Disclaimer: I do not own anything. The letter by Tiarella Evans is borrowed from Mad Father's Monika Drevis.
1. Mariposa Riddle nee Gaunt
I fancied my signature to be nice. In honor of my name Mariposa, I had the shape of a butterfly wing as my signature then unintelligible scribble squashed next to it, meant to be my family's name but as my estrangement with my father and brother grew, it grew even more unintelligible. I was fifteen when I invented it. To sit for your OWLs, you had to sign an honor code to never cheat. I'd invented it on the spot.
Back then and a few years later, when I signed for my NEWTs exam, my hand was smooth, unblemished by age. There were some calluses on my palms from the years of working in Riddle's stables. I generally liked my hands. They had helped me did a lot of things: good things like fighting Grindelwald and rescuing people from Dark wizards; bad things like giving birth to Babymort and wishing he'd never been born.
I blinked away the haunting memory. I jerked when the door opened behind me, about to blast the intruder into pieces until I realized it was just Tom. Just Riddle. He looked older than the boy I'd punched in the woods. We'd come a long way from that forest. That forest to his stables to our respective worlds and schools and then, the world.
But still in Little Hangleton.
"What's taking you so long?" Riddle asked. His voice was undoubtedly deeper than when we were bratty children and awkward adolescences up to no good. Still, it had been like that for the past twenty six years. I'd stopped being taken surprised by it long ago.
He furrowed his dark brows in amusement. "What, your wand suddenly lost its magic?" Twenty six years ago, he'd be saying, "What, hiding that mug under inches of make-up had finally squeezed every last drop of magic from that wand?"
He was an asshole then; he'd matured enough to be a father but he still had the tendency to instigate his kids to do … morally questionable things. Things like killing. Like stealing secrets from the Ministry of Magic and selling them for money.
I scoffed. "You know that's never happened before." In truth, I didn't know if wands could actually lose their magic. I'd had it with me for years. I was fifty now, half a century years old. But magical people—witches and wizards—weren't as quick to lose their vitality. My hair was still long, wavy and dark, my eyes still clear blue beneath the bangs that hid my right eye. I'd erased the heavy bags (thanks, Mattie) for tonight. Make-up and magic hid the beginnings of age corroding me. I looked thirty.
Muggles were a different matter. But Tom had good genes—and a witch for a wife. He looked older than I was but still younger than he was supposed to.
"So what's the problem?" He appeared at my back, his reflection cast in the mirror of my vanity. He'd applied his usual cologne for tonight. A big night for us since our daughter's marrying. And our niece, too.
I lifted hair from the right side of my face. "I look ugly." Actually, I just didn't want Celia to marry. If feigning sick could make them postpone it, fine by me.
Riddle snorted. "The mirror reverses, silly," he kissed the top of my head, surprising me. I dropped the tuft of hair I held. My right eye stung slightly from the bristling of my hair. "You're beautiful."
What I both loved and hated was how easily he could make me feel better about myself. I feel like I'm being manipulated; I feel like I'm loved very, very much.
I smiled at him.
2. Tom Riddle Sr.
"This is Mariposa, I want to marry her." Tom delivered this offhandedly to his parents, gesturing to Mariposa who sat uncomfortably beside him on the couch. She held her wand in hand defensively.
What Tom Riddle wants, he always gets. If they asked him what went wrong and how the hell he fell in love with a tramp's daughter, he'd blame it on his parents. Thomas and Mary Riddle had spoiled him from the moment he was born. Whenever he demanded something, he got it. He grew up getting whatever he wanted.
Want was his most used word. Even the universe could bow to his want. As a child, he certainly thought so anyway. Meeting Mariposa only exacerbated that belief.
I want excitement.
He got Mariposa and with her, came a baggage of Cecilia, Merope, her nutty family and halcyon days of gallivanting around Little Hangleton, laughing, fighting, and living. But above all, she brought magic to his life.
It was a foreign thing. Magic and witchcraft were different in children's eyes. Witchcraft connoted something monstrous, evil. Magic was the stuff of fairy tales and wonder. Excitement. Something new. A change in pace.
Tom would be the first to admit he didn't know how to get along with other children. He was smarter than them, obviously. He didn't attend public school because he wanted to learn at his own pace. He never mixed around with other children. They were slobbering idiots.
Mari was the cynical kid in the stables. A tramp's daughter who wasn't supposed to have any form of education. She completed mathematics problems in his book easily.
They grew older and while she wasn't the prettiest girl around, her smile was one of the rarest kinds—the one that lit her murky eyes into something brighter and purer.
He liked that smile.
And then he wanted that smile, that girl, that world. He got all of them.
Now Tom wanted all the time in the world to be with her, his children and this world. The Muggle doctor's words were tiny hammers knocking on every nerve that caused worry and misery. Sir, you have cancer. Could witches and wizards cure a Muggle ailment? Mari had never heard of cancer when he'd asked.
Seeing Celia married reminded him that he might not even live long enough to see his grandchildren.
I want, I want, I want—
Greedy to death, Tom Riddle Sr. still felt that he hadn't led a bad life. Quite the contrary actually, he thought, smiling down at his wife.
3. Thomson Mallory Riddle (Tom Riddle Jr.)
[Why will you not reply? I understand you're busy but even a sentence would've filled my heart with boundless joy.
Do you doubt me, perhaps? My feelings are real. I would never lie about them. I adore you. I love you. Perhaps you'll hate me for writing it, but when I see your smile as you tear that filth to shreds with a flick of your wand, my heart flutters.
When we first met, you tried to kill me to erase witnesses even though you'd saved me from that bastard of a man. Just as I was about to die, my heart was pounding. I had never experienced such thrills before; I shiver even thinking back on it. But the feelings are not of fear even though I initially assumed it was so from the shock of witnessing magic and what it could do. Now I realize my feelings are of love. Because it is you I wanted….
But it is still a mystery to me. Why didn't you kill me? So I thought, perhaps you've seen something special in me … No, forgive my silly thoughts. I just want you to know my love is real.
Oh yes, I've included a map to my house with this letter. Please come, if you're so inclined. I'm sure you'll be surprised at my mansion. It used to be a base for a cult, so they've left many interesting things here and some are makes no scientific sense—perhaps it is magic. I want to show them to you.
I'll always be waiting.
Tom would be the first to admit he was handsome. On Valentine's Day in Hogwarts, dwarves always blocked the hallway for queuing up to sing him love songs from his admirers. He'd been both annoyed and flattered. But he never returned their love; he didn't care for such things.
And even now, when his parents subtly (his mother's asking) and not-so-subtly ("Son, are you gay?" his father asked him seriously one night) hinted that he was a bit too old for a bachelor. He was twenty-five for crying out loud, still in his prime. He was in no rush to sell away that status. Women, be it Muggle or witch, tended to have looser tongues around an available man.
Tom reread the letter the Muggle woman had sent. In truth, he felt like he'd rescued the man from the woman instead of the other way around. Even in the alleyway swathed in impenetrable darkness, he'd seen the glint of a blade beneath the woman.
Then he'd stepped back. People in shock after an attempted sexual assault tended to be horrified to the point of changing the bad memory into a nightmare then a delusion instead of treating it as reality. Besides, Tom had his own morals—his version of it anyway. He didn't bother killing or erasing her memory.
How the hell she got a hold of an owl that could carry messages to the Wizarding World was baffling, impressive and amusing.
Tom could feel the sincerity of the letter. It made him feel fuzzy and weird and his chest bubbled with the insane urge to laugh—something he shouldn't be doing since his sister and her would-be husband were exchanging their vows. Wizards and witches crowded the area. No one paid him and his letter much attention sans a few of the pure-blood daughters glancing suggestively his way. He carefully avoided eye-contact.
They were greedy, pure-blood supremacists who lusted for the blood of Salazar Slytherin. Nothing more, nothing less.
But this Muggle woman … Tiarella Evans … he checked the map. After the wedding, at midnight, he'd go. It'd be fun. Mateus and his petty war could wait.
4. Cecelia Potter nee Riddle
In the midst of merrymaking of her wedding to pure-blood wizard Charlus Potter, Celia saw her elder brother slipping a note into his pocket, his secretive smile her way, and his subsequent disappearance. She glanced the other way, seeking her younger brother for a dance instead.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Miles waved from among the throng of people. Celia arched a brow of surprise when she saw the uptight Minerva McGonagall stumbling after her brother. McGonagall had worked in the Ministry briefly so Celia had the (dis)pleasure of meeting the bitc—ahem,witch, in the Ministry.
Celia didn't understand why Miles found Minerva attractive. Aside from her looks, she was a witch, speaking from Muggle's dialect.
"Something wrong?" asked Charlus. His dark snarls were framing his face beautifully. Charlus had wanted to forgo his glasses for tonight but Celia insisted he keep them on because she'd always found him adorable with them. His hazel eyes glittered gold and green and brown underneath the lights of magic and moonlight.
Celia would've liked an exhibition of werewolves but her mother had vetoed that idea, since it was too dangerous. What was life without risks? Celia had retorted but her mother was having none of it. Hmph. Her mother was one to talk. Celia heard that Dark wizards had been on display then a fight had broken out during the wedding reception, culminating in one epic three-way fight.
"Minnie's here," she pouted.
Charlus laughed. "C'mon, today's a happy day, we should share it with everyone. Speaking of which, where's Tom?"
"Who knows," Celia mused exasperatedly. She loved her brother but Tom did have the bad habit of leaving without a word.
That, she reflected poignantly, was one of the things she'd hated about him.
That he always came back was one of the many things she loved about him.
5. Miles Riddle
She insisted she couldn't dance but Miles didn't believe Minerva McGonagall for one bit. "Don't tell me my little lioness can't dance," he teased.
Minerva shot him an affronted look. She was still miffed about how he'd pulled her hair out of her bun and had charmed it to remain a cascading wave of darkness down her back. Honestly, if she didn't want her hair down because it was hot, she should just cut it. Maybe Miles'd do it for her, as an April Fool's joke.
Then, she lifted her shapely arms, and light as a Snitch escaping the Seeker, she joined the whirling dance where more than two dozen witches and wizards had paired up to dance on Samhain night.
Laughing, because even though she was older than he, she still couldn't back down from a challenge, and it was funnily easy how he could manipulate her so, he joined her. As he danced, he noticed how his elder brother wasn't among the couples or the chattering crowd. Even his parents were dancing though Mariposa looked like she'd been forced into it. Aunt Merope laughed about something then she twirled and took her younger sister into her arms for a dance. Uncle Marius nudged his father, then gestured to Aquila (so noticeable because of her rainbow-colored hair) and Lyra.
Several pure-blood heiresses danced close enough to talk, obscuring his view of his immediate family. (Miles noticed how none of the Gaunts were present even though they had been invited. That thought saddened him. They were family, they were supposed to stick together.)
"Where's your brother?" asked Lyudmila Malfoy breathlessly.
Miles shot her a quizzical glance. "I'm not his keeper, how would I know?" And that was his general response for the rest of the night. Miles didn't glance twice at how'd asked, he just answered automatically. By the thirteenth time, he was getting steadily annoyed. "Look, I don't know, alright?"
The asker chuckled. "Youths are so impatient these days."
Miles whirled around, startled, eyes wide. "Mattie!"
Mateus Gaunt was even gaunter than how Tom had described him to be. Emaciated would be the proper term but he didn't look hungry. His features looked like new paint that had been smeared. Miles had no sympathy for his elder cousin; his face contorted angrily. No one noticed the two standing still in the midst of dancing couples.
"What on earth are you doing here? How did you get past the barrier?" he spat.
Mateus shook his head. "That's none of your concern."
"This better not be an attack! How low can you sink? On a day when Celia's supposed to the happiest?" Miles balled his fists, until he realized this was virtually useless. He reached into his robes for his pocket.
"Not a full-scale attack, it isn't." He Disapparated silently, without a trace or sound to indicate his presence and absence. Then the Dementors descended from the sky, obscuring the moon.
(If Miles had to describe the pinnacle of Celia's wedding reception, it'd be the army of patronuses led by his mother's griffin and Grandpa Albus' phoenix: soaring into the sky as a hundred different ghostly animals and one entity that brought hope, swirling around the guests, dancing a dance of their own—so converged and bright they were silver auroras to the Muggles who saw it from afar.
"When we get married," he told Minerva, "we're going to have something more spectacular to best this."
The Gryffindor girl—his lioness—rolled her eyes. "Never in a million years, Riddle." She scoffed. Her eyes, though not black, reflected the beautiful patronuses that continued to circle the night sky above them, slowing down from their initial aggressiveness.
The gathered patronuses moved and swayed slower than before, to a tune unheard by the humans, but surely, from their graceful gaits, it had to be something bittersweet and hopeful and beautiful.)
6. Lily Riddle
They said she was lucky. She had been born after the Civil War of Magical Britain, she hadn't experienced the deaths and miseries the previous generation had been through. She was also the hero's daughter. The man who singlehandedly defeated Mateus Marvolo, the Dark Lord, continuing family tradition of being heroes.
Lily Mariposa Riddle wondered if she'd be a Gryffindor. Her grandmother for whom she'd been named after had been. Her father was Slytherin though. Even though they were descendants of Slytherin, it didn't necessarily mean they were in their ancestor's House. Still, the Riddle name had brought fame and light to the House of Slytherin, finally healing the rift between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Either Houses would've been fine.
Still, though. She wanted something more. She didn't want to exist in the shadow of Mariposa Riddle or Thomson Riddle.
She was the youngest of three siblings—Petunia and Emery before her—and while she'd always been hailed as the loveliest, with her mother's crimson hair and emerald eyes, she'd never felt anything special. She certainly didn't feel lucky.
When you were the middle cousin, you tended to be dumped with babysitting jobs. Which also included changing diapers. Lily gagged. She was eleven and she would be starting Hogwarts once this summer ended but she didn't have a wand. Daddy promised to bring her, and her first cousins and second cousins, to Diagon Alley tomorrow. Daddy promised her a lot of things. He spoiled his daughters, sparing no expense while he was at it. But he never once promised to let her into Knockturn Alley where he and Mommy were so fond of visiting.
Lily was the keenest of her siblings to receive physical affection. Perhaps it was only she who could smell the metallic scent on her mother's skirt, in her father's chest. She asked Granny and she said only blood could stick so strongly onto skin and clothes.
There was always a sad glint of regret in Granny's eyes when Lily brought it up. She was curious and she wanted to ask Daddy and Mommy but Granny had forbid her to.
"Sometimes," said Granny as Lily sat at her feet (there used to be another pair of feet on Lily's other side but Gramps had died back when Lily was very young), "it's best to not know what's going on."
"Is it something bad?" Lily asked. "Daddy is a hero. Would he really do bad things?"
Granny's smile was bittersweet. "There's no real good or bad, Lily. It's just what humans define for a false sense of security. There's only you and the people you love, and how much you'll do to keep them safe and yourself content with the life you've led."
Lily was smart for her age. She knew Granny was trying to say that even if her Daddy does morally questionable things, he'll keep them safe from himself and he's happy the way he is. So they should be happy with the way life is for them. Granny was so smart.
The Wise Old Man of their family was smart also. His name was Albus Dumbledore and he was the oldest of their family though technically, he wasn't related to them by blood. She still felt more comfortable with her grandmother though. Now if only her Granny could wave her wand and change Sylvester Riddle-McGonagall's diapers.
"Trouble, little cuz?"
Lily blinked and turned around. Her insides tightened in a weird way so she felt the butterflies' wings brushing the skin of her stomach. Her elder cousin, James Potter, tend to incite such reactions even though she didn't know why.
James was the eldest of her cousins, being thirteen, and he was a Gryffindor, along with their cousin Sirius Black (Sirius wasn't closely related to them though; he was Grandaunt Merope's grandnephew. Sometimes, their extended family tree confused Lily. It made her kinda glad that the Gaunts didn't technically counted as family since it'd only complicate things further).
Lily blew red hair out of her face. "Yes," she admitted reluctantly. She didn't understand why she always had such limited vocabulary in his presence.
"Leave it to me," he chirped and he waved his wand before she could warn him about breaking rules. Sylvester whined in his crib. James winked at her. "In the vicinity of over two dozen wizards and witches, it's too hard for the Trace to place who used magic."
"Tuney and Em never told me," she revealed sulkily. Emery was a few months younger than James and Petunia a whole year younger but they've been to Hogwarts, so why didn't they tell her anything? They never shared. She pouted her cherry-red lips.
James shrugged. "Want to practice with me?"
"Your icky twin brothers wouldn't butt in right?" Lily wasn't too fond of Chandler and Chase Potter.
James grinned dazzlingly. "They won't, promise." He held out his hand and she took it. It was typically warm in summer, even at nights despite the Cooling charms the adults had cast at every inch of their house. But she didn't feel icky or sweaty when James' hand was in hers.
It took minor difficulty to climb to the top of the three-storey summerhouse. It was the only place large enough to hold them and their extended family. Every year, going to this summerhouse was what Lily looked forward to, especially since her siblings had left for Hogwarts, leaving her alone.
Only the Floo Network kept her sane. She could always visit and keep her Granny company then.
Lily tilted her head, brushing her red hair out of her eyes, as she studied the stars. "I think I see Sirius up there," she said.
"Siriusly?" James laughed at his own lame joke. The serious and Sirius joke had been overused. Lily shot him a flat look but he just chortled harder at the expression on her face.
"If you laugh and move so hard, you might fall off," she warned. The bustle and cheer of consecutive parties and chatter within their household would drown out any calls for help, competent wizards and witches residing within notwithstanding.
"But I'm holding your hand," James pointed out, showing their intertwined hands.
She hid her blush with annoyance. "So? You'll just pull me down with you."
"If I have to fall, I'll want to fall with you," James said cheekily, smiling so brightly his murky blue eyes behind his glasses brightened up.
Only the Dog Star Sirius saw how red Lily had turned. And it was beneath that star she realized she was in love with James. She'd worry about the first cousin part later because Merlin knew the hazing she'd get from her siblings if they knew.
(Eight years after, it was beneath the same star and on top of the roof of their family's summerhouse that he proposed. And because it was their dysfunctional, morally-lax family, no one objected though Granny had this knowing look in her eyes.
The only condition they had to abide to, said Granny, was to name their firstborn son Harry James Potter.)
7. Harry Potter
His great-grandmother, Mariposa Riddle, said Harry was lucky. Harry Potter didn't understand why. Maybe it was because he had fully-functioning brain, eyes, nose and mouth, and five fingers and toes on each limb, when the chances of first cousins having a deformed baby were high.
Gran Mari never explained or specified what he was so lucky to have.
The first time Harry heard that, it was on the anniversary of his mother's death. He was five. Lily Potter had died in childbirth. She'd never known him, he'd never met her. Harry only had his grandparents, father, (great)aunts, (grand)uncles, cousins, great-grandmother and Albus to go to for love.
Then James Potter had met his end when Harry was six. He'd gotten too cocky, too careless, and the Dark Wizard had taken advantage of that. Harry didn't learn until much later, when he was already a man, that his family only got his father's head and detached eyeballs back to cremate or bury.
Harry would say he was unlucky. Of his cousins, he was the only orphan. It made him feel strangely alone.
Gran Mari took him in. Harry felt that he understood the old woman. Gran Mari had lost her parents too. She was the only one left of her siblings to remember what it felt like to be an orphan. (Great-granduncle Morfin and Merope had passed on to the next world already.)
Gran Mari always had that melancholic, wistful air around her.
"We should spend more time with the old people," Harry told his cousins.
"Gran Mari already has you, doesn't she?" Dandelion, or Dandy as everyone called her, was Aunt Petunia's daughter and she was generally bossy and mean. So maybe she wasn't the best person to appeal to.
But he liked how Dandy said it. It made him feel important. Only Harry thought of Gran Mari. He grew up beneath her watchful, stern and loving eye. She chided him like a parent would, comforted him and loved him. He tried to be good for her. He may have been quiet and odd but Gran Mari never complained.
She always looked sad. He was eleven, an auspicious age, and thinking he'd be lucky, he asked her why.
Her murky blue eyes weren't any brighter under the sunlight. Age and time had left the blue of her eyes so murky and dark they resembled grey stones at the bottom of a riverbed. "I see a lot of misfortune, Harry. And I bloody hell hate old age."
"Old people are always sad?"
"Wistful," corrected Gran Mari, "for the youth that had passed."
"Do you want a Time-Turner?" Their family was wealthy and powerful. Obtaining a Time-Turner for Gran Mari wouldn't be infeasible.
Gran Mari snorted. "If I had a Time-Turner that could transcend years, or at least let my body return to an infant to start my life over again, I would've turned back time and …" she paused in taught. "And …"
Harry tried to be patient. Gran Mari blinked. Then she smiled. "And I'll live as Mariposa Gaunt again and again."
(Before she died, Gran Mari left seven novels for the family. The author was unfamiliar to any of them. Harry was the titular character and he felt entitled to finish the books before handing them to the rest of the family.
It didn't make sense … it was impossible … his grandfather was some flunky Dark Lord and throughout the series, aimed to kill him? And what was this about the power of love? Why would Grandpa Tom kill Mom? His own daughter?
Their family explained it away as old age or creativity. That Gran Mari was only borrowing this people and that as inspirations for her story.
Only Grandpa Tom and Harry didn't accept that explanation. He ruffled the youth's hair. His grandfather had difficulty aging gracefully (this was a running joke in the family) and he'd applied Glamour charms to maintain that ageless look. His grandfather could've been sixty or twenty, standing beside his sixteen-year-old grandson.
"Did you realize the most important thing in the story?" asked Grandpa Tom, gazing at Harry with Gran Mari's eyes—clear as glass, blue as the creek behind their summerhouse. "I wasn't my mother's son, I didn't have a daughter or father. I was Aunt Merope's son instead."
Harry's eyes lingered on the book his grandfather had been unwilling to part with—he'd kept the original and distributed copies to the others. Read it like a man obsessed. Thought of the sad, bitter childhood the Tom Riddle of the books had. "Gran Mari … she didn't … exist." There were passing mentions of everyone until Dandy and Harry's generation. "D'you think …?" It sounded too crazy to be true but seeing the future wasn't impossible.
"It would explain a lot about her behavior," Grandpa said thoughtfully, tracing the spine of the book. "I've seen her boggart before when it snuck into our house." He squinted at the tombstone they stood before. Dandelions sprouted around Mari's grave. There laid Tom's parents, the roots of his past withering beneath. "The description of Lord Voldemort in this book fits and it explains why she would be afraid of him when, according to the people who knew her, she'd never met such a creature before. She was afraid, all this while, that I would become Lord Voldemort."
"You didn't," said Harry resolutely. "You're my grandfather, not my arch-nemesis or would-be murderer."
His grandfather's lips quirked upwards. His smile was like Gran Mari's—sarcastic and carried a trace of cynicism, if not skepticism. Harry's chest swelled with grief. Being the Legilimens he was, his grandfather dropped the smile.
"But there are similarities between us," Tom whispered softly, glancing at his mother's tomb.
"Your fear of death."
"Is that all?"
Harry nearly did a double-take. His grandfather had dropped the Glamour. Feeling distinctly wrong-footed, Harry only managed an, "Er …"
Tom smirked—his face carried reminiscences of great beauty. "Let's go home, Harry," he intoned, sweeping away, his robes whispering against the ground.
Harry lingered, glanced at Gran Mari's tombstone. "Thank you," he managed through the lump in his throat and the burning in his eyes blurred her name, "for being born."
The rest of the family was surprised to see Tom's real form. Harry and his cousins had never seen him like that before. His grandfather had finally stopped trying to outrun time—and death.
We both know that once we crossed over, the first person who'd greet us will be our respective mothers, ready to shower praises, hugs and love for the son who'd grown into a man she may not have envisioned, but still better than what he could've been.
Harry rubbed the spot where a lightning-shaped scar should be. Right, Gramps?
Maybe he should get a tattoo. He grinned.
All was well.
So, maybe I should've given Harry his parents. But I felt it'd be too good to be true. Mariposa tried to make things better but death is inevitable and it is a lesson I think my OC should learn—magic and foreknowledge aren't omnipotence. It may not be Voldemort who did the deed but there are always murderers and there are natural causes such as childbirth gone wrong. Harry would be wiser and smarter in this version and he'd fare academically well—Tom Riddle's descendants can't possibly be that stupid. Harry will also be a Healer than an Auror (after what happened).
Canonically, James Potter has hazel eyes but his mother is Celia Riddle and they both have Mariposa's blue eyes. He is older than Lily because Celia married and gave birth first. Tom married to a woman who is just like him. Tiarella is a flower's name. And they have a boy because they need to continue the name Riddle.
James, Petunia and Lily retained their canon names because Mariposa had either suggested the name or had gotten the honor of naming them herself. Miles married Minerva and they had four children, Sylvester being the youngest.
I'd include Snape but I wanted this to be Riddle-centric. If you're curious, Snape committed suicide. He never had the reprieve of Lily's friendship and his mother's suicide prompted the same reaction. He was never accepted at Hogwarts and James, is as sinister as the rest of the family though he is also fiercely loving, so his bullying is worse than before. If you're wondering, the whole family is abhorrent of Muggles but they tolerate Muggle-borns.
As for the last words … (for irony) creative license.
Thanks for the reviews, everyone! :P If you're curious about a character that was not mentioned, feel free to write a oneshot about them of your own interpretation. In fact, I challenge you guys to write about them. Hope you enjoyed the story though. XD