𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙿𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍

ᴛᴏᴍ ᴍᴀʀᴠᴏʟᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ

"ᴛᴏᴍ ᴍᴀʀᴠᴏʟᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ! You will not kill an innocent child- no, infant - just because of a prophecy! Prophecy be damned! It may be forged for all we know! There may not even be a Harold, or Harry, or whatever you said he was called, Potter out there!" An irate oil portrait of a lanky, pale woman screeched - her voice was so ridiculously high-pitched out of her outrage by now that only the bats would be able to hear her soon.
"Mother. You died before I attained the epoch of 1, so I don't think you should be lecturing me on the sterile subject of infants. Bothering, mewling infants." ᴛᴏᴍ remarked, his tone concluding the end of the discussion.
The woman huffed in defeat, "I'll never let you hear the end of this." Merope snarled, storming out of the painting leaving a muddy stretch of background making her son - ᴛᴏᴍ ᴍᴀʀᴠᴏʟᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ -sigh.
What ᴛᴏᴍ didn't know was that the piece of suggestion that his mother had given prevailed to be very enlightening indeed, though even Merope herself didn't know that she had simply cracked the case, proving more cunning and subtle than the 'greatest wizard of all time.'