom tightens his jaw, the audible scrape of his teeth a testament to his tension. Harry is his. They are bound by marriage. Not even Death can separate them.
Tom will not permit it.
“Then you are fine,” Mrs. Cole reassures. “So long as you don’t allow Harry to see beneath your mask.”
Tom forcefully unclenches his jaw. Mrs. Cole has performed numerous acts for him, including wiping blood away from his hands and soothing him to sleep with whispered Bible verses from the Old Testament, trying to provide solace in a sea of stumbling bodies at the orphanage.
Perhaps whatever is wrong with Tom, afflicts in Mrs. Cole like a mirror.
He repeatedly reminds himself that Mrs. Cole is not his mother.
//unedited.