Hello Father

Written for the Ollivander's Challenge on tumblr. Prompt: Horcrux creation process.

A/N: I considered not writing this story, and spent 3 days debating whether I should write it. For some reason, the story captivated me and demanded to be written. All errors are mine, since I wouldn't ask my three lovely betas to touch this story due to the nature of the content.

A/N2: rated MA/NC-17 for gritty and raw themes that are not for kids or the faint of heart. This is not a story for 17 and under.

A/N3: This is a Dark!Fic, with warnings: there is magical non-con in it. You have been warned. - DG

Tom Riddle stood in the parlor of the ancestral home. The butler for the manor left him standing in the drawing room to gaze upon the works upon the walls. From appearances, this was a wealthy residence, and one which spoke of older money and social standing. The books on the mantle of the room were old, like the dust on the shelves. It was no matter either way. It might be his shortly, but he had no interest in claiming his filthy Muggle heritage.

He loathed them.

He fought the rage in his heart, fury at being rejected by the disgusting humans in this house. He loathed the excuses at the Orphanage he was forced spend his summers at, bored to tears and frustrated with the buggering laws that forbid him to perform magic outside Hogwarts.

He railed against his weak and pathetic mother, who had the gall to die instead of staying and raising him. He despised his mad Uncle, and his abhorrent excuse for a family. Who needs them? I have adherents at school, followers who believe like I do. I don't need the wretched excuse of an Uncle, or these bastard Muggles who left me there to flounder. They are nothing to me, now or then.

They will soon feel my fury.

"Mr. Gaunt, Master Riddle will see you now. Please follow me."

Tom turned while keeping his face placid and neutral. He had no qualms about what he was about to perform. He knew the magic. He knew the spells. He accepted that to achieve his desire, he had to perform these simple tasks. The pain would pass, performing murder. The Mudbloods in this house weren't worth the mud on his boots.

He had the ring in the pocket of his jacket, along with the wand stolen from his uncle. The perfect crime, foisted on a person who would only corroborate his supposed actions. Weak minded excuse for a wizard, if that. He's nothing more than a squib if you ask me. No matter. I shall cauterize that thread before the night is out.

The butler took them to the back hallway, descending the wood paneled stairs to the lower parlor. He knew the appearance of such a room, having spent the occasional holiday with his followers from school. A fire was banked in the room, radiating warmth on a chilly evening.

He stood in the doorway while he awaited announcement to the three mudbloods in the room. He saw the resemblance to his haughty grandfather, hair thin and gray upon his head, wrinkles coursing down his neck into the collar hidden behind a cravat. His housecoat was a rich navy, along with his dressing slippers. He sat in a comfortable chair near the fire, letting the heat radiate off his parchment skin.

In the chair in the corner sitting demurely was a dainty woman. She must be his grandmother. She was petite, haughty too, a certain airs about her that set his teeth on edge. She looked like a ruddy Hufflepuff, putting on airs she had no business possessing.

But the one who stoked his anger was the man sitting in front of him. He was well groomed, dressed in tailored attire, looking a mirror of what he saw daily. Only vicious self-discipline stayed his hand for the time being. He had questions that needed answers before he would prune this branch of his life.

Thomas Riddle conveyed his instructions to the butler, where Tom Riddle heard the comment from his grandfather, "… retire and we'll ask Tom to see him out. We'll call for tea in the morning."

"Very good sir. Goodnight."

The butler toddled out of the room while closing the door behind him.

"Mr. Gaunt, how may we help you this evening?" spoke his Grandfather from the corner. Tom ignored the inquiry, laying his revelation upon the man sitting before him.

"Hello Father."

Tom knew that his words would have an effect, and he wanted to drink in their reactions before proceeding further. As expected, his father recoiled in an instant, while his grandfather put down his glass of distilled beverage. Only his grandmother in the corner showed no reaction. Probably just as weak minded as my uncle is.

"Please forgive me for using my mother's family name, but I wanted to make sure that I was granted an audience this evening. My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"Father, this must be some prank. This man before us cannot be my child. I don't have a son."

"Is it now, Tom? I seem to recall you running off with the tramp's daughter back in the late 20s, then returning from London a year later. You never mentioned to us what happened while you were there."

"Tom, is it possible that this handsome young man could be your son? He looks like he could pass for him, as dashing as he is. He looks similar to how you did back in your later youth."

Tom Riddle Sr. stood up from his chair in the room, approaching the younger man before him. His father was tall, dark haired like he was, with watery blue eyes. He was dressed like his grandfather, in a smoking jacket of burgundy velvet, still attired in a tailored shirt and tie.

His sneer was ugly, betraying the dismissal from the young man in front of him. Riddle gripped the wand in his pocket, itching to make an example of the man before him: to teach his father to respect his superiors.

"So tell me, son, who was your mother? Where is she and why is she not here with you to make a claim against me?"

Riddle turned his back, walking to the spare chair in the room to discard his cloak. He needed a second to tamp down the ire he felt. He still needed answers before he would have his revenge. Once placed, he walked back to confront his father.

"My mother died in childbirth an hour after she delivered me. Her only request was that I be named for you and my other grandfather. Tom Marvolo Riddle. But since I have returned, I shall inform you further. My other grandfather is dead, at least according to my decrepit uncle in that shack outside of Little Hangleton."

His grandfather continued to sit in the corner, watching his son confront whom he assumed to be his grandson. If it wasn't so serious he would laugh over another brandy. "Well, then, tell us how you came to find us in Greater Hangleton. It's nothing more than a flyspeck on the warts-arse of this island."

"When I am not in school in Scotland, I reside in London. One day while at the orphanage, I came across you name in a society page listing in the Daily Mirror. You were in London for business and attended a party for some up-country dignitary with a few minor nobles from the same region. It was rather amusing to read, and I almost tossed the information aside until I saw my father's face in the picture that was shown." Tom pulled the broadsheet from his jacket and handed it to his father. "When I saw the sneer on your face in the picture, I knew I needed to seek you out."

Tom Sr. glanced once at it then handed it to his father. Thomas read the snippet and saw the picture on the page. He chuckled. "Well, Tom, it seems that someone caught you in a less than astounding image. I've had many a picture taken as well, but this is truly harsh."

"Yet that is the key, grandfather. That sneer on his face was what caught my attention." Tom sneered at his father before turning his features neutral towards his grandparents. "The family resemblance was quite uncanny."

Tom turned back to his father before him. The older man appeared bored at the confrontation.

"Once I had your name and village where you resided, it was easy to research in the libraries of London. Finding this flyspeck of a village on a map was easy. I had to wait until term ended before I could make my way to come calling. It wasn't as if I could ring up a solicitor to make official inquiries, or be introduced at a gathering in London to make a proper social introduction before I came to visit."

Mary Riddle put down her knitting to focus on her grandson.

"Tom, you mentioned that you were in school in Scotland, yet reside in London when you're not there. Can you tell us about that?"

Tom gave his grandmother in the corner his most charming smile. He knew from the moment he laid eyes on her that she was worthless to talk to. She was nothing more than breathing décor in this room. He tried to hide his disdain for her, and the smile she reciprocated showed that it worked.

"I attend a special boarding school in Scotland. I'm there most of the year, and only return to London during the summer. The rest of the year, I am at school. But my summer is spent at the orphanage where I was left. It's rather boring really since most of the people I know at school aren't there."

"You are still at an Orphanage Tom? How is that possible?"

Tom looked at his grandmother. She was trying to be polite in her callous questions. Pity for her she won't live much longer. She has been kind.

"I won't be emancipated from there until December. Until then I have a room and a cot. It's nothing more than a place to lay my head while term is not in session. But once fall Term starts, I won't have to return again."

"How can you afford the school, Tom?"

Tom's eyes flashed angry. Thomas frowned from his seat when he saw the change in appearance. "I can't, obviously. I am there because of charity. My robes are well cared hand-me-overs, and my school books and supplies are second hand. It's no matter now. I've made a name for myself, earning a prefect's badge, and I expect to have a letter in London once I return naming me Head Boy. So in spite of being at every disadvantage in comparison, and being the lowest of social status when I arrived there almost seven years prior, I am the one that everyone will look up to. I am the one student whom the professors ask questions of, and whom other students turn to if there is a problem."

Tom turned back to his grandfather and father. Tom Sr. sat while he had been conversing with his grandmother. "It's rather fortunate that I have the tools to succeed. It seems that I have an abundance of ambition, a thirst for knowledge and a desire to better my station in life. I have all of these talents and gifts and none of it is in thanks to you."

Tom stuck his hand back in his jacket, grasping the wand in his hand. He knew the plan he fomented and understood that once he made the first step, time would be essential. The owl would track to the wand, not the wizard using it. From London to Little Hangleton would take about two hours, so he had to work efficiently this night. He had murder most foul to perform before returning to London.

"As you can see, as much as it would have been nice to have been accepted and wanted by any of my family, I was cast aside like rubbish by the man sitting before me. I know. I made inquiries in town, speaking with the local bird that has a penchant for gossip and appreciated the attention when I called upon her earlier this evening. It wasn't hard asking her about the sordid and salacious details involving young Master Riddle, and his parents as well."

He gauged the reaction from the men. He knew his grandmother wouldn't have the mental acuity to recognize the danger that was building. She was frowning, while the anger was building in the men before him. His father was in a temper already, and his grandfather, whom he had some grudging respect for since he could control his emotions better, was still frowning at what was transpiring.

"The other family I unfortunately can claim is nothing more than a pathetic excuse for humanity. I can't decide which one of you, that decrepit tramp of an uncle living in squalor, or the haughty excuse of Muggles before me is more loathsome. I can almost excuse my Uncle, since he is nothing more than a vicious shell of a man. You on the other hand, sit here in comfort with disdain. You shelter a son who not a man but a boy clothed in man's attire. Instead of taking responsibility for his actions – of which my mother paid the price for her weakness and shame – sits before me in a temper when called out for his lack of action."

"How dare you claim – "

"Oh, but I dare Father. 18 years and not once did I hear from you, nor have inquiries to my health in that institution known as an orphanage. I've had only a handful of people in the years past that inquired into my welfare. One is a professor at the school I attend. The rest were nothing more than passing professionals with no consideration for whom I am. To the world, I was nothing more than an orphan from tragic circumstances, born to a woman with nowhere else to turn. Instead of fighting to live and raise me, she died like the weak woman she was."

"Tom, how can we help now? I admit that I didn't know until tonight that my son was a father. I am disappointed that he had responsibilities he shirked. But I would hope we can rectify that from this point forward."

Tom gripped the wand harder, making the preparations for what was about to happen. He felt the excitement, the anticipation growing, and a reaction he didn't expect. He knew the ritual to perform, but didn't fathom why he was aroused. No matter about that. The bird before him was nothing to him. The men before him were who held his ire. They were an obstacle to what he wanted in life. He knew his ambitions and having Muggles as relations would not help in the least.

"After tonight, I plan on never calling again. I realized in my original misguided naivety that I might be welcome in this manor if I presented myself like the man before me – dressed in acceptable attire and carrying myself like the highborn I should have been. I was mistaken that I would be accepted by my father and his relations."

Tom turned once more to face his father. "My uncle, the disgusting refuse of a man, accepted me since I spoke his native voice. He is nothing more than a revenant but he proved to be useful this evening. Have no worry, for after tonight, I will have no need to call upon him either."

Tom rehashed the plan in his mind one last time. The book proved to be useful in theory, explaining what he would need to do. But his followers at school were the most useful for committing murder most foul. Avery told him that the first was the hardest, but finding the easiest victim that wouldn't fight back would make it palatable. Individually they wouldn't be enough to rip his soul in half. Collectively, with the murders he planned, would be enough to rip it.

He would kill the grandmother first. He didn't want to hear her screaming when he killed the son. The last would be the father, whom he held the disdain for. The grandfather would be the second, for he was the one who knew yet never acted. Such cowardice made manifest in flesh. He would give him a chance, however miniscule, to fight back.

"Get out you bastard."

"Oh have no fear, Father, for I shall depart shortly. I have one last task to perform before I depart this evening. However you are incorrect Father. I am hardly a bastard. I checked. You were married to my mother for the spell when I was conceived. So you may call me a bastard, you may imply that I wasn't an honorable birth, but last time I checked, you were never divorced from her, and only her death freed you from the bonds of your lawful marriage. You may claim that you were enthralled and bewitched, married under false pretenses. That is nothing more than legal technicality on your part. The fact that you never took another wife shows that you believed it to be legitimate and found no way to claim otherwise without appearing in polite society as a nutter."

He wordlessly did the incantations and froze the men in their chairs. Another quick non-verbal spell silenced them.

He eyed the now frozen men before him. "Now I want you to witness the power of the man I am. You only saw the man in the clothes before you, not recognizing the true power of who I am. You will witness my transformation."

Tom turned to his grandmother, sitting dumbly in the corner chair. "My apologies Grandmother. You have been kind this evening for your hospitality."

Tom pulled the wand from his jacket and pointed it at his grandmother in the corner.

Avada Kedavra

Mary Riddle slumped back in her chair, dead a week without a mark on her. What a waste of pretty words on an empty woman.

Tom ignored his non-voluntary reaction. He expected it this time. Carnal pleasure now dimmed compared to the power he controlled at his fingertips. Blimey, he was right. Power was more seductive than pleasure of the flesh.

Tom turned to the men before him, looking at the rage in his father's eyes, and the horror on his grandfather. He took delight in seeing the realizations cross their emotions.

He flicked his wand, and his grandfather was released from the spell.

"What did you do?" Venom dripped from his voice. "Tell me now."

"A mercy which neither one of you shall receive."

Thomas Riddle picked up a poker from the side of the fireplace, holding it like a rapier he wished he had. "Tom, get up and help me."

"He will not be able to assist, Grandfather. I leave you this one chance, one hope that might save you. Then again, I know that it is false since you won't be able to touch me. But try against me."

The elder Riddle swung his fireplace poker, intending to die on his feet. He saw combat during the first Great war, and knew he was a dead man. He swung anyway, the force of the rebound off of the shield charm holding while he flailed away at it. He still fought, his arms failing in exhaustion.

"Did I not tell you Grandfather that it was false hope? At least now when you perish, mere moments from now, will you know that you died on your feet fighting fate. Too bad you didn't teach your son that lesson."

Thomas Riddle held his poker in his hands, holding his fighting stance. Defiance radiated from his features. "Do your worst," he spit venom at the monster before him.

Avada Kedavra

Thomas Riddle landed in a heap, still holding his poker before him, the light out of his eyes.

Tom turned to the last of his family, the father who never accepted him, who saw him as nothing but a bastard. This one he would relish and the one that he would make the Horcrux from. The first two whet his appetite. It was no wonder now that he was in the state he was in and would use it to his advantage shortly.

He flicked his wand, freeing only his head. Rage radiated off of him.

"You ruddy bastard. Why the hell did you kill them? They were innocent!"

"Innocent you say? Only an innocent would have taught you to be a man, and take responsibility for your actions."

"Your mother was nothing more – "

"Silence Muggle. Do not interrupt me again."

Tom Sr. quieted. He felt the impotence in the situation with no idea on how to escape. Sweat broke out on his brow.

"It's not a question of your fate, but you still have some use for me yet. I however need answers before I dispose of you like the feral swine you are."

He couldn't trust his father to tell the truth. Force was the only way. Tom pointed the wand at his father, ready to commit the mental rape he needed.

Legilimens

Seconds passed while he rifled through the memory of his father's mind. He saw his mother in memory, along with his grandfather and his uncle before he was corrupted further. He saw the horror on his mother's face when Riddle scorned her and fled, the humiliation his father felt in discussing what happened to his own father.

Riddle broke the connection, watching the terror on his father's face, sweat dripping down his features.

"No wonder why you fled father. Mother was abhorrent in appearance. You must have been cursed to have shagged her – or under a powerful potion to have performed with her. But that is no excuse for your cowardice to run. There is no excuse for abandoning me in London for the last 17 years."

Tom Senior sat before his raging son. His only option was silence.

"No words of apology? No remorse father?"

Tom Senior sat paralyzed in fear.

"So be it." Tom stood taller, letting his malice cloud his features. "Any last words father before I destroy you?"

"I didn't know." The lie easy tripped off his tongue. It was the same one that held for the past 18 years.

"Bollocks. I know the truth. I saw it in your mind, her belly swollen with me while you fled. So you've -condemned yourself through your own lies. You're a pathetic excuse for a father."

Tom stepped back from his father, willing the anger coursing through his veins. This murder would be most foul, the rage and fury needing an outlet. He felt the change corrupting his face, his eyes going red in madness. He willed the anger even higher, never having tapped into this much emotion in his life. The man before him invoked it, being cast aside like rubbish. His vengeance would be sweet.

"Wait, Tom, stop – "

"Enjoy oblivion Father!"

You know the spell, you have to mean it.

Avada Kedavra

Tom Riddle Senior slumped in his chair, the final terror filled moments frozen on his face.

Tom took the ring from his pocket, feeling the burn in his veins. He had minutes while the searing pain from tearing his soul was capable of being used for his means. After that, he needed to return to the Gaunt shack on the opposite side of this excuse of a village. The last piece of the puzzle was needed before a clean escape.

He placed his uncle's wand in the pocket, pulling his own from the left. He intended to do the creation with his own powerful wand. Morfin's wand would probably shatter under the magnitude of dark magic he was going to perform.

He laid the ring on the table before him, putting the wand to his heart and muttering the incantation. A string of black tar pulled from his chest, much like a memory for a pensive. It weighted more than a memory. It was hefty on the tip of his wand. He laid the residue on the ring, knowing he had to finish the ritual. He had to finish what he started.

Tom wiped his hand on his trousers before pulling the potions dagger from his left pocket. He wiped his hand across his brow. Blood and sweat were enough to seal the horcrux, at least according to the texts.

He slashed the heel of his hand, watching the essence and blood from his hand drip onto the ring as well. It sucked in the gift of life like it was alive, hungry for more. He would add more if necessary, but the texts said one drop would suffice. He left seven.

One last spell, along with the complication incantation, and the process was finished.

The ring glowed. Outstanding. The ring on his hand proved he was now immortal.

He sealed the cut on his hand with his wand, along with casting a cleansing charm on his attire and his hand. Only then did he slide the ring upon his finger, sliding onto his thin middle finger on his left hand. For now, it would be safest on his hand.

Tom strode to the door to collect his cloak, ready to apparated back to his Uncle's cabin and finish his task. All that was left was to return his Uncle's wand and plant the memory in his mind and he would be free to live without this family.

Tom turned back to the corpses before him, eyes wide in death. Only his father showed the horror on his face from the moment of his destruction.

"Good riddance you mongrels."

Tom Riddle was now dead. Lord Voldemort would now rise, no ties to the mortal world, a G_d among men.