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bloodandlegacy · 12 days ago

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Then I heard him—Myrtle passed by, head ducked low, and he muttered, “Mudblood.” The word hit like a spark in dry kindling, igniting the fury I’d held back. The air felt thick, pressing against my skin, and I clenched my fists, willing myself to keep control.

I looked him up and down, ensuring the look of disgust on my face remained unwavering. “Curious, isn’t it,” I said, letting my voice cut through the hum of conversation, “that someone so obsessed with purity should be a half-blood himself.”

The corridor fell silent, heads turning toward us. Tom’s gaze shifted to me, his initial smirk dismissive. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said smoothly, as though I were just another name to cross off his list of admirers.

I held his gaze, allowing a pause to stretch between us before I answered. “Andromeda Gaunt.” The name fell like a stone, and I watched, satisfaction flickering as his smirk faltered, a barely noticeable fracture in his polished mask.

His expression sharpened, his mask of civility slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of something raw and unsettled. My anger surged, the magic in me clawing to escape, to shatter the air around us, but I forced it back, my face impassive.

“Perhaps you’ve been misinformed,” he replied, his voice smooth, though each word held venom he struggled to hide. His eyes held a cold warning, a flash of irritation barely concealed beneath his charm. “The Gaunts, was it? I’d expect more respect for our traditions.”

“Oh, I know our traditions well enough,” I replied, barely containing my contempt. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it—how some cling to purity even when they don’t fully belong.” I let my gaze linger on him, cold and unyielding. “A half-blood, born from a Muggle father and a mother whose power was so weak, it barely kept her alive.”

His mask fractured, his eyes narrowing as he struggled to keep his composure. I caught the crack in his perfect image, the brief flash of anger he could barely contain, and a surge of satisfaction rushed through me. I held his gaze, unblinking, letting the contempt in my expression linger before I turned on my heel. Around us, the students shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension thickening in the air.

He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur that barely reached my ears. “Careful,” he warned, his tone laced with malice. “Some things are best left unsaid.”

I met his gaze, letting a small, mocking smile flicker across my lips. “I think I’ve said it all, Tom.”

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bloodandlegacy · 18 days ago

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VIII: Veil of Vengeance

I clutched the Time-Turner in my hand, feeling the tug of its magic, my heart ached with the memory of what I’d already seen, each beat a reminder of the loss etched into both our fates. But a sudden hesitation gripped me. The thought of facing yet another shadowed truth made me long for the comfort of a place he knew well. Before I could twist the Time-Turner again, I slipped into the same pub where my father had spent countless bitter nights. I stepped up to the bar and ordered what he would have. The barkeep shook his head, dismissing me. Without thinking, I whispered, “Imperio,” feeling a surge as his gaze softened, his will bending as he handed over a meal and an ale without question.

It was too easy—dangerously so. For a brief moment, I saw my father in myself, a flicker of darkness that made my hands tremble as I took my first sip. No one had noticed, and no one was hurt, but the thrill lingered, sharp and unsettling.

As I ate, my thoughts drifted to my father. It struck me that cruelty wasn’t in his nature—not really. It had been forced on him, crafted as a weapon by his own father. Morfin was raised in fear, each of his choices bound by it. That fear wasn’t born of respect; it was terror—the same terror that had kept my aunt Merope hidden and small. Morfin had watched his sister suffer, helpless to stop it, knowing he’d be punished the same way if he ever disobeyed. My father, I realized, had once been a boy filled with potential—twisted not by his own nature but by fear, crafted into a weapon by his father’s cruelty. I felt both sorrow and anger, realizing how different he might have been if terror hadn’t been his guide. Perhaps he could have been capable of love, even tenderness, if he’d been given the chance. But my mother had taken that from him, leaving him with nothing but this bitter, twisted legacy.

After another sip, I took a deep breath and finally twisted the Time-Turner, feeling the world spin around me. When it settled, I found myself standing under a warm, quiet sky. The crickets and soft laughter drifting from open windows. Drawn by an instinct I couldn’t explain, I walked to the outskirts of town. Ahead, a small home loomed, and I froze as I saw a lifeless body sprawled in the doorway. From within, the sound of shattering glass and heavy footsteps broke the silence.

Then a green light glowed from within, spilling through the cracks of the doorway, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. I knew that glow instantly. A scream shattered the night, sharp and brittle, and cut off just as quickly, leaving an echo of horror lingering in the air. I stood, frozen, watching as he stepped forward from the depths of the room—A boy. He couldn't have been older than seventeen, with dark hair that gleamed in the dim light, fair skin, and eyes that glinted like molten gold. He moved with an ease that was chilling, his pale face almost glowing in the darkness

I knew him, though we had never met—a shadow I recognized, as if he were a fractured fragment of a memory. He was familiar, a reflection of the wounds I carried but couldn’t name.

And then I saw it all—the scene unfolding before me; a nightmarish vision in slow motion. He stood at the center of the room, an imposing figure draped in shadows, his presence filling the space with a sinister elegance. The flickering candlelight cast haunting reflections on his sharp features, illuminating his face in an eerie glow. All around him, bodies lay scattered, discarded puppets, lifeless, their expressions locked in terror, mouths open in silenced screams.

His wand was held with a precision that spoke of mastery, an extension of his very being, both graceful and deadly. The tip glowed with that same, terrible green light, casting an unholy luminescence across the carnage. The windows loomed behind him, cracked and filthy, barely holding back the storm that raged beyond, lightning flashing and thunder growling as if the very elements rebelled against the darkness within.

Shadows gathered at his feet, almost reverent, as if even they dared not touch him, fearful of the power he held. His expression was calm, yet within his eyes, I saw something far more chilling—a satisfaction, a quiet acceptance of the devastation he had wrought. This was no impulsive act. It was a statement, a brutal declaration carved in blood and fear, a glimpse into the legacy he intended to forge.

He moved among the bodies with an eerie grace, each step light, his presence unwavering. A faint mist coiled around his feet, looking as spectral hands reaching out, desperate to cling to him but retreating in awe. I stood in the doorway, unable to tear my gaze away, feeling the chill of his ambition, the raw, unrestrained power brought to life.

Then it hit me, sharp and undeniable, a chill sinking into my bones. The sullen, golden eyes, glinting with a darkness too deep for any boy. The thin, dark hair, every strand as precise and sharp as the blade of a knife. That pale skin, almost luminous, and those angular, cutting features. He looked exactly like that man, the one I’d seen writhing under my father’s Cruciatus Curse. The memory surged up, unbidden: Morfin’s twisted satisfaction, the gleam of his wand, and the helpless figure convulsing in agony, eyes wide with terror.

It was as if that face had been resurrected, reformed in this boy, yet stripped of innocence, refined into something colder, darker. He was no stranger; he was blood. I didn’t need to hear the name or understand the magic to know who he was, what he was. He belonged to my line—a mirror I never wished to gaze into, a reflection of all the darkest pieces of us, made flesh.

A name spoken in whispers, a family cursed by the secrets that bound us all. And there he stood, an echo of the Riddle who had once been at Morfin’s mercy, reborn now as something more terrible. In that moment, I understood: this was no boy. This was a creature of shadows and fury, a dark heir poised to carve his mark into the world, a legacy bound in blood and terror. And I, standing frozen in the doorway, knew that our fates were now inextricably intertwined.

He moved toward the Gaunt home, his steps quick and unyielding. I hurried after him, each step heavier than the last. He rounded the corner, his face contorted with fury as he reached the crumbling stone gate. He pounded on the door with such force I thought it might shatter. My father answered, confusion and anger etched into his face as he stared at the boy before him.

“Don’t you know who I am?” the boy spat, his voice laced with venom.

My father blinked, caught off guard. “I… I don’t…”

The boy’s gaze darkened, his voice dripping with disgust. “You let me become the son of a filthy Muggle. Made to live among them, as if I were one of them.” The words twisted out of him, burning with hatred.

A strange recognition crossed my father’s face, mixed with loathing. “You’re her son,” he said, almost laughing. “But you’re nothing more than a half-blood, aren’t you? A Muggle’s son, appearing here only to claim a legacy you don’t deserve.”

The boy’s face hardened, his jaw clenching. “No,” he said coldly. “I’m the heir of Salazar Slytherin. The last remaining heir.” His voice held a confidence that made me shiver.

But my father’s laugh was harsh, bitter. “An heir?” he scoffed. “From a Muggle? You’re nothing. A filthy half-blood, trying to steal what isn’t yours. Salazar Slytherin’s bloodline doesn’t run through Mudblood veins.” He sneered, taunting the boy as if daring him to prove otherwise.

The boy’s expression darkened further, fury flashing in his eyes. “I’m not related to that disgrace of a man,” he sneered, as though wiping the Riddle name from existence with those words. But my father wasn’t done. He eyed the boy with a mocking smile, his voice dropping low, daring.

“You… you killed them, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice both challenging and disbelieving, laced with bitter satisfaction.

The boy’s answering smile was deadly. “No,” he whispered, his voice cold as ice. “You did.”

And as he spoke, the room glowed that sinister green. My father’s face went blank, his eyes dull as the boy’s words settled over him, twisting his mind. “I killed them,” he murmured, over and over, the words falling like stones. “I killed those nasty Mudbloods.” I wanted to scream, to wrench my father from the boy’s grip, but I was paralyzed, helpless as the confession tumbled from his lips in a hollow, unnatural chant.

Dementors began to swarm him, their dark, hooded figures closing in as he screamed, “I killed them! I killed those filthy Mudbloods!” His laughter echoed, wild and hysterical, a menacing grin twisting his face into something monstrous, void of any trace of humanity. Shadows deepened around him, the air thickening with an oppressive dread, as the distant sound of footsteps grew louder—Aurors approaching, their voices tense murmurs, and the sharp cracks of Apparition slicing through the night..

I watched, frozen, as they seized him, dragging his shuddering, laughing form away, his hollow laughter splitting the night as though he’d won some terrible victory. The boy slipped into the darkness, vanishing without a trace, while fury surged through me, fierce and consuming. This boy, this…half-blood had made my family his pawn..

The weight of it all settled over me, heavy and suffocating, seeping into my veins, each revelation darker than the last. My father’s haunted face, contorted in unnatural laughter, the twisted confession forced from his lips—the scene replayed in my mind, each detail sharpened by a raw, unyielding anger. That boy—this stranger with a face both familiar and foreign—had torn through my life with a cruelty beyond comprehension, twisting my father into a weapon of vengeance and leaving us in ruins..

A dark, searing fury ignited within me, burning like molten iron and chilling my veins. Each beat of my heart stoked its flames and deepened the icy resolve settling within. This boy, this half-breed—he had made a mockery of my family, reduced us to pawns in a game of hatred he’d played without hesitation.

I gripped the Time-Turner so hard I thought it might shatter, the metal biting into my palm. The truth hit me, chilling and undeniable: if he was an heir of Salazar Slytherin, then so was I. The knowledge felt like a brand, searing into my very soul, marking me as part of this dark legacy, bound by blood to powers I hadn’t yet begun to understand. But this wasn’t merely about inheritance or bloodlines—it was about claiming control over the shadows that had haunted me, the darkness that pulsed beneath my skin.

I knew, with a clarity that both terrified and emboldened me, that vengeance alone would not be enough. I needed to see every lie, every secret that bound us, dismantling his defenses and unraveling his twisted legacy to tear apart the chains that tied me to him. And so, with fury as my only compass, I set out to find him—not just to seek revenge, but to uncover the darkness that linked our fates.

I am the one and only heir of Salazar Slytherin, and I am no one's pawn.

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