#bloodandlegacy

[bloodandlegacy]

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.”

[bloodandlegacy]

V: Reflections of Dark Magic

February 20th, 1958

Dear Diary,

These past weeks have been… revealing. I finally discovered some hidden spots—perfect places where no one would think to look. Quiet corners where I’ve been practicing a few spells I’ve only read about. It started small. I cast Imperio on some stray cats, making them jump and spin, like they were performing a private circus just for me. There’s something intoxicating about it, the way they obey without question, turning my thoughts into their movements. It’s harmless. Just a bit of fun.

Crucio is different. I’ve only dared to use it on Dugbogs. Vicious little beasts, snapping their jaws at anything that comes close. They deserve it. Watching them twist in pain, I thought it would feel wrong, but it doesn’t. It feels… powerful. I’m starting to understand why this kind of magic has its allure, why my family turned to it. I’ve practiced enough. I’m ready to look back further, to uncover what I came here to see.

Tonight, I turned the Time-Turner more than I ever have. The world blurred around me, Brocburrow shifting into focus. And then I saw him—my father, Morfin, but younger. Mid-twenties, maybe older. He was in a field, flicking his wand at cows, casting Flippendo and laughing as they toppled over. He seemed carefree, enjoying a bit of mischief. I couldn’t help but smile. For a moment, he felt almost… human. I kept going back, observing him, learning about him piece by piece.

Then there was Merope. She’s quieter than I expected, a shadow with my same weary eyes. She barely spoke, just watching, detached and unremarkable. At first, I couldn’t see anything of myself in her, only a boring girl with nothing to offer. But her eyes... it’s like looking into a reflection, one I didn’t want to acknowledge.

But tonight—tonight was different. Father was with some men, outside of a small pub. One of them caught my attention—dark, wavy hair, sharp features, eyes that glinted gold even in the dim light. He was beautiful in a way that didn’t belong in this grim place. Suddenly, Morfin raised his wand and cast Crucio on him. The man collapsed, writhing, and my father just stood there, grinning. A chill crept down my spine. I wanted to stop him, but my voice caught in my throat.

Then Merope appeared. She screamed at him to stop and ran to the man, cradling him, whispering words I couldn’t hear. Her brother just laughed, like her distress was a joke. She told him their father was looking for him, waiting at the house with someone. Morfin’s grin vanished as he trudged away, grumbling under his breath.

I followed him.

When we reached the house, my grandfather was standing with a man in a fine suit—a Ministry official, by the looks of him. I could see the anger etched on my grandfather’s face as he leaned in close to Morfin, whispering something I couldn’t catch. Whatever he said, it wiped the smirk off Morfin’s face. He raised his wand, his hand trembling only for a second, and then, with a voice that sent shivers through me, he bellowed, “Avada Kedavra!”

The green flash lit up the night, and the man fell, lifeless.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Morfin stood there, his expression hardening into something I’d never seen—a mask of obedience, of quiet triumph. In that moment, he was no longer human. He was something else, something shaped by the hands of this family.

For the first time, I felt the darkness of what it means to be a Gaunt. And I can’t decide if I want to turn back or keep watching.

[bloodandlegacy]

The days bled into weeks, and then months, each passing moment lost in a haze as I replay that night again and again. Each time I watch it, I try to make sense of it, to find a way to soothe the rage that claws at me. But every time I see him—the way he leaves my father shattered, nothing more than a hollow echo of who he once was—my fury only grows.

I keep coming back, driven by something I can’t name, returning to that moment again and again, as if by watching it enough times, I might finally find a way to change it. Each time, my heart feels heavier, sinking deeper under the weight of my father’s hollow voice, his broken expression, his defeated frame. But no matter how many times I stand there, helpless, nothing changes. It’s like staring into an endless abyss, hoping to glimpse something that could explain all this pain.

But then, one day, in the middle of that familiar horror, my eyes catch on something I hadn’t seen before—a glint, just as he turns to leave. That boy… he took my father’s ring. Not just any ring—our ring. The one that belonged to my grandfather, passed down through generations of Gaunts. He pocketed it without hesitation, a smug grin twisting his face as he slipped my legacy into his grasp, as if it were just another trophy.

Fury erupts inside me, hotter than any fire, a rage that sears every part of me until I feel it will tear me apart. How dare he. How dare he steal from me, from my family. He has no right—it’s mine. My bloodline, my birthright. In that moment, something deep inside me, something dark and twisted, claws its way to the surface.

The air thickens around me, vibrating with a terrible, relentless power. I feel it swell and surge within me, that same uncontrollable storm I felt when I shattered the glass years ago. Only now it’s a thousand times stronger, more consuming, and I can’t hold it back. I don’t want to hold it back

[bloodandlegacy]

And then I saw it all—the scene unfolding before me like 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 like discarded puppets, lifeless, their expressions locked in terror, mouths open in silent screams.

[bloodandlegacy]

VII: In the Wake of Forsaken Love

I turned the Time-Turner forward, still breathless from the horrors I’d just seen. The world shifted around me, the darkness lifting into misty forest shadows. The quiet enveloped me, a brief, welcome reprieve from the terrible scene I’d left behind. Then, from between the trees, I saw her—my mother, Cassiopeia, moving swiftly toward the woods. A small satchel was secured under her green velvet robe, her expression tense, almost frightened. My own breath stilled. This felt like salvation after what I had just witnessed, and without another thought, I followed her.

She weaved through the forest with nervous glances over her shoulder, as if she feared someone might be watching. I crept between the trees, careful not to crunch a leaf or snap a twig beneath my feet, my pulse quickening with each step. I had no idea where she was going, but it was as though I could feel it, this strange mix of anxiety and excitement stirring within me, mirroring hers. Up ahead, a clearing appeared, bathed in the gentle light of evening. And then I saw him.

My father.

He stood waiting for her, and to my utter surprise, I watched as he conjured a bouquet of flowers, their petals shimmering with faint magical hues. Cassiopeia let out a joyful gasp, dropping her bag as she ran into his arms. They embraced, his gaze on her as if she were his entire world.

“I made roast,” she announced with pride, her cheeks turning slightly pink. “Without magic,” she added, a bashful grin lighting her face. He chuckled, looking at her with nothing but warmth.

Cassiopeia darted back to where she’d dropped her bag, reaching her arm in deep, past the point that seemed possible, and retrieved a well-packed picnic basket. My father had already laid out a blanket on the ground, ready for her, waiting as though he had dreamed of this moment a thousand times. I watched, mesmerized, as my mother pulled out the meal she’d prepared, and they sat together, sharing a quiet, private joy. Their laughter was soft, unburdened, as though nothing could harm them in this hidden world. My father’s face glowed, his eyes softened with love and devotion.

Then, I saw something else—a hidden hope in my mother’s smile. I could feel her excitement for the future, hear the warmth in her voice as they whispered together. The Blacks would never allow this, she explained, laughing, yet serious. The Gaunts had a reputation that could ruin them both if anyone knew. But they had plans. Plans to run away together, to build a life, a family, to have… me.

Tears filled my eyes, spilling over as I watched the family I could have had. My mother’s love was undeniable, her laughter soft but unburdened. They loved each other so deeply, as though nothing could break them apart. In that moment, I felt sure they would have loved me just the same. It took everything in me not to approach them, not to rush forward and tell them I was here, that I loved them. I wanted so much to feel this, to know it was real. For the first time, I imagined a life with an actual mother and father, a life filled with magic and love. It would have been beautiful.

Why was I condemned to live without this? Denied a life that should have been mine…?

I turned the Time-Turner forward, moving slowly, afraid to disrupt this fragile dream but desperate to know what happened. But when the world settled, I saw only anger and pain.

My mother was hurrying out of the forest, her face flushed with fury, my father trailing after her, devastated. “Please, Cassie. Please,” he pleaded, his voice cracked and hollow.

She whirled around, her tone cutting through the air like ice. “I can’t have her becoming like this. Like you.” Her words dripped with contempt.

My father’s voice broke as he begged, “It’s not what I want. You didn’t see what he did to my sister.”

But my mother’s resolve was unshakeable. “No, she won’t be part of this. She won’t know this is who she is.” Her words rang cold, unyielding, a final wall between them. And with a sharp crack, she vanished, Apparating away. My father fell to his knees, his face contorted in anguish, a broken man.

The pain radiated through him, and I could feel it, even from a distance. The weight of it took my breath away, as though I were the one struck down by that final betrayal. This love I had just seen was now torn apart, crushed by fear and distrust.

My father stumbled away, back through the forest, each step dragging as if the earth itself resisted him. He walked into a small, rundown pub and drank, sinking further into despair. I followed him, helpless, as he staggered home in a stupor, where Marvolo stood waiting by the door.

“Out all hours of the night,” my grandfather snarled, his gaze hardening.

But to my shock, my father looked him straight in the eye and replied, “I have a daughter.” The words hit me like a bolt, and my heart leaped at the sound.

Marvolo’s face shifted, almost… pleased. “Who?” he demanded, eager. “Where?”

My father’s lips curled, and through his drunken haze, he enunciated with stubborn pride, “Cassiopeia Black.” He spat out her name, each syllable harsh and unyielding. Then, with a voice dripping in venom—mirroring Marvolo’s own bitter tone—he slurred, “She left… because of you.”

Marvolo paused, a strange flicker crossing his face, almost as if he took satisfaction in it. “Congratulations,” he said shortly, dismissively, before stepping away, indifferent as ever.

And with that, he turned his back on my father, the brief warmth extinguished. My father crumpled to the floor, defeated. His shoulders shook, his face buried in his hands, and through the haze of his grief, I could feel every ounce of it—like waves of sorrow radiating toward me, gripping my heart and refusing to let go. His love, his hope, crushed underfoot, like it was nothing. And there I stood, silent, invisible, left just as broken as he was, bearing the weight of a family I never knew but somehow felt in every fiber of my being.

The truth of it all twisted inside me—a love that should have been, a family torn apart by pride and bitterness. It was a vision of what could have been, just close enough to touch, and yet lost to me forever. And as I turned away, I felt the weight of an impossible longing, hollow and echoing around me, brimming with every painful truth I could never forget.

[bloodandlegacy]

Andromeda Gaunt.

The name alone is enough to silence a room. Born of ancient blood, Andromeda is the dark legacy of Morfin Gaunt—descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself—and Cassiopeia Black, whose betrayal of her family remains a whispered scandal. She is the secret child of two houses cursed by blood, an inheritance bound in darkness and secrecy, left to grow in shadows.

Her life was marked by pain from the beginning. When her mother, Cassiopeia, fled from her father’s cruelty, she left Andromeda in the care of a woman whose hatred of magic seeped into every word and blow. Yet Cassiopeia’s attempt to protect her daughter came at a cost. Marvolo Gaunt, enraged by Cassiopeia’s betrayal, hunted her down and cursed her—a blood curse that passed to Andromeda, leaving a dark, jagged scar across her face, forever marking her as the bearer of the Gaunt family’s wrath.

Raised by a woman who saw magic as filth, Andromeda was forced to smother her own abilities, locking her powers away under layers of shame and terror. Her anger and power twisted in on themselves, becoming a dark, relentless force—an Obscurus, a volatile shadow born from suppression and pain. She learned to hide this curse within her, fearing it as much as she depended on it, an internal storm waiting to consume her or anyone who tried to control her.

At fifteen, Andromeda discovered who she truly was. A Time-Turner—a relic she thought was mere jewelry—found its way to her, a talisman of the past hidden in plain sight. She unlocked its power, journeying back to witness the forbidden union of her parents. She saw her mother, fragile yet defiant, and her father, Morfin Gaunt, a figure broken by pain and twisted love. In his haunted eyes, she saw her own reflection—a bloodline of darkness, cruelty, and power. And the pride she felt was sharp and unforgiving.

Once she learned of her heritage, Andromeda embraced the power of her name. She bore the legacy of Slytherin with fierce pride, determined to shape her own path, even as she felt the weight of her blood curse and the Obscurus within her. Her heart, however, remained ensnared by vengeance. Tom Riddle’s betrayal of her family burned in her, fueling a twisted desire to “heal” him, to free him from the very pain that drove him to cruelty. She wanted to fix him, as if somehow that would redeem her family’s shattered name.

But empathy, once fierce and pure, began to rot within her, as if the darkness in her blood demanded retribution instead. Gradually, compassion twisted into an unrelenting need for him to suffer as she had, to taste the agony he inflicted on her family. She resolved to wield the ancient magic of the repository to curse him—a vengeance she deemed just.

With each choice, Andromeda edged further into the shadows. Her fascination with the Dark Arts only grew under Sebastian’s influence, while her blood connection to Ominis Gaunt became a silent tension—he renounced the darkness she sought to master. In her mind, her heritage was not to be ignored; it was to be wielded, feared, and understood.

Andromeda Gaunt—born in secrecy, cursed by blood, and armed with forbidden power—would not be forgotten. The fire within her, kindled by hatred, bound by darkness, would one day burn bright enough to make the world remember her name.

[bloodandlegacy]

XI: The Unseen Scar

April 25, 1958

There is a darkness in me that no spell can vanquish. It clings to my spirit, a shadow, growing sharper with every passing day. Azkaban’s cold whisper lingers, a reminder of all that I’ve seen, and all that I am yet to become. Each encounter, each moment since that desolate place, feeds a part of me I didn’t know existed—a part I may not be able to tame. Am I any different from the dark wizards I once swore to destroy?

Tom’s face haunts my dreams—not his face, but his eyes, staring back at me like a mirror. Sullen, pitiless eyes… familiar to my own. I can’t escape the echoes of his voice, the hints Myrtle let slip. Perhaps she knew all along that I would end up like this. She understands isolation better than anyone, and in her bitter, ethereal way, she warned me. Yet here I am, still drawn to this path. I told myself it was for vengeance, for justice, but with every spell, every piece of magic I wield, it feels more like it’s becoming… for me.

Holding power is intoxicating, and now I’m beginning to understand why so many before me were lost to its allure. But what price will I pay?

As I stood before the mirror, I noticed it—the scar was gone. The angry, jagged line across my face—a mark I’ve carried all my life, the emblem of my cursed bloodline—had simply vanished, as though it had never existed. And here I am, asking myself why Tom Riddle, master of cruelty, never seized upon it to mock me, to dig his knife a little deeper. Did he know? Did he see through to this moment, waiting for me to understand its significance?

Maybe, just maybe, the scar was never meant for him to notice. It was a reminder for me—a tether to the darkness within me that I could never shake. Now that it’s gone, I feel… empty, as though something vital has been stripped away.

Without my scar, I look at my reflection and see someone I don’t recognize. It’s as if I’ve been reborn into something new… or something ancient. Every bit of magic I wield draws me closer to my family, the Gaunts, and to Salazar Slytherin himself. Tom believes he alone has inherited Slytherin’s legacy, but he is mistaken. I feel it too, the dark pulse of our bloodline, the unyielding desire to carve a place of power in this world. And yet, for all my pride in that connection, I fear it. Am I just a puppet of my ancestors, bound to fulfill their cursed destinies?

A chill has settled over me—a sense that the choices I’ve made will exact a price. I once thought the scar was my punishment, a reminder of the curse I carry, but its sudden disappearance feels like a warning. I know power without sacrifice is a lie, but I cannot fathom what I’ll be forced to give up. Trust, perhaps. Or maybe the last shreds of innocence I’ve been clinging to. And worse still is the fear that I may betray myself in my quest to defeat Tom.

The scar is gone, and with it, the last link to the girl I once was. Whatever awaits me now, I am bound to face it, scar or no scar. If I must, I will use every ounce of darkness within me to press forward—no matter what it costs.

[bloodandlegacy]

X: The Price of Defiance

I pushed open the door to Myrtle’s bathroom, my anger simmering beneath the surface, barely contained. The damp, stale air clung to me, weighted, mirroring the pressure bearing down on my chest. I’d come ready for her familiar complaints, expecting our usual silence or bitter words about the living world. But as I poured out each piece of my story, I saw that she already understood, her gaze softened by the kinship that had grown between us—a bond rooted in knowing we were both different, marked in ways no one else seemed to understand.

As I spoke of my father’s ruin and Tom’s theft of my family’s ring—the last remaining symbol of the Gaunt bloodline—her usual self-pity shifted to something sharper, almost fierce. When I mentioned Tom’s name, she froze, her eyes darkening as if dredging up memories long buried. There was bitterness in her expression, but also recognition. She knew him, or at least knew what he was.

“He was different,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “Held himself above us, always watching…” Resentment edged her voice, her anger sharp from years of being locked inside. “He twisted people, made them feel small if it pleased him.” She hadn’t been close to him—Tom had no need to waste his charm on her—but she’d seen how he held students in his grip, each word and smile a calculated move.

“There were things I saw,” she said, her voice dropping as if even the walls might hear. “Even after…” She trailed off, bitterness hardened by years of isolation. A chill prickled my spine at the shadows in her gaze, secrets hinted at but never revealed. Her eyes grew darker, her expression wavering between fury and sorrow, a fleeting vulnerability crossing her face.

“If only someone had seen him for what he was,” she whispered, her voice cracking. Her gaze met mine, searching, almost daring me. “Maybe it would help… to see him... back then,” she murmured, her words lingering like a half-spoken challenge.

Her suggestion took root, sparking something dark and vengeful within me. The thought of seeing him, of confronting him before he stole my legacy, was both terrifying and intoxicating. My rage pulsed beneath my skin, begging for release, and finally, I surrendered to it. I gripped my time-turner, feeling its power hum through me as I braced myself for whatever lay ahead.

As I twisted through time, the world around me fractured, corridors bending and spiraling until I was suspended in a weightless void, tumbling through silence. My anger flared, barely contained, but I held it back, knowing one slip in my control could shatter everything. Then, with a jolt, the world steadied, and I found myself standing in the past. Hogwarts stretched out before me, familiar yet sharper, each detail untouched by the years.

I drifted through the halls, footsteps soft, watching students pass by, shadows stretching around me, silent spectators. My eyes caught a younger Myrtle, head bowed, shrinking as she passed clusters of students who laughed and whispered. I could see it now—the loneliness, the bitterness she carried even then. She was an easy mark, an obvious target for someone like Tom. But she wasn’t why I was here.

I wandered through the corridors, each shadowed alcove and whispered conversation adding weight to the air around me. Familiar faces blurred past, their laughter and idle talk hollow, meaningless in my search. The castle felt endless, its winding paths stretching out like a maze meant to delay me. And then, as I rounded a corner, I saw him—Tom Riddle, standing at the center of a group, his presence holding them all captive. His gaze was cold, every glance calculated, his charm woven in a perfectly spun thread, designed to ensnare. As I watched, my pulse quickened, my rage tightening, a steady burn one slip away from consuming the room.

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 magic 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. 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.”

The silence that followed was thick, his smirk gone, replaced by a flash of barely contained fury.

As I walked away, I could feel the weight of his gaze burning into my back, a silent promise of retribution. But my own fury remained unbroken, a steady burn, fueling every step that took me farther from his hollow charm and venomous lies. This wasn’t just anger; it was the pulse of everything he’d taken from me, everything I’d be reclaiming. I’d seen him for what he truly was, and no mask, no calculated smile, could erase that truth. One day, he would know what it meant to be haunted by the legacy he’d so carelessly stolen. And when that day came, I would be there, waiting in the shadows, ready to show him the meaning of fear.

The past dissolved into the present, the memory of our exchange surging through me like a pulse, stronger with every step. I felt a new, potent arrogance swelling within me—I had seen him, Tom Riddle, falter. The weight I carried was no longer a burden but a powerful reminder of the crack I’d left in his perfect facade.

I returned to Myrtle’s bathroom, each step filled with a newfound confidence, the weight I once carried now lightened by the crack I’d left in Tom’s armor. Myrtle hovered there, watching me with an eerie, quiet intensity.

“He killed me,” she whispered, her voice hollow, her words slicing through my confidence like a knife. The air grew thick, damp and heavy, as her gaze held mine, unwavering. “…and you’re marked by him too.”

My breath caught, a flicker of something raw twisting inside me. I forced a faint, defiant smile, but it felt hollow. “Maybe,” I murmured, barely concealing the spark of rage that had reignited, “but I’ve left my mark on him too.”

A shared, quiet devastation settled between us, both of us scarred by his darkness. But this wasn’t the end. The knowledge of what he’d taken, the life he’d snuffed out, added another layer to my anger.. The price of defiance was cold, unyielding, a reminder of the shadows he’d left in us both. But now, there was a fracture in his perfect mask, and one day, he’d feel the weight of it bearing down. When that day came, I’d be waiting in the shadows, ready to return every ounce of the pain he’d caused—vengeance sharpened by the darkness he’d awakened within me.

[bloodandlegacy]

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.

[bloodandlegacy]

VI: Whispers of a Broken Legacy

In that frozen moment, everything stood still. I couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. I was rooted there, watching, feeling caught in the brutal undercurrent of my own family’s darkness. My heart pounded as I watched Morfin’s face twist into something between triumph and fury, that same expression I’d seen when he cast the Cruciatus curse. Only this time, he looked… pleased, reveling in the obedience he’d just shown to the demands of his father. And as his gaze turned to his father, Marvolo stood nearby, his expression a mix of pride and irritation. Proud of the son who had learned to command power without question, even if that power brought death; irritated that it had come to this.

Then, I heard footsteps. Light, hesitant. They broke the stillness of the night, and Merope appeared, her head bowed, her form shrinking as Marvolo’s glare found her. “You filthy Squib!” he bellowed, his words laced with venom. She dipped her head further, muttering a timid “Hello, Father,” in that same, feeble tone. She tried to pass, her gaze never meeting his. But before she could reach the door, his wand glowed a sinister green, and with a dull monotone, he spoke, “Crucio.”

Merope’s scream was sharp, shattering the cold silence of the night. She crumpled to the ground, writhing in the dirt, her cries cutting through me, piercing my very core. Morfin watched, a twisted smirk playing on his lips, and spat on the ground beside her, muttering, “Pathetic, foul Mudblood-loving disgrace,” his voice low enough that Marvolo would not hear. But I heard it, clear as day. And it made me look at Merope differently. She had comforted that handsome man—a man who’d looked at her with warmth, despite her sallow skin and dull hair. There’d been something in her touch, a tenderness. And him? He had returned it, gazing at her with warmth that seemed so out of place in this grim family.

Morfin turned to Marvolo, his voice suddenly loud and accusatory. “You know what she’s doing, don’t you, Father?” he barked, his words punctuated by Merope’s pained gasp. “She’s put a charm on that vile, unworthy Mudblood.”

I watched Marvolo’s face harden, a flicker of rage sparking in his eye. Merope’s pleas were choked with pain, “Please, don’t,” she managed. But Morfin only smirked as he saw the recognition light in his father’s eyes. “No…” Marvolo seethed, his voice a low, hissing sound, “Tom Riddle.” Morfin hissed.

Without hesitation, Marvolo raised his wand once more, casting Crucio again, and gestured for Morfin to join him. Their combined curses hit her with an intensity that twisted my stomach. Merope’s screams turned raw, her cries echoing through the field, louder than anything I’d ever heard. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t watch it anymore. I turned and ran, bolting toward the dim lights of the town, their flickering warmth far in the distance.

I stopped only when I couldn’t hear her cries anymore, my breath coming in gasps. Every scream I’d heard replayed in my head, over and over, like some haunting echo I couldn’t escape. My legs shook as I reached for the Time-Turner, my fingers fumbling in desperation. I turned it, not counting, not caring. Anywhere was better than here

[bloodandlegacy]

I: The Name She Couldn't Take

June 25, 1953

Dear Diary,

They call me "Andy," but I hate it. It feels like another way she’s trying to scrape away the parts of me that belong to my mother. I was born Andromeda. She named me after stars—something bright and beautiful, something that mattered. But in this house, in this world of shadows, I’m just "Andy," some girl she’s molding into whatever suits her. It feels like every time she says it, she’s taking away what little is left of my mother’s love.

The woman I call "mom" is someone my real mother left me with—a friend, she claimed, though I can’t imagine why. She’s all harsh words and cold hands, her face set like stone whenever she looks at me. Maybe she thinks raising me like this is doing me a favor, maybe she believes she’s “saving” me from something. But she doesn’t feel like a mother. More like a jailer, someone who locks me in the dark and expects me to grow blind to the light.

Sometimes I whisper my real name to myself, just to feel its weight in my mouth. Andromeda Gaunt. That’s who I am. That’s who I’ll always be, even if no one else ever says it.

Today I turned 11. She gave me this diary, probably just to shut me up. "Happy now?" she said, and tossed it to me like it was something I didn’t deserve. But it’s mine, no matter how I got it, and here I can say whatever I want. Here, I can be Andromeda.

Not that there’s much to say about today. Just me and her, like it always is. I asked if we could do something different, maybe just sit outside, but she just scoffed. "Birthdays are for foolish children," she muttered. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s childish to want something special, to pretend I could be more than… whatever she says I am.

Still, when she left, I went out to the garden, where the sun was warm and the flowers bright. I sat there, eyes closed, just listening. Sometimes I feel like there’s something in me that wants to break free, some spark or fire.

There was one time I got so angry, the glass on the table shook. She said it was because I was careless, but I’m not so sure. Sometimes it feels like there’s a spark inside me, like a tiny fire that wants to be seen. But every time it tries, it gets smothered. I feel it waiting, hiding in me, as if it knows better than to show itself.

Anyway, I made myself a promise, here in these pages: one day, I’ll understand who I really am. Maybe even make something of myself.

-Andromeda Gaunt

Looking back, I barely recognize that frightened little girl, clutching her diary as if it were the only friend she’d ever have. In a way, it was. No one else was going to tell me who I was, so I told myself in those pages, letter by letter, a quiet rebellion against a world that refused to see me.

I was born a Gaunt, yet I grew up a nobody. If fate had been a bit kinder, or perhaps less cruel, my life would have looked very different. Instead, my earliest memories are of a broken-down house, the smell of stale alcohol, and the rough, cold hands of the woman who raised me. She wasn’t my mother, of course; my mother was dead. She died when I was three. Her best friend—a half-blood who thought she was doing my mother some great favor by keeping me “safe” from magic—became my caretaker. Safe… that’s what she called it.

Safe meant beaten, bruised, and terrified to my core of whatever magic stirred inside me. Safe meant hiding every spark, every flicker, because to her, magic was filth, and I was the living embodiment of it. Each flicker of magic was met with harsh words and harsher hands, a constant reminder that magic was something ugly and shameful. And I believed her, for years. I shrank myself down, smothered the spark within me until it became something dark, something I feared as much as she did.

Every time something unexplainable happened—like the time the flowers in the vase grew at my touch, or when the lights flickered with my anger—she called it ���devilish nonsense.” And I was punished, each time harsher than the last, until I learned to swallow it all down. Until the thing inside me that once felt like a fire turned cold and dark, like a storm I didn’t dare unleash.

But I never let go of that name: Andromeda. It was mine, a tiny link to a mother I couldn’t remember, a life I’d never know. In that name, there was power, a power she couldn’t touch, no matter how hard she tried to make me "Andy," her quiet, magicless little project. Andy was her way of wiping away the name my mother had given me, the legacy that flowed through my veins. She never realized that every time she called me “Andy,” all she did was fuel the fire she was so desperate to extinguish.

For years, I thought maybe I was just cursed, different, unworthy of anything else. But then I discovered I was a witch. And a Gaunt.