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Over The Summer

Chapter 4: Epilogue

Notes:

There. Since you've been pestering me in the comments, I finally wrote an epilogue.

Chapter Text

London, July 6th, 1950.

 

Tom Marvolo Riddle was sitting at his kitchen table, trying to fix his damn teakettle. The crook in Diagon Alley had told him that it was specially enchanted to brew tea all by itself. Now the thing was trying to brew coffee. Whatever enchantment that idiot had put on it was grossly faulty; all of Tom's efforts to undo the spell had failed. He was about to curse it into next week when he heard an impatient tapping at the windowsill. 

That must be it.  Stomach swaying with nervousness, Tom retrieved the letter and sent the owl off with some treats. He sat back down at the table and flipped it open.

Dear Mr. Riddle,

It greatly pleases me to inform you that your petition to begin a Department of Attorneys and Legal Services in the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been accepted. As per your request, you will be instated as head of the department and may employ and train your own attorneys. Given the number of defendants that are tried by the Wizengamot, it is recommended that you open up as soon as possible. Though your law school curriculum is well-thought-out and detailed, we also suggest that you consult professors at Hogwarts for ideas and improvements. 

I congratulate you on this revolutionary step in improving our justice system, and I believe that you and your department will do quite a lot of good.

Sincerely,

Wilhelmina Tuft

Minister for Magic

Tom stared in shock at the piece of paper for a moment. They had agreed. Somehow, the Ministry had allowed his proposal of a department full of defense attorneys. He expected there to be strong pushback from the Wizengamot, but still. He had won, for now.

Tom reminded himself to send a letter to James thanking him. He had been instrumental in helping Tom write his proposal. (Unfortunately, Tom couldn't give him credit as co-author, because having a Muggle's name on the paper would only decrease the astronomically small chances of it passing.) Like hell he'd be writing to anybody at Hogwarts for "ideas and improvements," though. He had asked Slughorn to pull a few favors for him, but that was where the professors' usefulness ended. They didn't know shit about anything legal, and Dumbledore would have done his utmost to keep Tom from a position of power in the Ministry. (Dumbledore's attitude towards Tom had improved since meeting James and Eliza, but there was still an air of suspicion.)

I win, Dumbles, Tom thought smugly as he began to write his reply to Minister Tuft.

~

It was the obituary that caught Tom's eye. He had been casually flipping through the Muggle newspaper, mostly for anything noteworthy the Muggles were doing, and a name and photograph had jumped out to him: Thomas Frederick Riddle. The man in the picture had a resemblance to Tom. Though he was much older and had a beard, they were undoubtedly related.

Knowing that to be his paternal grandfather, Tom scanned the page.

The successful businessman and landowner Thomas Frederick Riddle passed away yesterday, on July 5th, 1950, in his hometown of Little Hangleton. He was 77 years old.

Thomas is survived by his wife, Mary Louise Riddle (née Williams), his sister Catherine Isabella White, and his son Tom Edmund Riddle. 

Thomas was born in Little Hangleton on March 3rd, 1873 to Richard and Annabelle Riddle. He graduated from Cambridge with a degree in economics, shifting his focus from business to landownership upon inheriting his father's estate in 1912. In 1902, he married the love of his life Mary, and the couple welcomed their only child Tom three years later.

Thomas was a devoted father and a man of many hobbies, including horseback riding, piano, travel, and painting.

A funeral service will be held on July 8th in the Little Hangleton churchyard at 1:30 p.m. If desired, flowers and condolences may be sent to 101 Rose Boulevard, Little Hangleton, Yorkshire.

Well. Wasn't that an interesting little story. Tom felt a pang of irrational jealously that he went unlisted among the surviving family members.

He considered James to be his father and had started getting comfortable with the idea of calling him Dad. But it felt wrong to not attend the funeral of his grandfather. 

~

Sheets of rain poured down on the people gathered in attendance. Tom scanned the faces of those who had bothered to show up, searching for anybody familiar.

There were several businessmen huddling together, shivering in the downpour and muttering among themselves about the weather. Tom figured they were close associates or friends of his grandfather. Either way, he didn't care about them.

There were also a few townspeople milling about. They seemed like they were only there out of obligation, and the only thing they were truly sad about was that they had to stand here in the rain. Apparently, the Riddles weren't very popular around town.

The family members, though. That interested Tom. They were standing around the coffin, shivering from both their tears and the rain. An elderly woman stood with her husband, three adult children, and a small collection of grandchildren and spouses. Presumably, that was Thomas' sister Catherine and her family. 

Another old woman leaned over Thomas Riddle's coffin, weeping and wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief. That must be my grandmother, Tom thought with a sense of shock. He knew she existed, of course, but it was something else seeing her in the flesh.

What made his heart jump into his throat even more, though, was the man rubbing Mary's shoulder. Even from a distance, Tom could see the obvious resemblances. Wavy black hair(though the other man's was styled much better), sharp cheekbones, and deep, dark eyes. If Tom had been around two decades older, they would have been identical twins.

Tom was suddenly frozen in his footsteps, hardly able to form a coherent thought. James Edward Erikson may have been the man raising him, but Tom Edmund Riddle was the man from whom he must have gotten 95% of his genetic material. They had a connection, like it or not.

Tom watched the rest of the funeral from a distance, keeping a close eye on his father. Tom Riddle Senior didn't react much to anything. He was probably disassociated from the whole thing. Tom knew; he had done similar things when faced with stressful situations. The tears and emotional reaction always took some time to really sink in, which gave the impression that he was heartless and unfeeling. Maybe his father had been accused of something similar. That thought only drove home the point that Tom was this man's son.

After an hour or two, the funeral ended and the guests began to drift back home. Part of Tom wanted to run up and greet his father, but he knew that given the circumstances, that would be a very bad choice.

Seeing Tom Riddle Senior had given him a little bit of closure, but not enough. Trying to visit him in person would not end well, and Tom didn't want to establish a personal relationship. It wouldn't be fair to his mum and dad.

A phone call would go equally well, which is to say, not at all. So he decided that a letter would be the easiest route to go. It would give his father the gist of the situation and allow him to digest it without having to stumble through awkward conversations.  

~

Tom spent many long hours at his desk, writing and rewriting letters, trying to get the wording just right. Every time he thought he had something usable, he reread it and found a glaring flaw. Not concise enough, too simplistic, rambling, poor word choice, not enough detail, too sentimental, not sentimental enough.

At around 2:30 a.m., when his trash bin was full of crumpled-up letters, Tom finally gave up on the idea.

He took his favorite photo of him and his parents out of its picture frame. It was a photo of his graduation party from a few years ago. There was a banner declaring so in the background, and everybody in the photo was beaming. It was a very good picture, even if it was a non-moving Muggle one.

Tom duplicated the photo, returning the original to its frame and turning the other one over to scribble on its back.

James, Eliza, and Tom. London, June 1945. 

There. That conveyed all the information it needed too. 

1) Tom Riddle Senior had a son who was the right age to be his and Merope's child. Said son was undoubtedly his given the strong facial resemblance.

2) His son was living in a good home with a family that loved and cared for him.

3) His son had graduated from secondary school and therefore had job and life prospects.

Tom slid the photograph into an envelope. On the front, he wrote  Tom Riddle, 101 Rose Boulevard, Little Hangleton, Yorkshire.  He didn't put a return address, which also sent a message.

Tom walked down to a Muggle mailbox, took a deep breath, and slipped the letter in. 

Notes:

Why the actual literal fuck is this my most popular story. It's ridiculous fluffy nonsense that I wrote when I was like thirteen. It's not even that good it's just Tom Riddle angst---wait I think that's the reason it's popular. God, is the Harry Potter fandom strange.

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