Chapter Text
Once again, his dearest mother avoided his piercing red eyes, like a haunted doe. So, him, with most delicate courtesy, toasting the strawberry Hennessy, greeted his mother cheerfully:
“Might I suggest that we drink to your health, your grace?”
The young man in front of the table shuddered, apparently not so pleased with this title. He managed to speak but was soon overwhelmed by a shouting house elf, levitating another bottle of sparkling water: “You is not suggested to drink alcohol, milady.”
Well, another proper title for his mother, yet another slang to the young man. Theoretically the spouse of Lord Voldemort deserves utmost courtesies without a daring doubt, especially for a mother who gives birth to the only protégé of the Dark Lord, another key to his immortality. But his mother seemed not satisfied, never satisfied. The hollowness behind his eyes suggests nothing but a weary soul, as if all his life was filled up with facade and absurdity. Too absurd to even think about it seriously.
There must be something missing. Sipping the cognac with bubble champagne, Tom let the sweet taste twirled on his tongue before he spoke.
“Did you sleep well, mother?’”
Did you shag for all night?
“No worry, yes.” A quick answer with a hoarse voice. Too quick to think about it before answering. Then it must be a lie.
“You don’t seem as you answered, dear mother.”
You seemed spread and used.
No answer this time, perhaps mother’s not in the mood of sharing his dirty little secret with a grown son. But no matter, Tom’s got to approach to it. A sweet boy he’d always been.
“May I know what happened to your neck? I supposed the ward should prevent mosquitoes from even entering.”
The façade on that young man faded under Tom’s hungry gaze, who was chewing strawberry chips from his cocktail. Adam’s apple moved slowly as he swallowed the fruit, just under his beautiful jawline. Tom had always known how much a pretty face would work, and to which angle could he looks exactly the Apollo in the world. And it worked.
His sheepish mother, overwhelmed by the tension (he positively assumed), almost overturned the whole table when he suddenly upped and left with a murmur, something like “Nothing, nothing happened.”
Syrup tasted like ashes in a sudden. He sat there, all consumed by fiery jealousy and cold disappointment.
Why on earth could his mother not open up to him? They ought to be closely attached, closer than anyone should ever be in the world. They shared his body once, from his soul to his womb. Emerald his eyes, ivory his skin, angelic mother, and the red eyed demon within.
His cock already hard against his robe just imaging how his mother would caress him when he was still inside. When they were still a WHOLE.
*
It might be surprising to wizarding Britain that Tom the protégé doesn’t have a legit name. Unlike his older self who tried hard in anagram just to get rid of his stupid given name, Tom inherited this name from his mother, which in his perception, a maternal blessing instead of merely an eponymous replica of the Dark Lord’s long abandoned youth.
He was not sure whether horcrux could keep a clear memory once they were born, and there were definitely not other cases for his reference. Nagini the snake would have been a good girl had she not let her animality get better of her; the damned diary who almost got addicted to the savior-role-playing little tricks officially merged to their main core of soul not long after Tom was born. Truth to be told, he was eager to know more about his mother’s school life even from the faker, but Voldemort never let it happen.
The diary, after claiming his loyalty to the Dark Lord publicly in Hogwarts taking the shape of Harry Potter, was devoured wasting no time. Personally, Tom believes that diary did this on full intention of vindictiveness. What else in the world, other than the betrayal of the savior, who was carefully cupped in old, wrenched hands of Dumbledore’s, could shred all the faux expectations and illusions into unrecoverable pieces? And what else could an orphan wish to possess even in his wildest dream, other than the little innocent puppet of the stupid headmaster who shamelessly occupied his very first realm for decades, and rejected all his requests out of pure bias and prejudice?
Tom Riddle, would be nothing if not vicious and vindictive, did have some good will, that his mother should get away from all the nonsense of attention and worship. Not that he wished to hide his mother from crowd forever, never the case. He got the feeling from their intimate connection that his mother felt a little bit released once the name of Harry Potter the Savior shattered, though he turned furious and outraged once he found out that the name of Harry Potter, instead of dying from public, was twisted into a publicized tool for exactly another side, under Voldemort’s propaganda.
Now that he hated the Saint Potter thing as much as his mother did, never for a minute had Tom thought of going against this delicate little trick his older self played to fool everyone. This is, to be honest, again for his own interest. He never cared how people were absolved for the sake of Saint Potter, and how they were tamed given the Saint Potter propaganda, that obedience brings mercy and kindness, whilst rebels are condemned to a fate worse than death.
Tom never cared how the Dark Lord made up lies that projecting himself as Lucifer and his dear spouse as the tainted Saint Maria, mimicking Catholic lore that they despise. But in no case would he resist the chance of his mother forced to take up the role of the saint.
Holly crown on his wild hair, killing-curse-green his eyes full of compassion; raven-like lashes shadowing when he lowered his eyelid to look down, diamond trailing and streaming off his cheeks. The saint was locked in a tower surrounded by thousands of wards and his most fierce guard. Peral-white satin wrapped his thin body as if to materialize his innocent virtue.
Let them worship, let them beg for mercy, let his mother believe that there is still redemption for everyone. Let the saint Potter mourn for wizarding Britain where stain of blood already made shipwreck of this country. And him, son to the saint, should rest in mother’s shoulders, sipping his tears as well as his sweet breast milk, appeasing this broken soul by his constant hunger and needs, biting his apple of Adam’s, taking him till they both escape to the Eden’s east.
He would lick his mother’s cunt as if it’s the path to his heart, he would thrust carefully into his place of origin, he would kiss those rosy-red lips like lovers always do, he would gently cup his breasts and tease it with tip, tip, tip.
So he strode in the atrium, ignoring his mother’s panic, knelt down beside him and asked, what makes you so unhappy, mother?
*
What on earth makes his mother so unhappy? Not that he really cares. Sympathy brings agony, in short. After all, it is Harry Potter, of all functioning human, who maintains his humanity by the feeling of pain and guilty, as Tom reasoned. Spoiled concubine he could be, though, Harry was found over and over times indulged in a certain mood. Which, to Tom’ s view, is the alternative of nostalgia.
By no means shall his mother be nostalgic to his previous life, life before HIM. Tom knows little about Harry Potter’s life before his life-long imprisonment, mother never tells. But deep down their connection has shown him the very secret, the sound of his mother’s feelings throbbing on the thin string is almost deafening. He had to distract that.
“What makes you so unhappy, mother?”
The first time he asked, he tried to talk about the name.
“Did you purposely name me after your husband? Or is this just a coincidence?”
Those rosy lips twitched, just above his forehead, as he looked up to meet mother’s doe-like eyes. At that time Tom already looked like a teenager, just the age of his mother. Against his better judgement that a lap-top toddler he should be, he kept his teenager version and laid his mother down on the grass, holding him tightly while buried his head in mother’s chest, savoring the sweet smell. His legit Elixir of Life.
“Your mother named you after your father, wishing that--”
“I’m not talking about Merope, mother.” It’s all cold, cold denial in his words, cold silence around them, and cold frustration stuck in his veins.
It was absolutely disappointing, to think that his mother would purposely mislead their conversation to safe, shallow water. But no, Tom shall not let it be. Grasping the rolled-edge collar, he shifted his body upwards, towering and shadowing his mother like a snake to his prey. Tom paused for seconds before lowering his head and brushing his lips against those redden earlobe, made time to turn his head to another direction so that their eyes should meet. Oh, his doe-eyed mother, if not felt so guilty, should look innocent.
He sensed those intense guilty inking their connection string, and whispered to mother’s ear:
“You know what I am talking about, mom.” Mostly certainly he knew it. Merope, the adoptive mother of that abandoned infant, holds no accountable for the real name of Oedipus. It is true. That Gaunt woman who gave birth to his first life was just fostering. Fate has brought his chosen one to him long after that. On that fatal night, the very piece of soul that dwelled in Harry’s scar had finally found his shelter, his maternal. His dearest mother to his Oedipal complex.
Jet black flooded his vision as he closed his eyes, for the guilty of Harry thickened. No chances should he know what Tom was thinking of exactly. He felt guilty simply because he overlooked the fact that he was the one who gave birth to this Scar-horcrux, and he was trying to deny this ultimately close connection.
“My bad,” he murmured, laid a soft kiss on his dear son’s chin and grinned.
“There’s only one thing I ask for you, mother.” He unbuttoned the gown, exposing his mother’s breasts to warm sunlight before sucking on it. “Promise me that I am the only Tom.”
Not Voldemort, not any other horcrux, just me and nobody else sharing the name you gifted to me. Not even in you screams when you are screwed into mattress. Unless it is with ME.
*
Another chance he approached to his mother, Tom prepared some gifts.
He was familiar with mother’s bedroom. In the tower on northwest corner of the Dark lord’s manor, surrounded by enchanted dark forests ranging miles away to skyline. Out of the fine-cut crystal window lie there dark scenery, as all muggle fairy tales depicted, dark and misery. Roses flourished on thistles and thorns just like bloodstains on the throne, devil vines coiled waiting for a good hunting. No trespassing should be allowed neither inward nor outward. Inches above in the sky floating snowflakes, which never fade or melt when dropped on forests, but would disappear once sunrise approached the other day.
Tom knows it well just how boredom kills, though mother never complaint. It is said that Harry Potter used to live in the Gryffindor tower, where reckless students could jump out the window and hop on a flying broom directly to the sky. He doesn’t know much about casual life in a common room or a boy’s dorm. But it doesn’t really matter.
He fetched some students’ robes and a badge of Slytherin’s prefect, wore a tie in the color of silver and green, and combed his hair to stay in perfect style which slighter curled on the top of his head. Old fashioned but with all his grace, Tom Marvolo Riddle appeared again in this cursed manor, like a ghost of his long-gone previous life.
Instead of climbing the tower by its stairs, Tom flied up to the balcony, waiting his beloved to appear above the window with a freshly picked scarlet rose in his hand.
A gentle knock, as he always expected, his mother in pearl-white satin showed up, basking in the moonlight high above the sky which is behind Tom’s vision. He felt as if he was blinded by the light of his mother, his glimmering darling who casted a breathtaking glance at him. Bewilderment in his eyes, gravity around him. All in a sudden He became the center of Tom’s mind, and Tom realized that he was never a moon for the sun. His darling was his planet and anchor, for whom the satellite in maniac orbit motion would finally follow the attraction to focus onto.
I’ll do anything for you, and claim your everything to me, that’s all I ask of you.
He handed the rose to mother, waiting for mother’s praise like a child. He talked in the tone of a good boy who may ask his date out properly to Hogsmeade, and asked, would you like to fly with me? Wards’ temporarily off tonight, enchanted snowflakes shall not detect any near trespassing behavior of this precious prisoner. Freedom for a moment, being just Harry again in your life, he thought, if you wish so.
Then mother took a step forward, grabbing his wrist so firmly that him even the perfect horcrux, felt burnt in pain. He was dragged into the window, pressed hard against the cold stoned wall, and his mother spoke eagerly:
“Go with me, now,” he cupped tom’s face to force him looking into those hauntingly beautiful green eyes burning with hope once again:” for Merlin’s sake, GO WITH ME!”
He almost yelled that out, like a caged bird:” Leave this god-damned place and we could still be a proper family! Fuck the Saint, fuck the protégé!”
The rest of his accusation and swear were swallowed by Tom’s desperate kiss. Sucking the lower lip of his mother and gently grinding his teeth on it, Tom leaned extremely close in and grabbed harry by his shoulder and waist, crushing the two of them to the wall and spilling hot breath onto his mother’s face which was reddened all in a sudden. He bucked his hip against Harry’s, stretching his thigh to place it in between Harry’s legs, and rubbed his private place until a suppressed moan was let out from their teeth.it was hot, burning hot to touch his beloved mother, as his fiery desire roaring in his veins, rushing through his spine to make him ache in rock hard boner. He grasped Harry’s thigh and lifted it up to tangle it onto his waist, in case his mother would melt in this heat and slip from his hand in seconds.
Then he lifted Harry all up, turning around to walk into the balcony open to darkness. He set his mother on the handrail, so that he had no way but to tangle his arms and legs on Tom closely in order not to fall off it. Letting out a soft chuckle, he brushed his lips against Harry’s neck, biting on the pulse point whiling sucking in the sweet scent that made him even more aroused. This time it was him who facing directly to the moon. The vague shape and soft light fitted his mother’s figure pretty well. So he casted a spell to settle Harry firmly on the handrail before taking a few step back, kneeling to the ground to look up at his mother. Silver lights streaming down his body and ivory glimmering on his skin, stars distantly glistening in velvet black sky and the moon hanging behind his mother like a halo of the goddess.
Saint like.
Murmuring in parseltongue, he buried his head in between his mother’s thigh, let out a soft breath and carefully took Harry’s half hard out. There were already precum which he licked off using his hot tongue and wrapped the length into his mouth with a teasing glance up to his mother. There were few public hairs, even the scent of his mother’s private part was mild, just as he imagined how it would be. He could already hear the sharp breath harry was intaking, indicating exactly how much he was evoked. Following the rhythm of Harry’s breath, he quickened his movement until he felt it throbbing and twitching in his mouth.
Milk me, dear mother. Looking into Harry’s eyes, Tom let his thought instead his words go straightly to their connection string, and he was sure that Harry absolutely felt this thought, this lewd request. The cool release tasted bitter-sweet on Tom’s tongue when his dear son rose again to share with mommy a dirty kiss. Who else could imagine, that the saint mother would be kind enough to fulfill such a dirty wish from his son.
Then the angelic devil hissed again, seducing Harry to sit on his face. You are no Eve, mother, you don’t resist the lure. He trailed his fingers along the already dripping wet pussy hidden behind that released cock, portraying the sketch of those petal-like labia with his fingertips, and continued: come sit on me, Lilith the whore, mother to the devil.
Obediently his mother followed, allowing him to dig his tongue into the hot path where he once passed to live this new life as a perfect horcrux. He rubbed the tip of his nose gently against the swollen clit, circling and pressing to harvest his mother’s scream and quiver. There couldn’t be any better way to worship Harry, the mother who gave birth to him, the saint to be tainted and ruined. He placed his hands on Harry’s waist to set him in this place without retreating. Soon his mother reached an intense forced orgasm, shaking and screaming, his magic aura twirling and glittering as he got extremely high.
The hunger and desire building up in his body even worse when he saw his mother dragged down to hell with pleasure. Waiting no time, he laid the still trembling body onto the floor, lifting those long legs on his shoulders and sliding in. There is no need to use any lube, for his mother was already soaking wet for him. The watery sound of body slamming echoed all around and disappeared in faraway forests, sharing their intimate moment to magic and mother nature. He felt the urge to go deeper and harder into Harry, to love him, to ruin him, to claim him, to become a WHOLE once again with him. So he did all with thrust, thrust, thrust. Deep enough to reach the womb, hard enough to break his mother and fuck him into the ground. Again, no consent was necessary at that time, since all of his mother belongs to him and all of him belongs to Harry. They were meant to be one, made to be one, and never failed to become one together. They got the free will to use their body as an end for soul-connecting.
They shagged, panted, like animals in openness. In the forbidden manor surrounded by wards and dark arts, the two of them made love innocently like Satyre and Nymph would do in the warmth of spring, against the enchanted eternity of winter not far away.
Then Tom, rushing to their edges of pleasure, all of a sudden remembered his preparation for this glorious night, he had finally made sure nothing could distract his mother from him ever again.
I know you’ve planned to flee to the Order, mother. His mother trembled and twitched but got no wat to escape as was pinned to the ground by his hard dick. Touch me.
He commanded, holding Harry’s hand to his face, his melting façade. There’s still Tom Riddle’s iconic handsome face, but his eyes burning with crimson fire from hell, whilst his soft lips dripping with blood drops. A crooked smile crept onto the corner of his lips as he spoke,
Did you taste that, mother? The blood of those daring to fight
Blood. Blood. Blood all over them, blood as lubricant, blood as sweet saliva, blood messed with tears, blood stained in visions. His mother quivered and screamed, in extreme pleasure as well as in extreme pain.
It’s dangerous outside, mommy. Don’t take the risk to run out to malicious guys.
In this case, may I have the honor to assure you that, no one shall await outside?
No one will be waiting outside, no one will be picking you up. He demonstrated patiently, in an innocent tone like a child who tore off butterflies’ wings just to prevent them from flying away. Joy and excitement in his words.
No tears, mommy, now that you are all MINE.
He had to place the yew wand on his mother’s temple to cast him calmed and asleep, after he was in total break down and questioned in agony, what are you, Tom?
Why so surprised, mother? Tom Marvolo Riddle, I am the past, present, and future of Voldemort. What the hell are you expecting?
Tom paced out the balcony and flied in victorious glee after he amended the memory of his mother a bit, left him in the bedroom in the blossom of his own sin. The sin of giving birth to a demonic baby whilst trying to be the saint.
*
The day after that they sat in a table to enjoy their breakfast, Tom sipped his strawberry Hennessy, toasted to his mother while he once again avoided his son’s piercing eyes.
“I am so concerned, mother,” continuing the mosquito bite topic that he started on breakfast, Tom leaned in: “Do tell me if anything happens. You have my heart and my support with you.”
Mother didn’t reply, he just paced through the garden, taking another emotionless glimpse at the borderline of dark forest, silently went back to his bedroom on the tower. He leaned on the handrail of the balcony, thin body seemed to be gone with the wind for a moment. A caged bird and a wingless butterfly he looked like. For a moment Tom looked up at him distantly, his vague figure in dim light. Horror stricken that he may never grasp his mother in hand, like to fetch the beautiful reflection of the moon under the sea.
He made up his mind, to pay his dear mother a visit once again tonight.
Everything shall be fine.