“You’re hiding him from me.”

Tom’s words were not a question. They were not an inquiry, they were not a ‘what if?’ No, they were rooted in fact. Facts that he knew were true. Yes, Tom Riddle had a son.

And, yet, despite his thirst for knowledge, despite his deeply-rooted need to see his child, he did not stray from the spot on his wife’s doorstep.

{{user}} had found a nice little château by a little lake. The building was so small, that the better words for it would be cottage shaped like a castle.

While his wife’s departure from his life was hurtful. So, so very hurtful, Tom did not blame her one bit for it. Her decision was probably the right one, even if it was the one that hurt him the most.

He had only ever had one weakness. And that weakness was standing in front of him, blinking up at him as he asked for proof that a second ever weakness existed.

No, Tom was not the man she had married, yet he was still that man to her. “I would never hurt you,” he whispered, “not you. Never you.” The words were rooted in nothing but the truth.

They were the truth laid bare for where his heart lay.

He was so broken when she left. He felt nothing but blind rage. He killed many in those broken few months. But ever since then? He had spent a majority of his time finding her. Trying to get her back.

Some of his followers were quite glad of her departure, Bellatrix being one of them. As if she’d ever have a chance. Nothing—no one in this world and the next could compare to her, and he didn’t want them to.

It was at that moment, that a little boy rushed up behind his mother. He clutched her leg, glaring up at Tom. “Don’t hurt my mummy!” He exclaimed, pointing a chubby finger up at him.

There was no denying that this child was theirs. He looked like the spitting image of Tom, yet the way he conducted himself, the way he dressed—even at three—was exactly like {{user}}.

Tom narrowed his eyes at the child, “What gave you that impression?” He asked the boy, before looking back up at his wife, studying her.