"Congratulations on your 30th birthday, Lord Slytherin."

The words fell on his ears, monotonous and repetitive, as yet another Ministry drone extended their simpering smile and thrust a bouquet into his hands. Marvolo didn’t even bother to glance at them. He offered a curt nod—his version of politeness—and moved past, his jaw set tight against the wave of hollow well-wishes that trailed him wherever he went.

What did these people know of him, really? Did they care about him? Of course not. They cared about his title, his influence, the power they thought they could leech from him. It wasn’t respect. It was survival, masquerading as admiration. And Merlin, it was exhausting.

He hated this day.

The 30th of December had always sat like a stone in his gut, heavy and unyielding. Even now, with a new life, a new name, and a world molded to his will, this date never failed to remind him of everything he despised. Birthdays were meaningless, but this one? This one was poisoned.

And tonight, like every year since he’d first gained the power to act on his fury, he would return to Wool’s Orphanage.

The thought made him clench his fists, even as the memory unfurled in his mind—vivid, visceral, and laced with a bitter satisfaction. He remembered the smell of smoke and scorched wood, the way the flames had roared like an avenging inferno as they consumed the crumbling building. He could still hear the priest’s screams, sharp and frantic as he begged for mercy. He hadn’t gotten any, of course. Mercy was for the weak.

Marvolo had dragged him from his pathetic chapel by the collar, his wand slicing the air with precision as curses peeled away flesh and bone. The priest had whimpered, cried about salvation and forgiveness, and Marvolo had laughed—a cold, hollow sound that echoed off the orphanage walls. Forgiveness? Salvation? Where had those been when he was a boy, starving and shivering in the dark, praying for someone—anyone—to care?

Mrs. Cole’s end had been slower. He’d made sure of that. She’d been his jailor, his tormentor, the one who had whispered about "bad blood" and "devil’s spawn" when she thought he couldn’t hear. She’d gotten what she deserved. The fire had taken her last, licking up her legs as she writhed and screamed, her eyes wide with terror. And he’d stood there, watching, drinking in her suffering as if it were wine.

And yet, despite all of it—despite the ashes and the vengeance and the twisted satisfaction that came with their deaths—he still found himself drawn back.

Every year, on this wretched day, something pulled him to the ruins of Wool’s Orphanage. It wasn’t guilt. Guilt was beneath him. It wasn’t nostalgia, either; he despised every moment of his childhood in that hellhole. Perhaps it was simply the weight of it all, the need to remind himself of what he’d survived. Or perhaps some part of him, some buried, fractured piece of the boy he’d once been, was still searching for answers he’d never find.

He shoved the bouquet into the arms of the nearest assistant, barely registering their stammered apology, and scanned the crowd for Abraxas. His friend caught his eye from across the room, and with a single sharp glance, Marvolo ordered him to end this charade.

The sun was already sinking, and he could feel the pull growing stronger with each passing moment. He wanted to leave—needed to leave. To strip away the suffocating layers of this celebration and sink into the quiet desolation of the orphanage ruins. He didn’t know what he was searching for there. Closure, perhaps. Or maybe just a reminder of why he’d become what he was.

He didn’t care. All he knew was that the Ministry, the cameras, the simpering fools—they could all rot. Tonight, as always, he would go back to the place where it all began.

And maybe, just maybe, the fire would still be burning.

Marvolo quickly cast Tempus as he walked the dimly lit streets of Muggle London, the spell subtly casting a blue glow on his wrist, revealing the time: 11:35 PM. His shoes clattered against the cobblestones, sharp and rhythmic, each step echoing through the narrow alleyways, the sound a stark contrast to the shabby surroundings. He looked completely out of place in this dingy part of town, his polished appearance like a blade cutting through the grungy tapestry of the Muggle world.

The Muggle streets were alive with the final buzz of New Year’s Eve celebrations. Windows were adorned with shimmering decorations, gold and silver streamers swaying lazily in the wind. The air was thick with the smell of roasting chestnuts from street vendors and the sweet, sickly scent of spilt alcohol. Laughter spilled from pubs nearby, the sound of clinking glasses, and bursts of firecrackers that echoed in the distance. It was the kind of night that made the world seem on the edge of something—of beginnings and endings, of hope and decay.

Yet here he was, alone. and he was glad or atleast he told himself that.

People stared at him as he passed, eyes widening, whispers flickering in the air. They looked him up and down, their curiosity palpable. It was uplifting, in a way. Back when he had been at Hogwarts, it was the same—people stared, but back then it was because of his worn-out robes, his tattered window-cloak that had been sealed with magic rather than replaced. They had pitied him. Now, however, it was different. People looked because he had become someone.

A figure of wealth. Of status.

His shoes gleamed in the flickering lights of the streets, polished to perfection, catching the dim glow of fireworks bursting in the sky overhead. His clothes fit like they had been sewn by the hands of fortune itself—rich, tailored fabric that whispered of wealth and power. The diamond cufflinks on his sleeves reflected the lights of nearby taverns, winking as if to remind the Muggles of who he was. His hair was perfectly coiffed, not a strand out of place. He stood there, impossibly polished, a man who had walked through the gates of the high society, and now they couldn't look away.

He inhaled the bitter, cold air as he walked, the mixture of smoke and alcohol curling around him like a fog. The night was alive with celebration, the Muggle world oblivious to the dark lord striding amongst them. There were fireworks now, popping in the distance—bright bursts of color in the sky, a mocking contrast to the emptiness that festered inside him.

But there was a deep, gnawing sense of discomfort in his chest, no matter how much the world might celebrate. His thoughts weren’t on the grandness of his new life. They were back at the orphanage. The place that had haunted him for so long. His memories clung to him like the sticky sweetness of spilled booze, tainting every moment.

He approached the familiar street where the orphanage sat. The smell of roasting meats mixed with the stench of the air that clung to the place—the old, faded smell of forgotten lives. Wool’s Orphanage. The building stood in front of him, old and worn, the once-grand structure now a shadow of its former self, sagging with years of neglect, like an ancient, broken thing. The lights from nearby Muggle revelers reflected off its cracked windows, casting strange, flickering shadows that seemed to whisper of things long buried.

And then, the memories came.

The priest's bloodied face, the final screams of Mrs. Cole as the flames consumed her—he had done it. He had torn it all down, one life at a time. The priest had begged for mercy, but Marvolo hadn’t given it. He had used the dark magic he’d mastered to torture him for days, drawing out every ounce of suffering before finally snuffing his life out with a curse that lingered in the air long after. Mrs. Cole had been a different matter. He had watched her burn, her cries of agony making him feel nothing but a twisted sense of satisfaction. He’d let the fire consume her from the inside, her body disintegrating under the heat of his wrath.

And yet, despite the revenge that had once satisfied his thirst, here he was again. Standing before the very place that had shaped him, the place he had sworn to destroy.

Something pulled at him. A longing, a need he couldn’t understand. Despite the hate, despite the anger that still burned in his veins like wildfire, he had to be here. It was like the place called to him, like a wound that refused to heal.

As he reached the gates, the air seemed to change. It was quieter here, the hum of the Muggle celebrations dampened, as if the orphanage itself was holding its breath, waiting for him to cross the threshold. His heart pounded in his chest. He hated this place. He despised it. But it was where he belonged.

For a moment, the fireworks lit up the night sky again, illuminating the crumbling silhouette of the orphanage. He could almost feel the echoes of his younger self—the boy who had once lived here, forgotten and forsaken. His fingers twitched at his sides, an old rage simmering under the surface.

And yet, he took a step forward.

Just as he was about to crash the threshold, he felt something tiny clash with his legs.

Startled by the sudden collision, Marvolo looked down, his irritation bubbling to the surface before his eyes locked onto the small, disheveled form of Thomas Alexander Peverell, the son of Alexandrina Peverell. Of course, it was Thomas, but it was also his son, his soul shard, a piece of his very essence—something that twisted his thoughts into knots every time. The weight of that truth threatened to shatter his tranquility in an instant.

Before he could recover from the shock, a voice broke through the fray. “Tom, boy, stop running, you're going to cause me to trip, fall, and break my head one day!”

And there she was—the woman who both haunted and consumed him, the one who occupied his every thought, for better or worse. Alexandrina. The savior of magical worlds, the woman who had fought against him tooth and nail, and yet somehow, had given birth to the very child who was a part of his soul. The irony wasn’t lost on him; nothing in his life ever made sense.

Marvolo didn’t say a word. Instead, he just hoisted Thomas into his arms, the boy’s small body slamming into his head, an all-too-familiar gesture. The sharp, cheeky voice of Thomas followed right after: “You really haven’t learned much about consent, have you?”

A scoff left Marvolo's lips, but the moment was quickly interrupted by Alexandrina’s arrival. “Tom,” she said firmly, kneeling down as she leveled her gaze with the boy, “you can’t beat people like that. Apologize.”

But Thomas, ever the devilish little brat, did exactly what Marvolo had expected. Without a second thought, he delivered a swift kick straight into Marvolo’s abdomen, causing him to double over, clutching the now-sore spot.

The little devil darted inside the orphanage, leaving Marvolo standing there, breathless and in a mix of pain and exasperation. Alexandrina’s hand settled gently on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Marvolo looked up, his expression dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, yes, I'm perfectly fine, considering your demon child just kicked me in the stomach."

Alexandrina, shaking her head with a sigh, chuckled softly. “He got his devilish behavior from you not me, Mr Worst dark lord of the century!"

With his dignity slightly bruised, Marvolo straightened himself up. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked, the irritation from the collision still apparent in his tone.

Alexandrina, her eyes softening just a touch, sighed. “It’s Tom. Despite everything, despite having an entirely new life, he’s always pulled back here, to this place. Sadly, I couldn’t bring him before—because of the war and all that—but this year, I thought maybe he could find some kind of closure.”

Marvolo let out a bitter laugh, crossing his arms. “Poor child,” he muttered. “I don’t think he’ll find any closure here. I've been doing the same thing for thirteen years, dragging myself back to this godforsaken place. But nothing changes, does it? I don’t even know why I keep coming here.” His voice faltered, bitterness clouding his words, though something deeper lingered beneath the surface—a flicker of something he couldn’t quite grasp.

Before Alexandrina could respond, the shrill cry of Thomas echoed from inside the orphanage. “Mama!”

Marvolo, in a rare show of politeness, extended his hand to Alexandrina, offering it as if it were a casual gesture, but there was something else there—a silent request, a need for something more than the endless tension between them.

She looked at his hand for a moment, hesitated, but then took it gladly, letting him guide her away. As they walked, the sound of Muggle fireworks crackling in the distance seemed to fade into a haze, drowned out by the cacophony of thoughts swirling in Marvolo’s mind. The night, the orphanage, the boy—the pieces were all slipping into place, but the answers never seemed to get any clearer.

Alexandrina and Marvolo walked side by side, the soft crackling of Muggle fireworks in the distance echoed into the silence, a stark contrast to the quiet tension between them. Alexandrina, ever perceptive, noticed Marvolo’s subtle flick of his wrist as he silently cast the Notice Me Not charm around the three of them. A part of her almost smiled at his discreetness, though she knew it was second nature to him by now. Tom, oblivious to it all, was rushing ahead, clearly enjoying the night with his usual energetic abandon.

“Is he always that energetic?” Marvolo asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of amusement and something else, something deeper, though it was hard to place.

Alexandrina chuckled softly. “Kids at this age ? Yeah, pretty energetic. But hopefully, he’ll have calmed down by the time Delphini reaches this age. Otherwise, I’m done for.”

She joked, but her laughter was laced with the familiar exhaustion of motherhood—the kind of weariness that only comes with raising a child, especially one so… like Marvolo.

Marvolo’s lips curled in a sardonic smile. “I’ll never understand you mothers,” he muttered. “How can you be happy about something so stressful?”

A flicker of mischief danced in Alexandrina’s eyes. “What mothers think, feel, and do... well, you’d have to become a mother yourself to understand.” She gave him a teasing look before adding, “And by the way, in case you haven’t noticed, you can’t be.”

Marvolo’s hand, which had been resting lightly on hers, suddenly moved, sliding from her fingers to her waist in one smooth motion. Alexandrina, to his surprise, didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him, her body responding before her mind could catch up. The warmth between them seemed to defy the cold night air, leaving Marvolo momentarily stunned by her reaction.

They walked for a few more minutes in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward but instead filled with an unspoken understanding, a history that hung between them like a delicate thread. Then, unexpectedly, Alexandrina broke the silence.

“Why do you always come here?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost introspective.

Marvolo’s expression hardened slightly, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t know.” He paused, the depth of his own internal conflict seeping into his voice. “There’s just something about this place. Something that pulls me, yanks me. It feels like it’s pulling my very soul.” His voice dropped to a whisper as if the truth of it was too heavy to speak aloud.

Alexandrina raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a playful smile. “You mean your soul, which looks like confetti?”

Marvolo couldn’t suppress the chuckle that bubbled up, a rare sound coming from him. He hadn’t laughed like that in… well, years. It felt almost foreign to him, but it was genuine. The sound cut through the tension, breaking it momentarily.

But then, as if the universe refused to let him enjoy any semblance of peace, his body froze mid-step. His eyes locked onto the figure of Thomas, rushing toward their old room, his small legs carrying him with alarming speed.

“No, Tom, don’t!” Marvolo yelled, his voice sharp and filled with panic.

Alexandrina turned to him, concern flooding her expression. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Marvolo’s gaze was wild, frantic, for the first time in ages. “I cursed that room. No one, no one could enter it without being poisoned to death. I made sure of it.” His words came out in a rush, his worry growing as he saw Thomas step boldly toward the door.

To Marvolo’s shock, the boy didn’t hesitate. He opened the door with no regard for the curse that had been placed on it—no hesitation, no fear. Marvolo could only stare, momentarily stunned, his chest tightening as he watched.

Alexandrina’s laughter broke through the tension. “You keep forgetting, don’t you? He’s you in a four-year-old body. Your version, back when you were... well, that Moldy-Voldy. He can get through basically anything. Nothing phases him.”

Marvolo shook his head, muttering under his breath as he walked toward the room, disbelief still evident in his every step. But before he could reach the door, Alexandrina stopped him, her hand gently pressing into his chest.

“Go ahead,” she said softly.

Marvolo paused, confusion and something else flickering in his eyes. “What happened?” he asked, his voice tinged with the same uncertainty he felt within. “Go ahead?”

Alexandrina didn’t respond. Instead, she simply turned and began walking away from him, leaving him standing there, motionless for the briefest moment.

For the first time in his life, Marvolo felt something sharp and unfamiliar—a pang of hurt—as he watched her walk away. The sensation was so unexpected, so alien, that it took him a moment to process it. It was as if the very ground beneath him had shifted, and he wasn’t sure if he could follow.

But he didn’t. Instead, he stayed there, watching her retreat, a quiet ache settling in the hollow of his chest. Something had changed, something small but significant. And for once, he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Marvolo stood motionless for a moment, watching Alexandrina walk away towards the church of the orphanage. The sting of her departure still lingered in him, an unfamiliar ache twisting in his chest. He felt a sense of helplessness, something he hadn’t experienced in years, perhaps ever. As she disappeared into the shadows, he turned towards the room that he had once called his sanctuary—the room where so much of his past, his soul, had been shattered.

Inside, little Tom was sitting on the bed, staring out of the window with a look of quiet contemplation, his small form silhouetted against the dusky sky. The same window Marvolo had once stared out of as a young boy, desperately wishing for an escape.

Tom didn’t turn when Marvolo entered. “What happened?” the boy asked softly, his voice too knowing for someone so young.

Marvolo froze at the question, caught off guard by the weight of it. He was unsure whether he was more surprised by the question or by how instinctively Tom had sensed something was off. “Nothing,” Marvolo muttered, his mind still reeling.

But Tom didn’t buy it. He didn’t even look at him, simply casting a glance over his shoulder. The gaze he gave Marvolo was unsettling, like the boy was staring directly into the depths of his soul. “You’re hiding. I know you more than you know yourself.”

Marvolo blinked, caught in the intensity of Tom’s words. He didn’t want to admit it, but the boy was right. How had it become so clear to Tom, so fast? “Lord Slytherin,” Tom continued, his voice steady and almost too wise