Chapter 3: Chapter 3 - Family is Everything.
Standing in a country lane, embraced by towering, twisted hedgerows, beneath a summer sky painted in forget-me-not hues, Tom Riddle's striking figure emerged. His jet-black hair framed a face with eyes as dark as the deepest abyss, scanning the surroundings with a predatory intensity. Not a soul in sight – no man, woman, or child interrupted the stillness.
Tom walked the road in silence, his feet barely making a noise as he trampled over brambles and flattened grass. Nothing could be seen except for the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and then the lane curved to the left and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside. It took a little bit, but soon a whole valley laid out in front of him. Tom could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn.
Tom briefly fixated on the manor before redirecting his attention. Excitement surged within him as he quickened his pace, following the lane as it curved right, away from the village, onto a narrow dirt track bordered by unruly hedgerows. The path, crooked and pockmarked, descended towards a cluster of ominous trees below.
Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows. Tom's eyes remaining unbothered by the sudden darkness peered towards the little shack of a building he knew housed his uncle.
True to expectations, the dwelling appeared abandoned. Mossy walls and missing tiles exposed the skeletal structure, while nettles surrounded it, reaching toward tiny windows obscured by grime.
With his wand drawn, he attempted to unlock it, but no clicking noises were made, so he pushed it open.
Once inside, Tom's eyes swept over the interior, struggling to contain his disgust. Empty bottles littered the floor haphazardly, plates of half-eaten food teetered in precarious stacks in a neglected corner, and the air carried the stale stench of neglect. Amid this squalor, his uncle lay in a drunken stupor, sprawled in an armchair. His wand rested on his chest, a pitiful shell of a man in the midst of chaos. Beside him on a table lay the infamous knife, its blade glinting ominously in the dim light of the shack.
Tom's silent feet dragged through the mess, with a flick of his wand, short spurts of water burst from its tip and landed on the man. The sudden cold bath woke the drunken Morfin up, he sputtered and gasp, as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings.
Finally he looked up at Tom, his eyes narrowed in hatred, "YOU!" He bellowed.
Morfin's hand darted for his wand, but Tom was quicker. With an almost lazy flick, a short burst of light shot out from his wand, knocking Morfin's wand from his hand.
Stunned and bewildered, Morfin recoiled in his seat. Tom's wand remained trained on him as he spoke, his voice low and steady, "Is this Gaunt's?"
Morfin, still reeling, managed to breathe out, "Yes. What's it to you?"
Tom offered no immediate reply; instead, his eyes continued to survey the squalid surroundings. His wand, however, remained pointed at Morfin.
"You are Morfin, correct?" Tom finally inquired, his voice holding a quiet authority that brought Morfin back to his senses.
"Yes," Morfin admitted.
In that moment, they stood in stark contrast – the handsome, dark figure of Tom, wand in hand, and the disarmed, heavily inbred Morfin. With deliberate slowness, Tom lowered his wand, waving it to conjure a chair out of thin air. Seating himself with confident grace, he crossed one leg over the other, hands resting casually on his lap.
"Do you recognize me, Morfin?" Tom hissed, his penetrating gaze fixed on Morfin.
Morfin, the last of the Gaunts, blinked in disbelief. "You speak it?"
"That's not what I asked, Morfin," Tom clarified. "Do you recognize me?"
Morfin hesitated, his left eye scrutinizing Tom's face as if searching for a familiar feature.
"You recognized me; perhaps you've seen this face before," Tom suggested.
Morfin spat, "Aye, I've seen that face before, you look mighty like that muggle. Only younger."
Tom hummed, patiently awaiting the moment when realization would dawn on Morfin.
Morfin stared, "You're his son, aren't ya?"
"A mudblood filth." Morfin declared, in normal speech.
"Half-blood, actually," Tom corrected with a measured calmness.
"Half-blood?" Morfin whispered in disbelief.
"It's only been a few years, Morfin. How could you forget so soon?" Tom inquired with a hint of reproach.
Morfin's eyes widened like saucers, and his breathing intensified. "No, she died."
Tom sighed, his hand dusting off imaginary dirt. "Yes, she did," He acknowledged, raising a finger. "Not before, of course, she gave birth to a son."
"No." Morfin shook his head vehemently.
"Not before she gave birth to me."
At those words, Morfin erupted in rage. Whether he had forgotten his vulnerable position or simply didn't care, Tom couldn't discern. A bright burst of light shot out from Tom's wand. Morfin's arms snapped to his sides, legs sprang together, and his entire body became rigid, swaying before collapsing face-first, stiff as a board. His jaws were jammed together, rendering him mute. Only his eyes displayed the fury within.
Tom rolled his eyes, displaying little concern for the failed attempt at violence. He chided in a disapproving tone, "Honestly, what on earth were you thinking?"
With another wave of his wand Morfin's mouth was released, no sooner had Tom released the curse, had Morfin begin to hurl insults at him, "Filth, Scum, Half-breed spawn of muggle seed-"
Tom, however, remained composed, letting Morfin continue his tirade without showing any signs of discomfort or well deserved embarrassment for his uncle. Morfin's face turned red, and his screams echoed through the shack. The onslaught continued until Morfin exhausted his repertoire of insults, leaving the shack in an uneasy silence.
"I see inheriting the name 'Gaunt' is out of the picture," Tom remarked with a smile, noting Morfin's reaction.
If it were possible for Morfin to turn even redder, he did, his face swelling up as he erupted into another round of obscenities, unable to contain his rage.
Brandishing his wand Morfin's mouth jammed shut once more, his muffled cries filled the room for a little while longer. Tom waited until he stopped before lifting the curse again.
"Oh, relax, Morfin." Tom reassured, waving his wand again. A table materialized, bearing a bottle of brandy, and with another wave, two glass cups appeared.
As Tom poured himself a drink, he stared at Morfin before downing the brandy in a single shot. "Ahh, good stuff," He remarked, raising his eyes to meet Morfin's gaze. "Want one?"
Morfin, resembling a man parched in a desert, eyed the brandy with a feverish look of desire. Tom chuckled, "Only if you promise to behave."
Morfin's jaw clenched at Tom's tone, but the smell of the brandy was too intoxicating. "Yes," he agreed.
Morfin's body regained its mobility as the control over his limbs was restored. He rubbed himself down before returning to his seat, this time clutching his knife closely. In response, Tom waved his wand, sending the second glass of brandy floating towards Morfin. The glass hovered around him for a moment before Morfin grabbed it and downed the drink.
"So," Tom hissed, refilling both glasses with another wave, "We are family."
"Never!" Morfin hissed back.
"No use denying it, uncle. Blood, as they say, is thicker than water," Tom remarked, filling their cups again.
Morfin nursed his drink, a deep scowl marring his face. "That bitch," He suddenly spat.
"What?" Tom inquired.
"That whore, that muggle-loving slut, that conniving thief," Morfin continued with evident anger.
"Thief?" Tom raised an eyebrow.
"The locket. She stole the locket," Morfin declared, his rage building. "Slytherin's locket, passed down from generation to generation."
"You mean this locket?" From within his clean robes, Tom produced a heavy gold locket.
Morfin stared at the locket in silent disbelief. "She left it with you."
"No," Tom corrected, taking a sip of the brandy, "She sold it."
"I had to track it down," Tom continued, taking another sip. "A woman by the name of Hepzibah Smith... lovely woman. It took quite some time to erase her memory of the locket; had to replace it with something else."
Morfin stared, incredulous. "She sold it to her? How much?"
"No, not to her, a shop. Borgin and Burkes, no doubt you've heard of it," Tom smiled.
"Aye, I've heard of it, but it's back now," Morfin declared, reaching out his hand to receive the locket, the ring on his finger glinting.
Tom raised his brow in mock disbelief. "Surely you don't think I'll just give you the locket?" Morfin withdrew his hand, fist clenched in anger.
"I see you want this locket," Tom said, waving it in front of Morfin. "But I want something as well; perhaps we can bargain for it."
"What do ya want, half-blood?" Morfin spat out.
Tom waited, letting silence linger in the shack. Just as Morfin was about to lose his patience, Tom revealed, "I want the Gaunt family name."
Morfin's eyes blazed with anger, his empty right hand gripping the armrest of his chair, eyes bloodshot and bursting. "You dare," He hissed.
"I dare," Tom hissed back. Suddenly, Tom shed his relaxed demeanor. With astounding grace, he pushed himself out of his seat, and whatever light had managed to reach the hovel seemed to disappear. Tom's black, handsome eyes were fixed on Morfin with a predatory gaze.
"You've done little with it anyways," Tom spat. "You want the locket? This is my price; you have very little else to offer either way."
If looks could kill, Tom would be dead a thousand times over. Morfin was absolutely furious, his black, beady eyes looked ready to jump out of their sockets, spittle formed at the edges of his mouth. His fists clenched and unclenched, the vein at his neck throbbed and bulged. But Tom looked on completely unbothered by this, locket still wrapped in his hand.
His eyes darted to the locket, then to Tom, and then back to the locket again, over and over he whispered underneath his breath, "He'd kill me, he'd kill me."
He broke down, "Please, anything else. What about gold, I can summon gold."
Tom didn't bother answering, his black eyes merely stared in contempt.
But Morfin didn't stop trying, he went through all the stages of grief, to look at him, one would think Tom had asked him to kill his favorite child.
"Fine," Morfin grunted, his voice strained. "Fine, damn you."
"Good. Now say the words," Tom instructs coolly. "My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle."
At the name 'Marvolo', Morfin's right eye twitched. He begins to speak, "I, Morfin Ryland Gaunt," pausing before reluctantly continuing, "Bequeath the honorable and ancient name of Gaunt to Tom Marvolo Riddle."
There was no flutter of wind, no sparks flew, nor did there seem to be a real change. But Tom knew, deep within himself, that something had changed. This was ancient and powerful magic, and as Tom had come to learn, most powerful magics tended to be the quietest.
He threw the locket to Morfin, who clutched it to his chest like a mother would a babe.
"I would say it was a pleasure meeting you, but that would be a lie."
Tom left the shack just as silently as he'd entered. He'd come as Tom Riddle the half-blood son of a muggle, he left as Tom Gaunt descendant of Salazar Slytherin.
Retracing his steps through the familiar path, he paused to gaze at the Riddle Manor for a moment, lost in contemplation. Shaking off his thoughts, he continued on his way.
Advancing past the wooden post, he walked until encountering a parked car – 1948 Jaguar Mark V, sleek and black, just as Tom liked.
Out of the driver seat jumped a man, he was a large, burly man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes.
"How was it?" The man inquired, opening the door for him.
Tom smirked, "About as one can expect."
He settled into the fine leather seat, the interior of the car was the exact opposite. White to the tee, all except for the steering wheel and the gearstick, which broke the monochrome in black.
The man closed the door behind him, his large frame causing the car to momentarily shake as he settled into the driver's seat. "I take it he wasn't too happy."
Tom almost laughed, "Not at all, Charlie, not at all."
Charlie shifted the gear down to the last notch. "Where to now, Mr. Gaunt?"
"Leaky Cauldron. I'll have to set up a vault now."
"Already on it." With a push of the gas pedal, the car shot off with a muffled bang. The grassy scene rolled like a curtain, and suddenly, they were nowhere near any grassy lands. Instead, they found themselves in a bustling city. Buildings blurred by, the car mounting the pavement, yet miraculously avoiding any collision. Lines of lampposts, mailboxes, and trash cans seemed to jump out of its way as it approached, seamlessly returning to their positions once it had passed.
Another muffled 'Bang' and the car skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby- looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron. Charlie leapt out of his seat and open the door for Tom.
"Can I come with?' Charlie asked, he didn't look it but Tom could tell he was excited to go.
"Alright, just keep your head down, I'd rather not be visiting Azkaban tonight." Tom said, wearing a medium brim Fedora hat.
Charlie nodded. Wizards were forbidden from revealing the magical world to Muggles, but that hadn't stopped Tom. It was during his fifth year when they had just returned from a dealing that Charlie had begun asking one too many questions. Tom supposed it wasn't entirely Charlie's fault; he barely attempted to conceal his evident magical abilities, often passing them off as peculiar talents he had acquired. This usually sufficed, but Charlie had been around Tom enough times to see through the facade. Regardless, it eventually led to Tom revealing the wizarding world to him. He had even brought Charlie a few times to Diagon Alley under the pretext of him being a Squib pen pal from the Republic of Ireland.
The two entered the pub, dark and shabby as always, but buzzing with the wizarding community. The usual musty smell mingled with the aroma of ale filled the air. Tom walked up to the bartender, casually slapping down a silver sickle.
"Hello, Tom," Tom said with a grin.
"Ah, why hello, Tom," Replied Tom, the bartender, mirroring the smile. "How ya doing, Tom?"
Tom shrugged, "Doing just fine, Tom. And what 'bout you, Tom?"
"Excellent, Tom. Life's going quite well, Tom."
The two Toms shared a moment of laughter.
"Ah, this is Charlie, no?" Tom the bartender asked. "How's Ireland?"
Charlie nodded, his hands forming words.
Tom spoke, "He said 'it's fine, thanks for asking'."
"Hmm, that's good to hear," Tom the bartender smiled.
"The usual?" he said, turning to Tom.
"Yes, please," Tom answered.
The two exchanged a few other pleasantries and said their goodbyes. Tom led them through the bar and out into a small walled courtyard, with nothing but a lone trashcan and a couple of sprouting weeds.
He tapped the walls three times with the tip of his wand. The brick it touched wriggled like Jello; in the middle, a hole appeared.
Both stepped through, the hole in the wall closing behind them. Tom and Charlie marched through the busy streets of Diagon Alley, the shops lining them filled with items of wonder, but one building had Tom's attention.
"Gringotts."
A snowy-white building towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was a goblin.
"Try not to stare, Charlie," Tom whispered. "I don't think they'll appreciate that."
Charlie quickly diverted his eyes away from the being, opting instead to stare at the building in front of them. They walked up the white stone steps towards the goblin. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with the famous words engraved upon them:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn,
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors, and they entered a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins on brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. They made their way to the counter.
"Good morning," Tom greeted a goblin at the counter.
"Yes?" The goblin answered, barely taking its eyes off the paper in front of it.
"My name is Tom Marvolo Gaunt," Tom said, introducing himself. "I'm here to make inquiries about the Gaunt family vault."
The goblin stopped his writing; his dark eyes darted towards Tom. "Gaunt," It said in a whisper.
He snapped his fingers, and from seemingly nowhere, another goblin popped up.
The first goblin leaned down to whisper into his ear; the second goblin's eyes darted towards the pair in surprise before rushing off to find whatever it was sent to find.
The first goblin smiled at them, its sharp teeth bared. It wasn't a genuine smile; it was predatory, like a shark.
"Ah, Gaunt. Yes, yes, yes. We have you in our records, just a moment, please."
Tom sighed, already knowing what was about to happen, 'Damn them.' He cursed.
The second Goblin returned, this time with a stack of sheets, "Here it is, Grinlor."
Grinlor, the Goblin waved of the other, "Ah, now here it is."
He pulled out a sheet of paper from the dusty stack, "Gaunt family," He read, "Owing Gringotts one thousand, nine hundred and twenty two galleons."
Tom right eye twitched at the numbers, he wished Morfin was here so he could throttle him, or perhaps Marvolo as well. The exchange rate for Galleons to pound was 1 Galleon- £4.93. Taking into account the inflation in a few years, that means Tom owed them approximately £654,091 in 2024 current terms.
'Those damned inbred pieces of trash. No doubt they might have spent more if the bank hadn't stopped loaning them, demanding they pay back first.'
By the time they'd finished finalizing the last payments, the sun had already begun to set. Tom finally gained control of the Gaunt family vault and with an additional cost of fifty Galleons, he closed access to the bank's vault to anyone but himself. Tom left the Bank, annoyed and £9475.46 poorer.
"Where to next Tom?"
Tom sighed, "Home, drive slower this time, I need to think."
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