January, 1927

Hermione politely declined the offer for tea and let herself fall deeper into the Riddle's upholstered couch. She figured he had his hands full enough as it was at the moment. Hermione watched in discomfort as Tom Riddle Sr. rocked his infant son, swathed in soft cloths, in a clumsy embrace. Purplish bags under his eyes and his collar haphazardly undone, he was quite a sight to see.

"They'll come around to it, your parents," Hermione said, in an attempt to console him, "In fact," she continued, "They grow quite fond of him."

When their only son had come home earlier in the week, babe in arm, the Riddles had been none too pleased.

Tom Sr. smiled a bit at that. "I'm counting on it," he told her. He stared at the young woman before him. She was really quite intriguing. If what she had told him was true, and she had revealed quite a bit of her story to him, well, he could only imagine what she must be feeling. She looked quite exhausted, he thought, scared and without hope. He sighed.

"I take it you won't be staying here long."

Hermione nodded in affirmation. "I just… can't," Hermione admitted. "It's so strange seeing him like that," Hermione said, looking away from the baby. "And I would be forever restless, waiting for…" Hermione paused then, and she imagined staying. Helping raise Tom. Watching him grow. Teaching him love and affection and she knew it just wasn't her place.

"I understand," Tom Sr. said, drawing her attention back. Then the baby in his arms gurgled and Tom Sr. cooed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Yes, Hermione thought resolutely, she wouldn't be able to cope with staying if Tom was like that.

"Then, when will you come back?" Tom Sr. asked her. "You'll want to check up on him, surely."

Hermione brought her hand up to cover the necklace laying hidden under her shirt. She wasn't sure of the answer herself. Had no idea what was doing at all actually, if she were to be completely honest.

He laughed when she told him as much and she found herself thinking it sounded quite nice. He was nice. She had come in and shaken his entire world just days ago but here he was, believing and accepting her every word. Granted, he had thought her mad at first and had had no hesitation in telling her so but in the end, well, there he was caring for his son, with a look of adoration in his eyes. For a moment, Hermione wondered why he had been so accepting of the situation this time around.

Perhaps he had been so desperate for answers, wanting to know the cause of his lapse in memory and judgement if he had even went as far as to run off with Merope, as everyone told him he had. Maybe he had been searching for something keep him distracted from the fact that he had dashed all chances he had of being with his love, Cecilia. Or maybe when she had managed to drag him to the Orphanage in London and he had seen his son, he had just known it was all true.

She stood to leave, being in the room with the baby made her queasy. Politely, Tom Sr. rose with her to see her out but she insisted he didn't. A minute later, standing by herself in the Riddle's entrance hall and she disappeared with a faint crack. Several rooms over, the baby woke from it nap and began to whine.

. . .

1931

The next time Hermione visited, she found Tom Sr. in the gardens with his mother and a toddler who played at their feet, picking at beautiful blue violets.

The soft smile she wore from watching her grandson's antics quickly fell from her face when Tom Sr. introduced her as Jean.

"She's a witch?" Mary Riddle asked in a hushed voice though there was no one else around to hear. Tom nodded firmly and Mary squeezed her hands tightly. "I see," she said tightly then turned back towards the Manor, lifting her skirt as she went. Tom Sr. turned back to Hermione, looking sorry, but she understood where Mary was coming from. Of all the Riddles, she knew Mary had had the hardest time accepting magic when Tom had entered their lives.

"He's grown so much," Hermione commented.

Tom Sr. laughed. "It's been four years."

The toddler steadily ignored her, having quickly lost interest in her after her sudden appearance. Meanwhile, Tom Sr. appraised Hermione carefully. "Is it the same day for you?" he asked, intuitively after recognizing she wore the same clothes from her last visit.

Hermione nodded and Tom Sr. raised a brow. "You ought to give yourself a break. You'll wear yourself out, you know," he said disapprovingly. Hermione pondered his words for a minute. "I'll keep that in mind, thank you."

"Oh dear," Tom Sr. said frowning and Hermione followed his gaze to a cheerful Tom. Then to the garden snake slithering in his lap. Tom Sr. sighed and carefully picked up the snake as though he were used to it and set it down, shooing it away. To her surprise, the snake seemed to listen, disappearing into some flowering bushes.

Tom pouted then, his soft, little lip poking out.

"Does this happen often?" Hermione asked surprised.

"Every so often when I take him out," Tom Sr. admitted, "It's like they're drawn to him. It was quite unsettling at first, but it just kept happening and the snakes never seemed to harm him. I think Tom quite likes them."

"I see," Hermione said thoughtfully.

"Is it normal?" Tom Sr. asked her for confirmation, "for this to happen with wizarding children?"

"…no."

"No?" Tom Sr. asked upset.

"Well, I guess it is normal for him. He's what the wizarding world would call a parselmouth. It is a trait he inherited from the Gaunt family and it's extremely rare. He can speak to snakes."

"He can communicate with them?" Tom Sr. asked shocked. "Then those hissing noises he makes…"

Tom Sr. bent down and lifted Tom, propping him to stand. He patted the dirt and bits of grass from his pants then lifted him into his arms. The boy's arms snaked around his father's neck.

"Is it dangerous?" Tom Sr. asked, concern dripping in his voice.

"I wouldn't say that," Hermione answered truthfully, "Tom is actually able to control them. He used it to his advantage in my time. In fact, he was quite proud to a parselmouth. He considered it a gift." She purposely left out the bit about parseltoungue tending to be a trait of dark wizards.

Tom Sr. looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose it should be considered a gift, if it is as rare as you say it is."

He bounced Tom in his arms and the boy giggled.

"He's quiet," Hermione commented.

"Yes," Tom Sr. agreed, "The pediatrician has said it was normal though. Some children are just like that. He is able to express himself well when he needs to. That's what counts."

"Does he play well with other?"

"Yes, I suppose, though I think he prefers to play by himself. He has started reading, you know, quite simple books."

Hermione allowed a small smile at that. She peeked at the little boy with dark hair and rosy skin. He was dressed neat and proper. She could tell he was well cared for and loved not only by his doting father but his grandmother and grandfather. She hoped it would be enough.

. . .

December 1939

Tom Sr. drowned out the sound of crying and tearful sniffles coming from the other side of his son's playroom to look down at his son. Tom was still, his expression closed off as he looked down at his shoes. In Tom's 9 years, he had caused quite a bit of trouble here and there but this was perhaps the worst so far.

"Tom," he said, waiting for his son to look up.

"Tom," he repeated, careful not to sound exasperated.

Tom looked up to meet his father's eyes.

"Why would you do such a thing?"

"I-I-It wasn't Tom's fault Mr. Riddle," a small voice trembled.

Two of Tom's playmates, boys from privileged families, occupied the other side of the room along with the Maid, Mrs. Bryce. At the moment, she was tending to the crying boy, holding a pack of ice to his head as the other boy sat by his side, his eyes wide.

The wide eyed boy spoke again. "The sh-shelf suddenly broke and the b-books fell. Tom had nothing to do with."

Tom Sr. walked towards the bookshelf and the books piled on the floor around it. He rummaged through it and pulled out the broken shelf snapped cleanly down the middle. His brow lifted. The solid oak shelf just snapped, did it?

"Mrs. Bryce, I think it would be best to send the boys back home. They are in no state to play," he commanded. Mrs. Bryce nodded, still fussing over the injured boy. "Tom will invite you back, maybe another day," he said as Mrs. Bryce ushered them out. "Bye, Tom," the wide eyed boy quipped. Tom Sr. didn't miss the other boy muttering a sullen, "sorry," before the door closed behind them.

"Tom," Tom Sr. said once they were alone, "They said you had nothing to do with it. They think it was an accident, but they are wrong, aren't they? You can tell me the truth."

Tom fidgeted and wondered how it was that his father always seemed to see through him in these moments. He hadn't done anything really. It's not like him wishing the shelf to break could actually make the shelf break. It wasn't his fault. So why did he feel a tiny shred of responsibility?

"Tom," his father prompted, drawing his attention back to the question.

"He called me a bastard," Tom told him with a hint of a childish lisp.

"His mum told him not to play with me because you married a whore and sired a bastard."

Tom Sr. visibly grimaced, "You know that's not true Tom. I married your mother and we had you but she passed away. You are not a bastard."

Tom frowned and looked down again. "I know that."

"The why did you try to hurt him? You are a good boy and you know not to listen to silly things like that. You know that you shouldn't hurt people, Tom"

"I didn't mean for him to get hurt," Tom lied. "I didn't know the shelf would actually break," Tom added truthfully.

Tom Sr. sighed. "As long as you know that it was wrong…" Tom Sr. conceded, patting his son's hair back.

"But how did I make the shelf break?" Tom asked suddenly, his eyes round. "Why can I do things other children can't?"

Tom Sr. looked at his son slightly shocked. Just how much had Tom been exploring his powers?

"I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them…" Tom looked up at his father gauging his reaction before looking away quickly.

"Do you think I'm a freak?" he asked so quietly, Tom Sr. could barely hear.

In an instant Tom Sr. was kneeling beside his son, his arms wrapping tightly around him. Tom's eyes widened.

"Of course not!" Tom Sr. answered fiercely. "You're not a freak! You're different, that's all."

"But why?"

Tom Sr. internally debated his answer before finally deciding it was time to tell Tom…

"You're magic," he said, releasing his son and looking into his eyes.

"… Magic," Tom whispered, looking at him strangely. "You mean like the magic in fairytales?"

"Something like that…" Tom Sr. answered. "Actually, I don't know much about Magic," he answered truthfully and his heart sank when his son seemed disappointed by that.

"But I can tell you that witches and wizards are real."

"Prove it," Tom said suddenly and suspiciously. He pulled his hand out of his father's grasp.

Tom Sr. was taken aback. "I… I can't. I told you, I don't know much about magic," he reminded his son. Then he recalled something Jean had mentioned in passing. "But I know one thing! When you turn 11, they will… they will come for you," he said, his excitement falling. "They will come and take you away. To teach you Magic."

"You're serious," Tom realized, his mind racing.

Tom Sr. sighed and began to pick the pile books off the floor, cleaning up the mess his son had made. He never noticed the glint in Tom's eyes.