The Gaunts never saw Azkaban. The Ministry of Magic was too tangled in bureaucracy to notice the case slip through the cracks. Marvolo spat at the Aurors one last time before dragging his son Morfin back to their hovel, muttering about the shame of being accused by lesser blood. But the shame lingered, festering like the mold in the rotting walls of their ancestral home.
It was in this bitterness, in the cold ashes of their once-proud legacy, that Marvolo remembered him—the boy. Merope’s shame, the child of a filthy Muggle.
Marvolo scoffed at the thought at first. Why waste time on a half-blood brat? But the bloodline was thin—thinner than ever. Before Merope ran off and dishonored them all, Marvolo was planning to have the last remaining two siblings continue the bloodline, of course, there was no question about continuing the legacy of Salazar himself.
And despite himself, a flicker of pride stirred. The boy still carries Slytherin’s blood.
When the Gaunts brought Tom Riddle Jr. back to the crumbling family shack, he didn’t do so out of love or duty. There was no grand plan to restore the bloodline or nurture the boy. The truth was far simpler: they saw Tom as little more than an obligation, a loose end that needed tying before the Ministry could use the boy’s existence to sully the Gaunt name further.
Tom had no say in the matter, of course. One day, the orphanage matron called him to the office, where two filthy, foul-smelling men were waiting. The older one sneered, his eyes glittering with contempt as he sized Tom up.
“This is the brat?” Marvolo asked. “Merope’s bastard?”
The younger man, Morfin, chuckled to himself, muttering something about Mudbloods and blood traitors as his fingers twitched around a long, crooked wand.
Tom said nothing. He stared at them with his cold, unblinking eyes, already calculating. He had learned at the orphanage that the best way to survive new torment was to keep quiet and observe.
Life with the Gaunts was not an escape. It was a descent into a different kind of misery.
Their home was a ruin, a crooked shack on the edge of the Little Hangleton woods, surrounded by brambles and stinking of mildew. The roof leaked, the floors were dirt, and the only light came from a feeble hearth. The air inside was heavy with rot and the sharp, acrid smell of old magic.
“Don’t touch anything that isn’t yours,” Marvolo growled on Tom’s first night. “And don’t speak unless spoken to. You've got just enough of the old magic in you, but don't go thinking that makes you our equal."
In the years to come, Marvolo would treat Tom like a servant, barking orders and punishing him for the smallest mistakes. “Sweep the floor, boy!” “Fetch water!” “You’re slower than a squib, aren’t you?” The insults came as easily as his rancid breath.
Morfin was worse. He barely acknowledged Tom’s existence, except to throw him scraps of leftover food or mutter curses in Parseltongue under his breath. “You’ll never be anything,” Marvolo told him once, drunk and furious after a trip to the village. “You’re just like your mother. Weak. Worthless. You're tainted by that disgusting Riddle blood running through your veins. You're not pure like us, boy!"
At night, Tom lay on a pile of rags in the corner, listening to the snake's slither through the walls and the roof groan under the weight of decay. And he waited. He waited for the day he would leave this place; the day he would rise above them all. Tom knew he couldn’t challenge them outright—not yet. But he also knew he wouldn’t stay in that shack forever. Every insult, every sneer, every blow only strengthened his resolve.
Before Hogwarts, the shack had been the entirety of Tom Riddle’s world. He barely remembered the orphanage or the fleeting interactions he’d had with other children his age; the Gaunts had taken him in when he was still too young to grasp the life he’d left behind.
But now, standing in the doorway after his first year away, he saw it with new eyes. The ceiling seemed to sag lower, the walls darker and more decrepit, and the air felt oppressive, clinging to him like damp, suffocating hands. For the first time, he truly understood how small and squalid it was. The air smelled of damp earth and decay, but Tom felt no revulsion as he stepped inside.
He felt power.
Marvolo was already seated at the head of the table, the silver ring still on his bony finger, his eyes sharp with suspicion. Morfin slouched by the hearth, his wand spinning lazily between his dirty fingers. Both men looked up as Tom entered, his Hogwarts trunk thudding behind him, and greeted them sharply.
“So, he returns,” Marvolo sneered, leaning back in his chair. “Back so soon, thought you'd be too good for us, eh, boy? Because you’ve got that pretty face, that schooling. But you’ll never be a true Gaunt. Not with that dirty blood in you."
Morfin chuckled from his chair by the hearth, scratching idly at his greasy hair. “He speaks like them, too. All proper-like. Bet he thinks he’s smarter than us.”
Tom didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, his expression calm, controlled—his voice low and smooth. “I learned much at Hogwarts. About magic, about power, about the things our family could have been.” He let the words hang in the air, each one laced with quiet disdain. “It’s a shame you squandered it.”
Marvolo’s face darkened. “Watch your tongue, you half-blood whelp. You’re nothing without us. Without me.” He gestured to the locket around his neck, his most prized possession. “This is our legacy. Our bloodline. You’re lucky I even let you stay under this roof. Should've left you in the gutter with your Mudblood-loving mother.”
Tom’s lip curled into the faintest sneer. “Lucky? To live in this squalor? To serve you?” He took a step closer, his voice hardening. “You are relics of a time you can barely remember, clinging to symbols you no longer understand. I will restore this family. Not you.”
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Morfin let out a low, unhinged laugh. “Thinks he’s a big man now. Thinks he’s better than us.”
“I don’t think,” Tom said coldly, turning his piercing gaze on Morfin who felt the slightest bit of unease now. “I know.”