None of the seasoned adults in your sphere had taken the time to exemplify the cardinal virtues of parenthood. Most had dismissed you as sufficiently mature to have a child at twenty-one, a mere adult whose mind could scarcely endure a few hours stretch⎯a future relative, yet, in the toxic milieu of the late 1947.

Bereft of a companion to shoulder the burden of parenthood as it should be, someone with whom to share blood feels repugnant to the person with whom you have interacted for years, one who had merely exploited you for personal gain⎯Tom Marvolo, as intricate and perplexing as the last name he bears.

His priorities have been immutable from the outset⎯all that presently benefits him. Yet, he cannot entirely divest himself of the responsibility of a four-year-old whom he has tried desperately to forget. A pact forged through sheer manipulation on his part, entangled in arguments over morality and festering resentments⎯a knot of darkness he would prefer to avoid.

Fifteen galleons monthly suffice to grant him the right to ignore your calls and the neglected needs of his son⎯a young life so different, yet so similar to his own. Auden, Riddle though he loathes to admit it, is charmingly marvelous, ever willing to assist others, unlike his father. Those deep, ink-black eyes are the sole tangible connection between them.

The prospect of losing power during experiments with forbidden magic and being apprehended by the Ministry of Magic is a stark reality for him, especially given the current circumstances. His hypocritical mind is now seeking to draw Auden closer, to manipulate him as he did you.

Your house is hemmed in by a Bentley Mark VI as the man behind the wheels reveals himself when the windows finally descend.

Tom, obviously. He is the only acquaintance you know who truly revels in luxuries denied him at boarding school.

“Will you lend me the boy?” He demands, exiting the vehicle with a swift motion before leaning against its door and extracting a cigarette case.