Forty Four

The Father

  The room was a void, a grey expanse swallowed by shadow, broken only by the weak flicker of candlelight. The air was heavy, stifling, and the smell of damp stone clung to the walls. At the room's centre, a man was bound to a chair, his head obscured by a rough burlap sack. His breaths were shallow and ragged, echoing faintly in the silence.

  The door creaked open, and footsteps, deliberate and cold, approached. Figures loomed in the dim light, their faces obscured by shadow as they circled the captive like vultures. One of them nudged the man in the chair, and the door opened once more, this time admitting Tom, his presence an oppressive force in the room. He moved with the grace of a predator, his dark robes whispering against the cold stone floor.

  Tom's eyes fell on the man with the bag over his head. His expression was one of mild curiosity, an eyebrow arched as he glanced at Ben, who stood nearby with a smug grin on his face."Well, who's this then?" Tom asked, his tone casual, unaware of the treacherous games Ben had been playing behind his back—games meant to sabotage Tom, all in the name of Voldemort's twisted cause.

  Ben's grin widened as he stepped forward, eager to reveal his handiwork. With a flourish, he yanked the bag off the man's head.

  Tom's expression changed in an instant. His face paled, the shock in his eyes quickly giving way to fury. There, bound to the chair, was Horace Slughorn, his old Potions professor. Slughorn's eyes, wide and full of fear, locked onto Tom's, searching for any sign of the boy he once knew.

  "What in Merlin's name have you done?" Tom's voice was a low, dangerous hiss, his gaze burning into Ben. "Get this man untied."

  Ben's confidence crumbled. He had expected praise, not this icy anger. With a hesitant flick of his wand, the ropes binding Slughorn fell away, and Ben stepped back, awkward and uncertain.

  Tom didn't take his eyes off Ben. "Leave us," he ordered, the command sharp enough to cut.Ben hesitated, then nodded, retreating from the room with his tail between his legs. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Tom and Slughorn alone in the flickering gloom.

  Tom took a step forward, his demeanour softening as he addressed his old professor. "Professor—"

  "I have nothing for you, Voldemort." Slughorn's voice was firm, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him. He used the name like a weapon, hoping it would keep Tom at bay.

  Tom fell silent, his gaze softening, the weight of their shared history settling heavily between them. Slughorn was one of the few who had ever seen him as anything other than a monster—one of the few who had treated him with kindness, back when Tom was just a boy with a thirst for knowledge.

  "I do apologise, Professor," Tom said finally, his tone sincere. "I did intend to speak with you, but not like this."

  Slughorn's face twitched, his expression a mix of fear and reluctant understanding. He remained seated, his body tense, but he did not attempt to flee.

  Tom gestured toward a small table in the corner, where Slughorn's wand waited. "Please, come and have a drink with me. Though you're under no obligation. You're free to leave. I'll fetch your wand."

  Slughorn hesitated, his gaze locked on Tom's. He could see the remnants of the boy he had once taught in the man before him—the charm, the intellect, the disarming smile. But that boy had grown into something far darker, far more dangerous. And yet, something in Slughorn softened. Perhaps it was nostalgia, or perhaps it was the flicker of hope that Tom Riddle was not entirely lost.

  With a curt nod, Slughorn agreed to the drink.

---

  The bar was a cacophony of noise and chatter, filled with oblivious Muggles who paid no mind to the two wizards sitting at the counter. It was one of the few places Tom could go without being recognised, without the whispers and fear that usually followed him. He had chosen this bar for its anonymity, a place where the infamous Voldemort could simply be another patron.

  Tom uncorked a bottle and poured the dark liquid into two glasses, the rich amber filling the silence between them. He slid one glass toward Slughorn, their eyes locking for a brief moment. In that instant, it was as if they had been transported back to the cozy warmth of Slughorn's office at Hogwarts, where Tom had once been a promising student, his future still unwritten. The years of darkness, the choices that had led them here, seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the memory of what once was.

  Slughorn hesitated before taking the glass, his hand trembling slightly. He knew better than to trust Tom, yet something in the younger man's gaze held him there, a flicker of the boy he once admired. 

  They drank in silence for a while, the tension slowly dissolving into a heavy, contemplative quiet. The dim light of the bar—a Muggle establishment far from prying eyes—cast a warm glow on their faces, but it did little to lighten the mood.

  Finally, Tom broke the silence. "I have you to thank, you know." His voice was soft, almost reflective.

  Slughorn looked at him, his heart skipping a beat. He feared Tom meant the knowledge of Horcruxes, the cursed knowledge he had unwittingly provided all those years ago. But Tom's eyes were distant, lost in a memory.

  "Not just for the Horcruxes, Professor," Tom continued, his voice tinged with a rare vulnerability, "but for her."

  Slughorn's heart sank. He knew he meant Rosalie. Her name brought a wave of sadness crashing over him. She had been one of the brightest students he had ever taught, full of life and promise. And now, she was gone, her life snuffed out far too soon. Slughorn had suspected that the very man who had taken her life was sitting right beside him, but the confirmation in Tom's tone was a dagger to his heart. He said nothing, lost in a trickling of grief.

  Tom continued, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "'You look like a real couple,' you told us. You practically forced us together in your classes, though of course, I later learned that Rosalie had another agenda."

  He chuckled, the sound hollow and dark. "She was sent to spy on me, you know. To kill me, even. But somehow, I made her fall in love with me. Or, perhaps it was more the other way around. That she could change so much... It made me fonder of her, I think. That I could change her as much as she changed me."

  Tom took another sip of his drink, the liquid burning his throat, grounding him in the present. "You know, Professor, I killed my entire family when I was a boy. I was disgusted by my own name, by the thought that my mother had loved a Muggle, that she had forced him to love her, and when he wasn't truly able to, it resulted in my abandonment. The thought that love could do that... it disgusted me."

  Slughorn's eyes widened at Tom's confession, but he remained silent, listening intently.

  "But then Rosie... she made me proud of my name again. She unburdened me, Professor. She committed to me in a way no follower of mine ever could. They stay with me because they fear me, but she... she stayed because of love."

  Tom's voice grew quieter, more pained. "But now she's gone. Gone, and every part of her went with her. I still—I don't think I can process it. Some part of me believes she's still alive. But now that she's not here to share my name, I find myself despising it again."

  Slughorn looked at Tom, a pang of pity in his chest. "Rosalie was truly a beautiful person. Inside and out."

  Tom nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "You're right, Professor. Nothing could compare."

  Slughorn, feeling a rare surge of confidence, spoke again. "She was pregnant, wasn't she?"

  Tom's smile faded, his expression tightening with pain. "She was. We were having a son. He would... he'd almost be three now if... if she hadn't..." His voice trailed off, choked by the weight of his loss. "But I'm not sure if a love for my son would ever compare to my love for Rosalie. I dislike many parts of myself, Professor, and I believe I would've held that against my children as well."

  Slughorn shook his head gently. "I think it might've surprised you how much you could love your child, Tom. Because as much as he was a part of you, he was a part of Rosalie as well."

  Tom looked away, lost in thought, the truth of Slughorn's words settling into his mind. After a long pause, Tom spoke again, his voice more composed. "I was going to make you an offer, Professor. Of joining me."

  Slughorn looked at Tom, his answer already decided. "You already know my answer, Tom."Tom smirked, a hint of respect in his eyes. "Yes, yes I do. I thank you for your time, however."

  Slughorn finished his drink, setting the glass down with finality. He reached out, clapping Tom on the back in a gesture that felt almost fatherly. "Goodbye, Tom."

  Tom didn't reply, his mind elsewhere, consumed by thoughts of what was lost and what could never be regained. He remained in the bar long after Slughorn had left, nursing his drink and his regrets in the fading light.

---

  He poured himself another glass as the night went on, the amber liquid swirling in the dim light. As he brought the glass to his lips, his mind drifted back to Rosie, to the days when she worked in a place like this after she had left him, tending to Muggles with a smile that was reserved for him alone. He could still see her behind the bar, her hair cascading down her shoulders, the way her top clung to her figure, drawing the attention of every man in the room. But it was her eyes, those deep, knowing eyes, that held him captive. 

  Even though she had once left him, she had eventually forgiven him, and in her forgiveness, he had found a fleeting moment of peace. Sometimes he still couldn't understand how she had moved on from him killing William. He could see it himself now how it hurt her, how it hurt her friend even more. But still, she had accepted him back and made peace.

  But that peace was shattered now. The world without Rosalie was a barren place, devoid of colour and warmth. His thoughts of her were a cruel reminder of what he had lost, of the life they could have had, if only things had been different. If only he hadn't hurt her with his obsession, his need for control, with the very curse he meant for someone else. He downed the drink in one go, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest.

  The night air outside the bar was cool, a stark contrast to the warmth inside, where Tom had drowned his memories in glass after glass of whiskey. The alcohol dulled his senses, but not enough to erase the ever-present ache that gnawed at him—a hollow, gnawing emptiness where Rosalie used to be. As he walked, his mind was a haze, each step heavy with the burden of loss and the unbearable weight of his guilt.

  A faint click of heels echoed behind him, and he slowed his pace, sensing her presence before he saw her. She was young, her steps uneven as she followed him down the dimly lit street. He stopped abruptly, turning to face her. Her breath was hot against his skin as she leaned in close, her eyes wide and glazed with intoxication.

  "It's rather creepy to follow someone home, don't you think?" he said, his voice cutting through the night air. He noticed soon enough the wand in her hand, dressed in black he realised she was a witch.

  "You're so handsome," she whispered, her words slurred, dripping with a drunken desire that meant nothing to him. "I was watching you all night. You didn't notice me."

  Tom's lip curled in disgust, but he hesitated, something within him stirring—a cruel trick of the light, perhaps, or the way her hair caught the faint glow of the streetlamp. It was the same colour as Rosalie's, that rich, chestnut hue that had once shimmered in the sunlight, framing a face that was now only a memory. The curve of her smile, the tilt of her head—it was almost enough to make him forget, just for a moment. Almost.

  But as she looked up at him with a hunger that had nothing to do with love, the illusion shattered. This girl was not Rosalie. She could never be Rosalie. The realisation cut through him, a sharp reminder of the void that no one else could ever fill.

  "Let me go home with you," she purred, her voice a feeble attempt at seduction, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.

  Tom hesitated, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. He knew he should walk away, leave her standing in the street, but something dark and twisted within him wanted to pretend—just for a moment longer. The need to feel something, anything, that might fill the emptiness inside was too overwhelming to resist.

  "Fine," he muttered, the word leaving his lips before he could stop it. "Come on."

  They apparated together, the sudden, jarring shift in reality disorienting her further. When they arrived in his room at Ben's estate, she swayed on her feet, giggling as she tried to steady herself. She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on the dark corners as if searching for something familiar.

  "I swear I know you from somewhere... Are you famous?" she asked, her voice tinged with a childlike curiosity that grated on his nerves.

  "Something like that," he replied, his tone flat, devoid of any real emotion. He didn't care to explain, didn't care to correct her. All he wanted was for this to be over like the other times, for the gnawing ache in his chest to subside, even if just for a moment.

  They stumbled into the bedroom, and she pressed herself against him, her lips tasting of cheap wine and desperation. The touch, instead of igniting any semblance of desire, only deepened the void within him. Her clumsy hands fumbled at his clothes, and when she whispered in his ear, calling him handsome again, the words were hollow, meaningless.

  Revulsion rose within him, a wave of nausea that he barely suppressed. He pushed her onto the bed, his hands moving to undo his belt with mechanical precision, each motion fuelled by a need to numb the pain, to forget—even if just for a fleeting moment.

  "Turn around," he ordered, his voice hardening with an edge that bordered on cruelty.She tried to look back at him, a playful smile on her lips, but he snapped, hating the sight of her face. "Keep your head down."

  The harshness in his tone made her freeze, and she complied, turning away from him. He touched her hair, closing his eyes, forcing himself to pretend, to imagine that it was Rosalie beneath him. But the texture was wrong, coarse where Rosalie's had been soft. The scent was all wrong, an overpowering perfume that sickened him.

  He continued anyway, driven by a desperate need to fill the void inside him, to feel something other than the cold emptiness that had taken root in his soul. But the act was futile, a hollow parody of the love he had lost. The more he tried to cling to the illusion, the more it slipped through his fingers, leaving him with nothing but a bitter taste in his mouth.

  When it was over, he pulled on his pants, his movements sharp and angry. The girl lay there, still giggling, her laughter a grating reminder of his own self-loathing, completely unaware of the darkness that simmered beneath his surface.

  "Get out," he snapped, his voice like ice, cutting through the remnants of her laughter.

  She looked up, confused, her laughter dying in her throat. "But I thought—"

  "Get out!" he shouted, his voice rising with a fury he could no longer contain.

  Her face drained of colour as she scrambled to gather her things, the playful smile replaced by a look of fear. She fled the room, the door slamming shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the empty space.

  Tom stood there, breathing heavily, the weight of what he had done crashing down on him. The revulsion he felt toward the girl paled in comparison to the disgust he felt for himself. The smell of her, the feel of her skin—everything about her repulsed him. He ripped the blankets and sheets from the bed, tossing them aside as if they could rid him of the stench, the filth that clung to him like a second skin.

  He sank onto the bare mattress. He turned to the small table beside the bed, where a single picture rested—the photograph of Rosalie he had taken when she was pregnant, her smile radiant, her eyes filled with the love that had once warmed his cold heart. In front of the picture sat his wedding ring, the one physical reminder of the bond they had shared, a bond that now felt like a distant, unattainable dream.

  With trembling hands, he picked up the ring, clutching it tightly as tears welled in his eyes. He tried to fight them back, but they came anyway, hot and silent, slipping down his cheeks in a relentless torrent.

  "I'm sorry, my love," he whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of his guilt. "Please forgive me."

  The tears came harder now, and he pressed the ring to his lips, closing his eyes as he tried to imagine her there with him, to feel her presence one last time. But all he felt was the crushing weight of his own guilt, the unbearable loneliness of a world without her.

  He had betrayed her, even in death, and the thought tore him apart. He lay down, curling into himself, the ring still clutched in his hand. The darkness of the room closed in around him, but it was nothing compared to the darkness in his heart. He had lost Rosalie, and with her, he had lost the only part of himself that had ever been capable of love. Now all that remained was a broken man, haunted by the ghost of the woman he could never truly have.

---

  The morning sun barely penetrated the heavy curtains as Tom made his way through the narrow streets of London, his head pounding from the night before. Every step felt like an eternity, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him as he approached the old apartment. It had been years and years since he and Rosalie had lived there, yet the place still held a strange, magnetic pull on him. He returned often, seeking solace in the memories of a time when life had been simpler, when love had been enough to block out the darkness.

  The building looked the same as it always had, a weathered relic of their youth. As he reached the door, he paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob, memories flooding his mind. This was where they had begun their life together, where they had hidden from the world and created their own. But that world had been shattered, and all that was left were the fragments he clung to like a lifeline.

  He pushed open the door and stepped inside, the foyer the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath his feet bringing a bittersweet smile to his lips. 

  As he moved up the stairs and through to the apartment, his fingers brushed over the worn railing. He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of the door across from their old apartments opening. He turned to see their old neighbours Mr. and Mrs. Evans, their faces lighting up with recognition as they spotted him.

  "Tom!" Mrs. Evans exclaimed, a warm smile spreading across her face. "We haven't seen you in ages. Do you still own the place?"

  He and Rosalie had joked at first about the couples last name when they first heard the name 'Evans'. It had been the very name Rosie herself had used to disguise herself at Hogwarts in the early days. She had always called it fate, but now it seemed like calculated mockery.

  Tom forced a smile, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Yes, I still do. Just came by to... to check on things."

  The couple exchanged a glance, and Mrs. Evans's smile faltered slightly. "Where's Rosalie? We've missed seeing her around. She always used to lend me flour when I was baking. Such a sweet girl."

  Tom's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Rosalie's kindness. He could almost see her, just nineteen years old, standing at the Evans' door with a bag of flour in her hand, that sweet, innocent smile on her face. They had been so young then, so naive, running away from a world that had never understood them. They had thought they could escape it all, but the world had caught up with them in the end.

  "She's... she's at home," Tom lied, the words catching in his throat. The truth was too painful, too final. He couldn't let himself think otherwise. "Waiting for me."

  Mrs. Evans's smile returned, brighter this time. "Well, you both must come over for dinner sometime. We always meant to invite you, but you two were always so busy. It would be lovely to catch up."

  "I'll talk to Rosie about it," Tom said, his voice hollow. The lie was a comfort, a way to keep the reality at bay for just a little longer.

  Mrs. Evans glanced down at her swollen belly, her hands resting protectively over the bump. "We're expecting a little girl soon. We're thinking of naming her Petunia."

  Tom nodded, forcing another smile at the pair of them. The name struck him as odd—there were so many prettier names for flowers—but he knew better than to voice his opinion. "It's beautiful," he lied.

  "Well, I have to be going now," he said abruptly, the need to escape the conversation overwhelming him. "Take care, and congratulations."

  He turned away before they could respond, heading back into the apartment and closing the door behind him. The encounter had left him shaken, his mind swirling with memories of Rosalie—her laughter, her warmth, the way she had made even the most mundane tasks seem magical.

  He had never liked the company of muggles, but he had come to realise their neighbours weren't so terrible. They seemed like a nice enough couple, blissfully unaware of the lives that their old neighbours had lead.

  Tom eyed the bottle of whiskey on the counter, the one he kept there for when he needed to think about her. His hand reached for it almost involuntarily, the need to drown his sorrows stronger than his desire to face them. The first glass went down easy, the second a little rougher, but by the third, the ache in his chest had dulled to a manageable throb. 

  He sank onto the worn couch, looking around at the photos on the mantel, the small trinkets that Rosalie had loved. Each item held a piece of her, a memory frozen in time. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough to fill the void she had left behind.

  He let the alcohol numb his thoughts, his mind drifting back to the days when Rosalie was still with him.

---

  Tom awoke the next morning again in his bed to the sound of the door creaking open, his head pounding, his mouth dry. He groaned, rubbing his temples as he stumbled through Ben's estate, the remnants of his hangover clinging to him like a second skin.

  One of the servants approached him cautiously, a look of concern on his face. "Sir... are you drunk this early?"

  Tom snarled at the man, his temper flaring. "What do you want?"

  The servant held up a newspaper, his expression shifting to one of unease. "It's about Rosalie, sir."

  The words sliced through the fog in Tom's mind, his heart skipping a beat. He lunged forward, snatching the paper from the man's hands. His eyes scanned the headline, disbelief washing over him.

Rosalie Grindelwald—Thought to Be Dead—Defeats Dumbledore in a Battle and Flees.

  Tom froze, the newspaper slipping from his fingers as if it had burned him. His heart pounded in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears as his mind struggled to process the words he had just read. The room seemed to tilt, reality warping around him as disbelief clawed at the edges of his sanity.

  For a moment, all he could do was stand there in stunned silence, his world narrowing to the words on the page. Then, a sharp, bitter laugh escaped his lips, a sound so harsh and hollow it seemed to cut through the very air. His eyes, cold and furious, locked onto the servant standing before him.

  "Do you want to be killed?" Tom's voice was low, menacing, each word dripping with venom. The idea that anyone would dare play such a twisted, cruel joke on him was incomprehensible. The rage that simmered beneath his calm exterior threatened to boil over.

  The servant flinched, his face pale as he stammered, "I swear, sir! It's real! I picked it up this morning—Master Avery is pacing down the hall this minute."

  Tom's gaze snapped back to the paper, his hands trembling as he snatched it up again. His heart raced, thudding painfully against his ribs as he scanned the page, the letters blurring before his eyes. It couldn't be true. It was impossible.

  But there it was, in bold print.

  "They got her name wrong," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. The absurdity of the situation hit him like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that left him reeling. He clung to that small error, the misprint of her name being Grindelwald and not Riddle, as if it could somehow invalidate the entire article, as if it could protect him from the overwhelming tide of emotions crashing over him. 

  But even as he tried to dismiss it, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest, igniting a fire that had long since been extinguished. He wasn't sure if he believed it, but he had to know for certain.

  He turned to the servant, his voice cold and commanding. "Prepare a search party. We're finding my wife."

  The servant nodded, rushing off to carry out his orders, leaving Tom alone with his thoughts. He sank into a nearby chair, his mind racing. Could it be true? Could Rosalie really be alive?

  The possibility was both exhilarating and terrifying. If she was alive, everything would change. He would have to face her, explain why he hadn't come for her, why he had let himself believe she was gone. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was finding her, bringing her back where she belonged—by his side.

  Tom's hand clenched into a fist, determination hardening his resolve. He would find Rosalie, no matter what it took. And when he did, he would never let her go again.

A/N

BOOM YEAH YEAH WE'RE GONNA SEE OUR FAVOURITE TOXIC COUPLE !!!!! sorry in advance yall are going to hatteeee me :')