The Dark Dyad (Tom Riddle & ofc)

Chapter 15. Post-Factum

"If only I could, I would cry." A greasy drop of ink fell on the last word of the sentence, neatly written on the yellowed sheet, and slowly spread out in thin spider legs. There was a deep breath. A young man pressed his lips together so hard that they turned white in an instant. With a feebly visible movement, the blot formed a tiny blob that hovered over the page and then obediently sank back into the tin on the shabby wooden table. He carefully closed the black diary. Three golden words glittered in the bright sunlight: Tom Marvolo Riddle. A shadow of disgust and distaste slipped across his face. Unwilling to see the name, he flipped the diary over and took up the local paper.

There were other people on the summer terrace of a cozy little cafe in a village called Little Hangleton. They slowly sipped cold drinks and had small talk. Middle-aged men, obviously aristocrats, accompanied by similar ladies, were seated at the next table from Tom Riddle. By the way, he fit in perfectly, perhaps because of his appearance. At the age of sixteen, he was already distinguished by his well-built figure and dignified manners. His long fingers, his pale face with razor-sharp cheekbones, his black hair - literally everything about him shouted that he was unquestionably of noble birth.

Tom took a sip of cool green tea with melissa and turned the page of the newspaper, but the next moment something made him take his eyes from the utterly boring reading. He stared at a passing man and woman, who addressed each other by their first names, Mary and Thomas. Behind them was a man in his forties, and if you were careful, you could see an uncanny resemblance between him and Tom: the same tall, stately man with an insanely handsome, but cold face. All three of them were dressed to the nines.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Riddle!" said a passing gentleman.

"Good afternoon," Thomas Riddle answered, but his face showed no positive emotion. On the contrary, his smile seemed to distort his face. The young man, apparently his son, did not react at all. Even for the sake of decency he did not deign to drop a greeting, but rather arrogantly raised his head higher and walked past.

Tom followed their every movement carefully until they were out of sight. Then he took a sip of tea, picked up the black diary, and disappeared among the streets, leaving the paper and a couple of shillings on the little street table.

The summer turned out to be quite hot. The bright sun was so hot that most people preferred to stay at home, or carried sophisticated snow-white umbrellas with them. The village of Little Hangleton was located between two hills. It wasn't very popular, but, admittedly, the nature here was insanely beautiful.

In this smallest settlement was a large house with a garden. Built on a hill, it towered visibly over the village. The beautiful Riddle family mansion was the grandest building in the whole neighborhood. On the slope of the second hill was the exact opposite of the rich manor – an old, dilapidated house, with only one country road leading to it. Here too, though, nature had added its beautiful touches: honeysuckle and other shrubs grew densely along the roadside, filling every inch of the summer air with a pleasant fragrance.

The soft shuffling of footsteps was almost inaudible because of the light tread. And the road to the house must not have been used very often, so it was overgrown with grass. Tom stopped at the old, dilapidated gate. His cheeks bulged; there was no single sign of disgust on his handsome, stony face any more. He strode confidently to the entrance and knocked loudly, then pushed the door open. A musty, unpleasant smell wafted up his nose, and he had to stand still for a moment. Those seconds were enough time to realize that the small living room looked very untidy and poor.

"Who's here?" There was a husky, gruff voice. "Who's here?"

At the door leading to the next room appeared a stocky man of an average height. His clothes were shabby, and even seemed to be stiff with dirt. His hair was thick, but so tangled that one might think he had never washed or brushed it.