Diablerie

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/16697380.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle
Characters: Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Tom Riddle, Harry Potter, Order of the
Phoenix, Hogwarts Students, Hogwarts Staff, Ron Weasley, Hermione
Granger, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Albus Dumbledore
Additional Tags: BAMF Tom Riddle, Young Tom Riddle, Sane Tom Riddle, Alternate
Universe - Time Travel, Time Travel, Tom Riddle's Diary, World War II,
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Mental Health Issues, Nazis,
Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Tom Riddle has
serious problems, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced
Rape/Non-con, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Content,
Exorcisms, Orphanage, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Drug Addiction,
Recreational Drug Use, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eating
Disorders
Language: English
Collections: Terrific Time Travel Fics, My Heart Adores,
Wonderful_Worldbuilding_Fics, why I only sleep an hour a night,
orangee's all-time favs, To_read_non_rom, Dumb Bullshit to satiate my
Escapism, would kill for a physical copy, my heart is here, i love these!!
(theyre my faves), Pastels fics, International Fanworks Day 2022 -
Classic Fic Recs, Zen's favorite HP fics, Completed stories I've read, HP
works worth Reading Tom Centric, Fanfiction Masterpieces, Fanfics I
love more than my dad, Lilranko Interesting Read List, goldentrio,
Something that I need for breathing, Time Travel Fics, [finished] HP
(~‾▿‾)~, imma read later, fics that turn me into a pillar of salt, Fics that
have crawled into my chest wrapped their words around my soul and
made a home in my bones., Da_leggere, Again Please, 🌑 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫
🌑
Stats: Published: 2018-11-21 Completed: 2019-12-20 Words: 176,043
Chapters: 25/25
 Diablerie
by Oceanbreeze7

Summary

Moody reclined in his chair, his prosthetic scratched over the floor. “What year is it, Riddle.”
It wasn’t phrased like a question, maybe that was why Tom finally answered.
“September.” Tom clipped out coldly. “1942. You know this.”’
Harry inhaled so sharply he choked on his spit. He hurriedly turned away, hacking and
wheezing as he nearly asphyxiated on his own saliva.
“Yeah,” Moody grimaced with a slight disgruntled noise hidden in his tone, “that’s a
problem.”

Or

Tom Riddle, 15 years old, in the middle of the London Blitz suddenly finds himself in a
future with no allies, resources, information, and everyone he knows treats him with enough
restraint to not murder him on the spot. It takes a lot to truly ruin a human being, to rot them
so thoroughly even fruit flies avoid the stench. Tom doesn't want this bullshit, Tom only
wants to-
'Please God, let me live.

Now with a Podfic!

Notes

This story is dedicated to Ahuuda and Nel, who helped me with Tom to the point where I can
ruin him so absolutely, you all will be broken in turn. Thank you both, for all the motivation
and help and the tears of happiness you've given me.

WARNING: Heed the tags.

This story is marked Teen, as most of the content in the story is mature in origin, but with
how society has shifted politically, culturally, and socially towards a more cynical outlook, I
personally believe that this content is fair for teen audiences.
Please be aware that content may be triggering, and recognize that there is no obligation to
complete the story in any capacity.

Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 【授翻/中篇】如堕雾里落堑中（Diablerie） by

AngelIsUnique
 Carpe diem

There are those, who would flay the skin from their flanks to grovel at the feet of divinity.
There are those, who would cast off the shape of their container to bow before hellebore and
mumble verses and words in cracked noises. Incense cloying, wax dripping to hiss and sear
and burn again...again. There are those, who would chop the limbs that grounded them and
let their spirit rise upwards into the grasp of the heavenly choir, leaving behind mutilated
flesh carved by their own hand.

Then I will punish their transgression with the rod And their iniquity with stripes; Psalm
89:32

There are those who under worship saw duty instilled by others. There are those who took
their love and used it to justify hate. Under candlelight and broken stone, altars cracked by
unseen strife. Water blessed by saint, given to those begging for a drink until drink turned to
drunk and from there it burned like fire. Dripping, pouring, again...again.

But the next day he took the bed cloth and dipped it in water and spread it over his face, till
he died. And Hazael became king in his place;2 Kings 8:15

Flashes again, heat and humility and humble forced through his blood into spirit itself. There
are things more important than our own pleasures, there are things more important than the
suffering of the body.

Again, again, until the wordless coos were banished with the glint of polished metal. The
scarlet light tinted from the window of the Virgin Mary. The thrashing and woeful throes of
creatures made from hellfire.

And these signs will accompany those who believe: in my name they will cast out demons;
they will speak in new tongues;’ Mark 16:17

The sins of the impure will be baptized with blood and worship.

Again...Again…

There are those with faith to guide their hand and trust in actions predetermined.

There are those, who beg for less; and scream as heaven crashes down.

“Please God, let me live.”

There are those, who beg and cry over their salvation; where even the Lord turns their back in
shame.
Number 12 Grimmauld Place was a dark, gloomy place. It was filled with a sort of presence
hard to explain- it felt like a hundred eyes watched you no matter where you went. Although,
that may have been the large wall of severed House Elves.

The stairs creaked, the walls smelled of mildew and peeling paper, even the furniture had
strange teeth marks as if something had been gnawing on it for quite a while. It wasn’t
pleasant under any circumstances, but it wasn’t the Dursley’s so with that logic, it was home.

Once you overlooked the large cases of potentially dangerous artifacts, the house had a sort
of charm to it. It had memories from the small soot stains on the ceiling to the part of the
carpet where dozens of feet had stamped it flat over decades. Harry wasn’t one to say any of
this out loud, but he actually liked the house.

His godfather most certainly did not, and Harry was beginning to suspect them and had put
several of the soot stains there himself.

They had been cleaning the house almost insanely so. Mrs. Weasley leaping at the couch
cushions wielding a feather duster instead of a sword. She could have fit in one of the
paintings where knights fought off dragons; except she used a mop to challenge a
suspiciously large furball to a duel to the death. Harry was pretty sure the furball had never
seen something as terrifying as that woman.

Only a few days into summer break and already Harry’s fingers felt numb and sore from
scrubbing, he wasn’t sure he had ever smelled as lemony before in his life. His hair was
messy, at one point he and Ginny tried to tie it back with countless hair clips but they too
were consumed by the ravenous black mane. Sirius had laughed so hard at the sad attempt, he
even let the disgruntled girl try to make stubby braids in his black hair.

Harry couldn’t argue that life was bad, but there were moments where he felt such
overwhelming frustration he wanted to punch a wall. Moments while cleaning where he
simply remembered the chaos of the Triwizard Tournament, moments where he felt the hot
rotten breath of the Horntail snapping just behind his shoulder- only for him to spin around
and see nothing but dust.

There were moments when he glanced in a mirror and bright red eyes stared back at him.
Moments where he swallowed water and he was convinced that he was going to drown.
Small moments, but moments nonetheless.

It was better now, now that he could stay up at night leaning against Padfoot on a couch,
watching a fireplace flicker without the stress of impending grades. There were times where
he could walk to the kitchen and grab an apple to eat, a novelty that was embarrassing and
shameful to take pride in. Times, where he breathed in and although the air was stale and
moulded, he was so overwhelmingly happy he couldn’t... not smile.

He didn’t like to think about the graveyard. He didn’t like to think of the muted noise of
someone hitting the ground. It sounded just like a dozen other times; when Dudley broke his
glasses when he tripped him at the playground when they learned Stunners for the first time
and Hermione had been a little too good at it, when Ron fell out of bed in the morning
forgetting that his feet needed to support his weight, when Cedric’s lifeless body collapsed
onto dew coated grass.

It all sounded the same, but it left his heart stuttering just a little too frantically. Like a pocket
watch wound a little too tightly. Gears grinding together- pull too quick then watch it spin
itself out.

Sometimes his hands would clench into tight fists, knuckles turning white. Sometimes he
wanted to turn and punch and punch until his skin split and bled. He felt like he deserved it
sometimes. He didn’t kill Cedric, but he may have well done it himself.

He would never forget it, not until he stopped breathing.

“Harry!” Someone startled him, causing Harry to jolt from where he had been dozing off.
Hermione was looking at him inquisitively, a small hint of concern threatening to bubble
over. He had been trying his best to disguise anything that may have been not normal. She
hadn’t been that close to him during the School Year (something they had already discussed
and put behind them) so any new habits of his weren’t yet familiar to her.

He forced his face into a small smile, forced but not obviously so. “Yeah 'Mione? Ready to
go?”

Hermione tucked one loose strand of hair behind her ear, visibly uncomfortable. “Ah, yes.
Ginny finished up in the library so we’re gathering in the parlour to portkey over.”

Harry nodded, already aware of the plan. There was going to be a large discussion here at the
Order headquarters, one so large that the risk of exposing other members or nonmembers
(much to the Twin’s frustration) was too dangerous. They were all being moved into the
Weasley household for a couple of days until all discussions were finished.

“Professor Moody is escorting us!” Hermione smiled weakly, unable to hide how much the
man discomforted her. The large bulging eye and uncanny habits left much to be wanted, but
he was intelligent company and not someone who treated Harry like a fragile child. Harry
liked his company over a few choice members.

“Harry!” Mrs. Weasley waved at him dramatically, although there wasn't any way he could
possibly miss her. It was an endearing action, although one that continued to baffle Harry as
time went on. “Over here! Do you have everything? Don’t leave anything behind! Ginny,
Dear, did you get those spare pastries in the kitchen- Fred! George! Stop that!”

Harry sighed through his nose at the familiar ruckus, sliding into the group of Red hair that
crowded around him like a friendly pile of Kneazles. They were all clutching one large
nondescript umbrella with one hand, the other was being held by a scowling Alastor Moody.

“Good, all set?” Moody grumbled, bulging eye-rolling around jerkily, “excellent, we’re
making excellent time. Alright, hang on tight, Willow.”

They vanished, then landed. Harry promptly vomited on the grass.

“Get it together, Potter!” Moody howled playfully, swatting Harry’s hunched over back with
the now ordinary umbrella. “Deep breaths! Get your feet under ya!”

Harry wheezed and tried to ignore the snot that was drooling from his nose with the bold
intent of Hagrid’s hound. Moody grinned when he saw Harry summon his limitless amount
of stubborn willpower. He straightened jerkily, and Moody laughed a barking raspy noise.

“There you go!” Moody sneered playfully, twirling the umbrella in one hand, “off now,
reckon they’ll be waiting. Albus told me to keep an eye on you, seems you’re a magnet for
trouble, eh?”

Harry didn’t quite know what to say in response, so he coughed sourly into one hand and
rolled his shoulders.

“Make my life exciting, Potter.” Moody grinned, starting off with a shuffling gait towards the
Burrow towering in the distance, “Albus warned me of that. Told me not to let you go
stumbling off.”

“I wouldn’t go stumbling off looking for trouble if I wanted to.” Harry snidely muttered,
pausing before recovering with a quiet, “sir.”

Moody cackled, looking more thrilled by the lack of professionalism. He smacked one of his
large hands on Harry’s back, nearly sending him flying. “You’re a lively one! Good! Keep
that spirit, it’ll keep you alive!”

Harry could imagine the large bruise forming on his back. He was going to get questions
about that for sure.

“Tell ya what.” Moody’s face twisted into what may have been a smile, although the missing
chunk of his nose made his entire expression seem garish. “I’m workin’ on a ritual. May be
good experience to see some advanced magic in practice.”

Harry instantly perked up. “A ritual? Like the-.”

Harry thought of red eyes. His arm burned. He flinched.

Moody didn’t look like he pitied Harry, which was more than most people gave him. Harry
already liked Moody a lot more because of that.

“You’ve seen a ritual already, boy.” Moody grunted sharply, “You manage to get out of bed
before dawn I’ll show you some real magic alright. Of course, only observational purposes.”

Harry couldn’t stop the wide breathless smile that spread across his face. “Of course, sir.”

Moody chuckled lowly, swatting him with the umbrella. “Cheeky brat! Get inside! Molly will
be making a fuss if you keep your bird's nest of a head out here anymore!”

Mrs. Weasley did make a racket, shushing him up the stairs to drop his bag off in Ron’s room
where he’d be sharing it. He had tried to explain that he really was fine with a few blankets
on the floor, but apparently, the Weasley household couldn’t fathom ever a situation where
that would be necessary. A bright cot was shoved in the corner, larger than the one Harry had
grown up sleeping on under the stairs.

“Bloody sucks,” Ron grumbled under his breath, flopping on his own bed, “that we got
kicked out for a stupid Order meeting. Why can’t we just stay in our rooms?”

Harry dug through his bag and pulled out a few of the supplies he had taken with him,
particularly the snacks he had weaselled away with Sirius’ help. “Well, maybe they know
Fred and George would try to sneak in.”

Ron made a small grumbling noise of agreement, fumbling on his side table for a specific
magazine in the stack of Quidditch posts.

Harry occupied himself the best he could, trying not to think about what Sirius could be
doing so far away.

Dinner was a wonderful home-cooked meal, made with far too much fuss. Harry was
perfectly content with whatever he was given, but apparently eating his meal without all the
additives was somehow a crime. Ginny nearly launched herself across the table when Harry
forwent the gravy and side sauces. Mrs. Weasley invaded his space herself, pouring so much
gravy on his plate, Harry was sure his potato would start to float.

Feeling much more content and cozy, the house was filled with warmth and laughter. Stories
and discussions about what had been going on in the world, speculation about the next year at
Hogwarts even though the summer break just started. Fred and George talked to Harry in
codewords that were so convoluted, Harry couldn’t figure out what on earth they meant when
obviously discussing their funding for their prank shop. Maybe the idea of a Skivvering
furball was some sort of cat? Or maybe they were literally talking about a furball.

Harry went to bed with a small alarm clock ready to jump out of his hand for dawn, with the
reassurance that Ron could sleep through a tornado.

The rune circle was pretty and organic in a way the Graveyard wasn’t. An area of the field
had been cleared out, a small circle surrounded by bright green sprouts that would one day
turn into corn plants towering above their heads. Moody was fumbling around the edges,
adjusting large mounds of turquoise stones that Harry had seen in some jewelry. He was sure
Hermione had a necklace with one of the sky blue rocks.

“Potter!” Moody barked, pointing at one nondescript lump of what looked like coal, “go fetch
me that rock!”

Harry hopped up from where he was sitting on the ground, grabbed the lump of coal, and
handed it to the larger wizard. Moody didn’t even look up before he dropped the stone,
smashing it under his heel until it was small fragments. Harry didn’t understand any of this.

He was sure he would do better in Divination than any of this weird rune-creating business.
Moody finally felt satisfied with his odd little circle when he rotated a completely normal
quaffle four times on a pedestal. It looked like a normal quaffle, so Harry really didn’t
understand why he was so focused on it.

“Alright!” Moody almost roared, the sunrise peeking over the horizon now to chase away the
dew, “stand back Potter! If I manage to do this right, we’ll have a great aid to our war!”

Harry jolted upright in interest, “we will? What are you making? A weapon?”

Moody barked out a laugh, “close! This ritual summons your signature from when it's the
most desperate! In almost all cases it summons you when you’re on your bloody deathbed
but with war, I reckon I’d be most desperate only when we’ve somehow lost!”

Harry blinked a few times, unable to begin to understand.

“Normally this ritual is bloody useless,” Moody scoffed at the ground and the nice quaffle.
Maybe he’d give it to Fred and George once they were done, they could use a new quaffle for
sure. “But if I manage this right, my older self would be something that Dark Lord never
expects! Hah! We’d have won!”

Harry didn’t want to argue that Moody wasn’t quite the sanest, so really a highly desperate
Moody may not be the best idea.

“Okay, sir.” Harry shrugged unsure, sitting back on the dirt of obediently watching. “I’ll get
help if you set yourself on fire.”

Moody sent him a stink eye although it was an affectionate one. He grinned a toothy grimace,
then began to twirl and dance while shouting gibberish. No, it was a step up from that. It was
gibberish, with meaning.

Harry lowered his chin to rest in his palm, already expecting the man to be struck by
lightning. He should have stayed in bed.

The ritual worked, but they had overlooked a few things.

They thought that Moody would be the most desperate between them, that through the
trauma and battles he’d seen, any stage where he truly became desperate would surely be
more powerful. The ritual locked onto the nearest signatures, scanning through the
dimensions unbound by time for anything that fulfilled the requirement. Moody had a few
instances of desperation, where anxiety and adrenaline peaked into a concoction of potential.

Harry hadn’t thought he was really that desperate in his lifetime. Maybe he had some trauma,
maybe he had nightmares nightly. It couldn’t be at all able to fulfill the specifications.

A moment, of utter despair and utmost desperation. A level of panic and unholy fear that left
you unable to function on even the most instinctual level. Something so wounded and rancid,
it tainted who you were down to your core.
The London Blitz was something horrible. Something bloody and cruel like a feral dog with
its leg in a trap. Desperation; willing to chew its own muscle and tendons and snap its bone
because it wanted to live.

‘Please God, let me live.’

‘Please God, let me live.’

‘Please God…’

War, was something unbound by time.

War rarely ever changed, really.

‘...I don’t want to die.’

The first thing that Harry thought, was that the smell of cranberries was a strange smell for a
ritual. He had been preparing himself for a sharp bite of sulphur, or maybe the gagging fumes
of the Divination tower. Maybe a little sparks or ominous chanting in the wind. He didn’t
know much about rituals so he was genuinely expecting anything that had an unsettling
feeling to it.

Instead, there was a pungent recognizable smell of cranberries, like Ron had accidentally
flipped a bowl of jelly across the entire table.

There was a thin wispy line of pink smoke, opaque like a ribbon. It wiggled in the air, like a
tentacle from the Giant Squid waving a friendly hello. Moody stood in the middle of it all, his
thin hair rising above his head dramatically. Harry almost laughed from the ridiculousness of
it all.

There was a tiny pop, Harry thought it was his jaw at first. Sometimes he yawned and it made
a similar noise. His forehead itched, then burned.

“Shit!” Harry cursed, hands slapping against his forehead against the sharp burn of his scar.
For some reason, it was wet, although he could tell it wasn’t the same type of pain he knew. It
was...something deeper and sore, but not so unbearable that he couldn’t breathe.

Moody’s arms lifted, and Harry almost laughed at how asinine everything was.

Another tiny pop, like someone a few feet away, popped an especially impressive bubblegum
bubble, and then there was a person.

‘Oh’ Harry thought to himself numbly, ‘that’s not Moody.’

‘Oh.’ Harry quickly thought again once his brain comprehended what exactly had happened.
‘Oh shite.’
It was a teenager, thin with long limbs. Wearing clothing Harry couldn’t imagine Dudley ever
wearing or let alone fitting in even in a few sizes larger. Muted colours and fraying edges that
looked itchy even from a slight distance. They looked like they belonged in a second-hand
store, or maybe a British archive.

The thin cuffs were too big, the pants were rolled up and hacked off with dull scissors or a
knife. Harry had worn worse, so it wasn’t that bad.

The boy was splayed on the ground, adjusting slowly with a small groan so quiet Harry
almost missed it. Arms moved, legs adjusted. There wasn’t any blood spewing anywhere, so
already that was better than expected.

Moody sharply finished the ritual, lowing his arms and transitioning from shaman to
confused auror. Obviously, the boy slowly recovering was not Moody.

Another low groan, long heavily bruised fingers curling into a low fist as whoever it was
jerked up into a kneeling position. Messy greasy hair in messy clumps hid the face, although
clearly male.

“Uh,” Harry wisely said.

The newcomer lifted one black and blue hand up to clutch his temple, slurring out a low but
still audible, “Wot’ ‘he bleedin’ ‘ell?”

“Cockney.” Harry blurted intelligently.

Barely a second happened before the stranger was swinging his left hand to his side where
something was strapped there- then a sword popped out.

Well, a sword was an exaggeration but it was larger than a knife. Ornate and antique, dirty
and muddied up but held in a tight grip. A bloody dagger and Harry was respectfully
paranoid when facing suspicious individuals wielding sharp blades. His arm throbbed at the
memory.

“Oi!” Moody shouted the moment he spotted the knife, kicking upwards to displace the flat of
it with his prosthetic leg. The knife didn’t fly away, but it was jerked in a thin grip so it
wasn’t as dangerous. “Put that away, boy!”

The stranger reeled back, predatory lunging backwards onto mismatching boots. There was a
hole in the one, no socks.

“Cop the bloody hell fire from me!” They spat out sharply, nearly equaling Professor Snape
in the level of frigidity. Harry instantly took a step back, some sort of gut instinct telling him
to back off.

Moody’s scowl sunk in and he pulled his wand, jerking it at the ready. The stranger spotted it
and twisted back- his skin was sickly pale and somewhat yellow in a few spots- then made an
undisguised choking noise.
“A bloody wand, i’n’it?” A choked noise, then a skittering step backwards. Moody instantly
stiffened, holding his wand ready. Harry realized that pulling his wand would likely be a
good idea, so he too fumbled to get it out of his back pocket.

The stranger and one hand through his disgusting hair, pushing it up out of his face although
the bloodied knuckles muffled his hysterical: “ Bollocks. ”

The hand lowered, Harry made a loud “ah!” and took a step backwards. Moody looked very
exasperated.

“Who are you?” Moody grumbled out.

Tom Riddle’s gaunt bruised face glared, thin lips pulling back savagely. He was a feral
animal, something chained up and abandoned in a junkyard and a skeleton of instinctual
drive to survive, and pure spite.

“Cockney.” Harry blurted again, although his voice was more wondering than horrified.

Tom’s face twitched, dark eyes lined with thick purple bags. Bloodied knuckles smoothed
disgusting hair and brushed against a flaking stain on his left cheekbone. It fell away like a
dark powder, soot, or blood.

“Ah, my apologies.” Tom Riddle spoke, hoarse and guttural and in all ways a snarl. No
cockney in sight, although Harry could never forget that surreal drawl from a face he’d never
forget.

Tom Riddle’s eyes flashed darkly, the waxy glimmer of his skin made him look sickly. Tom
Riddle bared his teeth and said, “I stress, fuck you.”

It took a while to wrestle him into compliance. Most of the time Harry stood there in dumb
shock, Moody did most of the talking. It took nearly as long to explain what happened (which
nobody could figure out), as it took to get the dagger out of Tom Riddle’s hand. Being
threatened at wandpoint gave the world a special perspective. The cockney accent vanished,
instead there was a smooth drawl that hitched a little at first but now sounded as natural as
breathing.

“Cockney,” Harry whispered to himself almost in bliss, feeling very satisfied with the
knowledge.

Tom Riddle was practically frog marched into the house with the tip of a wand pressed
against the back of his neck. The other was seething, a restrained unit of violent intent that
Harry felt worried would lash out at any moment. Harry had a strange sense that even
without a wand or a knife, Tom Riddle could kill them if he wanted to.

Tom Riddle sat down in the chair Moody pointed at him to sit in. His leg moved, calf
balancing on his knee. His head tilted just so, and suddenly Harry felt like he had seen this
boy in the chamber below the castle years ago.

“So,” Moody grumbled sourly, looking composed although Harry knew he was just as
bewildered. “You must be confused.”

Tom Riddle’s fingers tapped along the exposed skin of his wrist. The skin looked sickly, his
nails broken and chipped into small nubs.

“Unfortunately.” Tom clipped out, yet impossibly the word drawled out patronizingly. Harry
wondered how Snape never mastered an intimidating aura with a single word. Moody ran one
hand down his face tiredly, magical eye rolling in its socket.

“Alright, the bag,” Moody grunted, and Tom Riddle very fluidly reached for the small side
bag on his hip. It looked like canvas, nondescript. Fairly small but well secured to his side.
Harry could have sworn he’d seen the clothes Tom was wearing before, although he had no
idea where.

Tom placed it on the table next to him, eyes never leaving Moody.

“Leave it,” Moody demanded, slowly hobbling over to slide the bag further away using the
tip of his wand. Moody mumbled something, swishing his wand. The bag glowed ever so
slightly.

“Enchanted,” Moody growled, Harry felt something grow tenser. Tom blinked slowly, not
bothered.

Moody unzipped the zipper, ignoring the small tear near the metal teeth. He reached inside,
jerking the flap open wide so he could peer inside. Whatever his magical eye saw, it clearly
wasn’t what he wanted to find.

“Fine,” Moody grunted sharply, “go clean up. Kitchen sink. Po...Harry, go let Mrs. Weasley
know.”

“Right, sir.” Harry scrambled to his feet. His feet made obnoxious squeaking noises on the
floor, Tom Riddle didn’t even look at him.

Mrs. Weasley took to the idea that there was a stranger in her kitchen quite well. In hindsight,
with how often Harry popped by unannounced it likely wasn’t odd at all. Once Harry
explained that Moody somehow summoned a boy through cranberries and ribbons, she was
already ignoring him and muttering about breakfast. Harry had a strange feeling that Tom
wouldn’t be that cheery for homemade toast.

“Mrs. Weasley, I really think that you should wait!” Harry scrambled after, trying to keep his
voice low so he wouldn't wake the other occupants of the house. Dealing with a gaggle of
Weasleys was always much more difficult than the matriarch herself.

“None of that, Harry!” Mrs. Weasley shushed him gently, hurrying into the kitchen with a
fond smile. “No dearie! Leave it all to me!”
Harry couldn’t express in all the words in the English language, how much of a bad idea that
was.

They entered the kitchen just as the boy in question was retreating to a corner. One of Mrs.
Weasley’s bright dish towels was wiping across his face, other portions of it looked thick
with grime. Other sections looked reddish and almost crusted over.

“Oh,” Mrs. Weasley looked taken aback although she recovered quickly, like a mother who
had seen almost every possible monstrosity in her kitchen before. “Don’t worry, dearie! I’ll
fetch you another one!”

Tom Riddle’s eyes peered out, clouded and distrusting. The dishtowel was completely ruined.

“Wow,” Harry spoke without thinking as he was prone to do when tired or overwhelmed,
“that is a lot of dirt.”

Tom Riddle’s face twitched and he splashed more water on his face- a small dish that Mrs.
Weasley normally used for decorative fruit. It was a smart idea, Harry didn’t know why he
hadn’t ever considered having a bowl of water instead of constantly fighting with the magical
taps.

He splashed and ran his broken nails over the skin, clawing and leaving ever so faint red
lines. Scrubbing away dirt without considering a new cloth or something else. Harry doubted
he used any of the soap offered for washing dishes.

“Here, dear!” Mrs. Weasley returned, holding out not only a clean full body towel but a few
washcloths made for scrubbing. Tom said nothing, he set to work scrubbing with a mindless
efficiency that both startled Harry and made him uncomfortable. The water in the bowl
quickly clouded over. Tom then went so far as to dunk part of his head in the water, scrubbing
without care for the lack of soap.

“Ah,” Harry interrupted after a few seconds of staring at this surreal display. “There’s ah,
soap.”

Tom didn’t look at him.

Tom dumped the water down the drain, flipping the bowl for drying before he used the towel
to scrub his hair dry. It stuck up in weird clumps; the white towel was grey from oils. It
overall was...odd.

Tom stepped away, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe against the sharp cut of his jaw. It was
dirtier than the towel but looked like a mindless habit. Harry spotted dark purples and reds,
sick yellows like pus sprinkled over a sunken bony-.

“You done?” Tom Riddle spoke, voice hoarse and raspy. It wasn’t at all the smooth baritone
that Harry remembered from the chamber. It sounded...rattly.

“Er, yes I ah, I-...” Harry scrambled over an excuse, unable to think, “ah…”

“You also repeated cockney earlier,” Tom echoed flatly, “not very bright, are you?”
Harry flushed, feeling the heat burn in his face. Tom ignored him, using fingers to comb
through his wet black hair.

“You caught me off guard.” Harry finally managed to explain, Tom ignored him and skirted
out of the kitchen and back to the table, taking a seat in the chair from earlier. He looked
better, cleaner although not pristine. His face wasn’t coated in dirt, but the waxy yellowish
tinge was still there.

Moody grunted once from the other chair, having been waiting.

“Alright,” Tom spoke first, taking control of the conversation. “Perhaps an agreement would
benefit us both. I only want my bag and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Oh,” Harry blurted in cold realization. “Oh, you don’t know.”

“Quiet, Harry.” Moody interrupted with a low voice, squinting both his eyes across the table
at Tom. “What year is it?”

Tom looked on guard, cautious and perplexed by the questions. He smiled all soft gentle
movements that hid the jaded ends of his barbed words. “How unfortunate, you must be
confused.”

“Answer the question, Riddle, was it?” Moody glanced at Harry who nodded mutely.

Tom’s face flickered ever so slightly, eyes observing Harry for the first time the entire
morning.

“I see,” Tom stated flatly, all pleasantries gone, “You appear to know my name yet I am
unfamiliar with my captors.”

Moody reclined in his chair, his prosthetic scratched over the floor. “What year is it, Riddle.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question, maybe that was why Tom finally answered.

“September.” Tom clipped out coldly. “1942. You know this.”’

Harry inhaled so sharply he choked on his spit. He hurriedly turned away, hacking and
wheezing as he nearly asphyxiated on his own saliva.

“Yeah,” Moody grimaced with a slight disgruntled noise hidden in his tone, “that’s a
problem.”

Tom’s eyes flickered back and forth again, face carefully blank. “What year is it.”

Moody almost grinned. “You’re in for a big surprise. Harry, let Mrs. Weasley know her
dining room is off-limits for the day. Send a message to Headquarters, tell Nymphadora that I
am having a broom malfunction.”

Harry almost laughed at the strange phrase, “I didn’t know you enjoyed flying, sir.”
Moody didn’t take his eyes away from the challenging stare Tom directed at him. “I don’t.
It’s a code I use for when things have gone horribly wrong.”

Tom almost smiled.

“You understand the situation.” Moody finished with a blunt nod, sliding a sheaf of paper
across the table.

Tom mechanically picked the paper up, not glancing at the written contents once. Tom
blinked slowly, purposefully before he started to speak.

“You say that I am in the future, although you refuse to disclose any factual evidence or
information regarding how far.” Tom started accusatorily. “You also state you used a form of
ritual, however in my knowledge all rituals with a direct effect on individuals are banned by
Ministry use. You have kidnapped me, which is a...hefty criminal violation. You state that I
will follow your direction based on... not providing proper evidence for your claims?”

“Well,” Moody grumbled with a small huff, “if you want to play entitled, then fine. Do you
realize that since you aren’t supposed to exist, you don’t have any rights?”

“Philosophy is an interest of mine.” Tom began sharply. “Your mistaken perceptions of

legalities are not dismissable over the treatment I am receiving currently.”

“Big words for a brat screaming cockney when you weren’t off your arse yet.”

“How fortunate for you, that I had not anticipated being a victim of illegal ritual magic.”

Moody huffed a little and scratched his face. “You’re a cocky one, aren’t ya?”

Tom didn’t say anything in response.

The door opened with a bang. Someone fell inside, clumsily catching themselves on the edge
of the table before missing and dropping further. A yelp, a flash of purple, and then a woman
was poking her head up over the edge.

“Hi!” She cheered happily, hair changing into a vibrant blue before their eyes, “My name is
Tonks! Oh wow, where you find this one, Moody?’

Tom bristled, eyes flickering over her colourful hair.

“A metamorphmagus.” Tom spoke. His voice was a low purr that had rumbles and hitches
throughout. He sounded like an alley cat. “A pleasure, I’ve never been permitted such
company prior.”

Tonks’ eyebrows rose and her mouth dropped into a little ‘o’ in realization. Moody huffed
quietly.
“Auror Tonks,” Moody waved towards another unoccupied seat, “we’re got a temporal
disturbance. Department of Mysteries wet dream right here.”

Tom’s eyebrows twitched slightly, Tonks flung herself in the unoccupied chair.

“Wotcher!” She beamed excitedly, “a temporal disturbance! How exciting, when are you
from?”

“1942,” Moody grunted, tapping the tabletop twice, “September. Not only a yearly
displacement but the entire summer.”

“Well, that’s unusual.” Tonks confessed with a wide stare and a few quick blinks, “but time
travellers are all unusual. You look horrible! Well, I mean you likely look great but right now
you’re looking a bit peckish.”

Tom blinked slowly and folded his calf on his leg again. “I request a representative from the
Ministry for all further discussions.”

Tonks’ expression fell. She looked at Moody, who had an equally faltering face.

“Oh, so I was right then.” Tom continued without taking a breath. “Perhaps you are Aurors,
perhaps not. You’re running from an independent affiliation, which somehow accidentally
targeted me. Runic magic is not permitted, yet you were experienced with the runic layout I
saw before you dragged me here. I wonder, if I were to activate the trace, how quickly would
Ministry officials investigate and find your little experiment?”

Moody slammed one hand on the table. Nobody jumped.

“You know damn well trace magic was removed over the age of 11 in the ’40s,” Moody
growled out coldly. “Your threat may work for anyone who doesn’t know ministry operations,
but you’re a goddamn brat in our experience.”’

Tom’s eyes flickered down to the table, where parts of Moody’s fingers had been blown off
over the year. “Ah yes. An expert I see.”

Tonks choked audible and flushed so hard her hair turned red.

“Cheeky,” Moody grumbled low, looking more aggravated by the second.

“So,” Tonks recovered although her voice hitched slightly, “I’ve got...some, questions ya’
know just to-.”

“Full name?” Moody practically shouted.

Tom’s lower lip curled slightly. “Tom. Riddle.”

They already knew that, but it looked like Tom was going to cooperate since they were at a
stalemate.
“Thank you, Tom!” Tonks chirped out, fumbling with the sheet of paper Moody slid to her.
She pulled her wand, twisting it to conjure a quill. Her tongue poked out the corner of her
mouth as she hastily scribbled down his name. “How old are ya?”

Tom folded his fingers carefully together, face blank. “Fifteen years old.”

“Right around our problem trio’s age.” Tonks hummed to herself, writing that down too,
“birthday? And year?

Tom’s face finally wrinkled slightly in distaste. “December 31st. 1927.”

Moody’s face didn’t change, but Tonks made a small noise of interest. She grinned excitedly,
her hair flickering ever so slightly as her joy became visible.

“Wow!” She chattered like a small animal, scribbling something on her paper. “I mean, I
knew it was real since Moody here wouldn’t make this up, but it's so wild! Do you want
something to eat? I can get you a drink!”

Tom’s face was flat, he didn’t look nearly as amused as Tonks was.

“Have you been treated okay?” Tonks asked with a small tilt to her head, “Mrs. Weasley can
grab you a blanket if you’re cold!”

Tom’s lower lip curled downwards ever so slightly. “This is pathetic.”

Tonks made a small pshh noise and flipped her hand dismissively. “After this would you like
a shower? You’re looking a bit mangled, what happened to look like that?”

Tom shifted in his chair ever so slightly, his face just as neutral as before.

“You okay, mate?” Tonks asked worriedly, her eyebrows furrowing in alarm.

“...You’re asking me closed questions, not relevant to the topic at hand. You will not answer
any of my questions, lest you shift the control of this interrogation into my hands. You’re
aiming to deliberately trick me into believing I’m not in any trouble.” Tom spoke flat, eyes
flickering to Tonks bluntly. “This is standard interrogation practice.”

Moody huffed once again, then shifted his weight. His chair slid against the floor ever so
slightly.

“Wow, you are bloody brilliant.” Tonks recovered with a small degree of awe, “I heard that I
was supposed to be careful, but that's wicked. How did you ever learn this crummy stuff?”

Tonks made a small scoffing noise. He crossed his arms, tone as offended as he looked. “Free
narrative questions now. Are you going to deviate from the textbook and give me a challenge
or are you planning to go through your little checklist?”

Tonks blinked three times in rapid succession.

“When you were summoned here, did you notice anything odd before?” Moody grumbled
sourly.

Tom smiled, his teeth were briefly exposed. “Direct questions now. Did you abandon your
free narrative inquiry so soon? My, and I thought you were experienced.”

“I’ve interrogated enough brats to know when you’re not going to get anywhere,” Moody
rumbled low in his throat like a large dog. “I’ve interrogated more psychopaths and
murderers than you’ll ever know, boy. This is outright ignorance at its finest.”

Tom’s eyes were perceptively sharp. “Is that so? When I arrived here, where were you in
direction to myself? You were close, startlingly so. You admitted to the illegal ritual which
although you performed supposedly successfully, you are not distressed or worried at all.
Your interrogation techniques are standard but you’ve not acknowledged proper auror
regulation for investigations or witnesses.

"I believe I’ve summarized our situation clearly, although you could certainly add to it. I’m
so terribly sorry if I’ve overwhelmed you, would you like me to repeat myself at a slower
speed? You do know how an investigation works, I believe?”

Moody’s face darkened in restrained rage. Tonks gaped in confusion.

Tom’s grin spread a hair’s length further. “Closed questions, free narrative questions, direct
and cross-questioning. Very standard. Is there anything else that you can tell me about this?”

Tonks flushed in embarrassment as she recognized the last question, as a review question; the
final standard tool for investigative interrogations.

Moody made a low crackling noise in his throat that may have been his sanity slowly
draining from his missing eye socket.

“Oh dear,” Tom spoke in a mockery of anything polite. “That sounds quite ill. I have it on
good assurance that Mrs. Weasley would love to provide you a drink. Isn’t that right?”

His eyes slid ever so slowly to Tonks, who recovered from her flush into something a shade
paler.

Moody’s cheek twitches. “I have half a mind to curse you, brat. But that duper’s delight will
kick you enough.”

Tom’s fake pleasant smile didn’t shift. “How petty to accuse me of ever finding pleasure in
deceiving others. Why that’s such a cruel accusation. Truly, piercing.”

Tonks looked over at Moody, her discomfort nearly screaming. Her entire body posture
hunkered inwards on herself, her face timid and uncertain. “Moody? Should I...ah, contact…”

Moody grimaced, even he looked unsure. “We’re saving the veritasium for more high profile
suspects. I don’t want to waste it.”
Tom twitched, face blank. It was impossible to tell if the thought of the truth serum was
actually that horrific, or if he took even more offence to not being a high-profile suspect.

Moody sighed through his nose, the noise was broken slightly into a low whistle from the air
escaping the bits of cartilage that never healed properly. “Listen, Riddle. Your situation is
very delicate and you had best cooperate. We can make this very easy, or make this very
difficult. Either way, you have nothing to gain and everything to lose.”

Tom Riddle sighed slightly, “I thought we were past stating obvious information, auror.”

Tonks’s hand twitched in a very clear sign of restraint.

“Then we do this how you want to,” Moody settled bluntly, “quid pro quo.”

For the first time, Tom’s eyes flared with a spark of interest.

“Quid pro quo,” he played with the words, rolling them with a strange sort of fluidity to the
words. “ Do ut des. ' I give, so that you may give.’ Fascinating concept, a naked contract.”

Moody didn’t rise to the bait. “You know Latin.”

Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Naked contract, nudum pactum. Context is popular in
all areas, auror. Forsake the devil and all his works, along those lines.”

Tonks very carefully made sure that her confusion was not visible. Moody seemed to
understand, he nodded ever so slowly and laid his hands flat on the table. The gnarled joints
and slightly misaligned bones as that much more apparent. Tom eyed his hands in boredom,
following suit although with a lazy curve to his wrist. Somehow, the sight of the gesture
made Tonks’ skin crawl.

Moody started, asking very bluntly: What were you doing before you were summoned.

Tom smiled like he had won something highly sought. In London.

Tom spoke smoothly like the velvet feel of a flower petal: where am I.

Moody told him, and they talked.

They talked, answering and asking in turn. Tonks nearly bristled as the topics started to delve
into more uncertain areas; where precisely they were located currently. Which family Moody
and Tonks came from. Who the boy was that was in the room earlier. Who knew that Tom
was here.

“Alright,” Tonks interrupted after Tom’s smooth words manage to unnerve even Moody.
“You’ve asked enough. What are your intentions towards others?”

Tom’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Amusement masked behind a dull face. He was nearly
gleeful in her hasty interruption. “ My intentions? Oh dear, you make it seem as if I’m
courting.”
Tonks twitched, she hadn’t ever wanted to punch a suspect so hard in her life.

“I can see why you’re so hesitant,” Tom spoke calmly. “I understand that my conversation is
generally so enthralling.”

Tonks’ heart beat quickly. She knew he couldn’t hear it.

“I imagine how wretched it would be to ever be handcuffed to myself.” His eyes were far too
vibrant with amusement. “Oh dear, you look so bluenose to be upstaged.”

It took Tonks a split second to recognize that he had incorporated slang that was heavily out
of date. A sentence in common English that seemed peculiar, but had an entire double
meaning she had no context to understand.

“Wow,” She stated bluntly without even pretending to keep her composure. “You’re a bloody
arse.”

Tom’s eyes flickered in delight having won the interrogation. “A phrase I’ve heard
commonly heard directed at me after my discussions is vade retro satana. Perhaps in a few
months, you’ll have a rudimentary understanding to appropriately use it.”

Aurors were required to know introductory Latin for work; it had been that way for centuries.

Tonks tilted her head and seriously contemplated smashing Tom Riddle’s teeth out.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but from the muffled noises coming through
the silencing ward, it wasn’t anything good.

The door was closed shut but there wasn’t a standard privacy ward up, otherwise, he would
have heard nothing. It seemed like a good idea, if there were any shouts of alarm he’d be able
to hear it.

Tonks had slipped inside not that long ago, sending him a single wink before she went in to
face the lion. So far, it didn’t sound like they’d made any leeway.

Harry glanced towards the stairs as Hermione descended sleepily, yawning widely. She jolted
in surprise at seeing him up so early, it was still well before breakfast.

“Harry!” She startled with a small smile, “you’re up early today!”

Harry sheepishly ran one hand through the disaster of his hair. “Yeah, I was helping Moody
with something. It didn’t...work out... right.”

Hermione blinked a few times in surprise, “didn’t work out? Are you hurt? What happened?”

Harry wasn’t sure how to breach the subject of Lord Voldemort having dirtied a dishtowel
from dirt on his now existing nose, so he simply shrugged again.
Hermione poked her head around, seeing the closed doors that artificially were muffled. Her
eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Yeah, that's, ah…” Harry trailed off badly, “that’s the bit that didn’t work out right. Moody’s
fine though!”

Hermione nodded slowly, then turned and walked into the kitchen to help Mrs. Weasley with
breakfast. Harry let out an internal sigh of relief.

The rest of the house started to wake up, but still Moody and Tonks didn’t come out of the
room. The conversation went on longer, then Fred and George were popping around stealing
bits of toast and loudly arguing about the prophet's report. Ron stumbled down later, foggy-
eyed and exhausted.

“Hey mate,” Ron yawned loudly, “didn’t hear you get up.”

Harry grimaced and nodded slowly, “ah yeah, I was helping Moody with something.”

Ron grunted once then stumbled off for morning juice.

Everything about it was odd, he didn’t understand it at all. Why was Tom Riddle here now?
Why did he suddenly appear in a ritual to summon an alternate version of Moody? What
happened to Voldemort if Tom Riddle was here?

How old was he? Had he-. Had he opened the chamber yet?

The door opened ever so slightly, Tonks poked her head out, her hair a soft shade of blue. Her
face lit up happily, although the small crinkle on the corner of her eye suggested she was
thoroughly ticked by something. “Wotcher Harry! Could you go get a change of clothes?
Reckon you're pretty close!”

“Er, sure.” Harry fumbled; Tom Riddle had seemed pretty thin when Harry saw him last.
Maybe they were close in size, although the Tom he knew from the diary had been much
taller. Maybe a delayed growth spurt?

Harry hurried up to Ron’s room, searching through his bag for a spare change of clothing.
Nothing too bright or bold, although Harry was half tempted to drag out his Gryffindor shirt
in loud red and gold. He settled for something he didn’t wear much, a dark navy and a pair of
trousers that were the longest pair. He was going to see if Mrs. Weasley could hem them for
him, but the length should be fine. He swiped a clean pair of other necessities, one of the
small travelling sprays that magically cleaned hair. It wasn’t too ruddy for smell after a
Quidditch practise either. Oliver Wood had sworn by them, and honestly, during exam
season, they were miracles to have around.

Harry hurried back downstairs, careful not to drop any of the clothing he hoarded. Tonks lit
up the moment she spotted him, moving from her reclined posture against the door. Harry
wondered if her acting like a bodyguard was intentional, or truly a coincidence.
“Thanks mate!” Tonks grinned, meaning in for a whisper, “think you’re up to saying hi? He’s
bloody off his rocker.”

Harry blinked twice and quickly recovered, “really? I thought he would be...er...intellectual.”

“More like an ass of the finest calibre.” Tonks pouted, rolling her eyes and gesturing him to
slide in the door. She closed it quickly after him, protecting his back.

Oh, it was strange.

He could see Tom Riddle from the diary in his face, in the sharp shape of his cheekbones and
the point of his chin. The cold way his eyes took him in, systematically scanning over his
face and body until they flickered away uninterested.

“Alright,” Moody grumbled, looking like a giant in Mrs. Weasley's small dining room chairs,
“We’ve got clothes that should fit. We got through your bag, you change into new things,
then we’ll let you loose.”

Tom Riddle blinked slowly, like Crookshanks when waiting for dinner. “How thoughtful.”

Harry twitched at the voice, not the smooth baritone he remembered. It was higher in pitch,
hoarse and crackled although it was fairly well disguised. In fact, Tom Riddle that Harry
remembered looked very different.

Moody didn’t appreciate the dry commentary, but he pulled out the bag that Tom had arrived
with and set it on the table between them. Tom made no movement forward.

Harry was suddenly very aware that Tonks was boxing off the only exit in the room.

“I’m going to pull out every single thing in this bag, and then I’m going to cast diagnostics.”
Moody rumbled low in his throat, “once I have confiscated anything I think dangerous, you’ll
strip and we’ll repeat. I take anything I find suspicious.”

Tom tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, “I’m waiting.”

Harry shivered and sat down in the seat provided, trying not to make too big a noise.

He was sitting across from Lord Voldemort, some of the traits already were agonizingly
similar. The long shape of his fingers, the way he tilted his head ever so slightly and kept
nearly a smirk on his face. It was terrifying, even with two aurors in the room with him.

“Alright.” Moody began lowly, folding his hands in front of him. “Where did you get this
bag.”

Tom’s face didn’t change at all. “Would you believe me if I said I found it?”

“You don’t find bags like that.” Tonks huffed from the door in a sour voice, “you stole it from
someone.”
Tom made a small cut-off exhale of amusement. “I am certain, that the previous owner is not
searching for it.”

The tone of voice, the suggestion; Harry shivered and averted his eyes.

Moody pulled out his wand, an old chipped thing, and tapped the bag once. Obediently, the
bag unzipped itself.

“Now,” Moody grumbled, muttering quietly as he removed something from his pocket. It
restored itself to proper size- revealing itself as the knife that Tom had arrived with. The look
of the thing made Harry unsettled, or maybe it was the dark stains near the handle.

“Where did you get this?” Moody asked.

Tom smiled, “the same place I found my bag.”

Tonks huffed ever so quietly.

“...Alright.” Moody accepted, then he began to flick his wand with small incantations to
summon all possessions out of the bag.

Harry was increasingly amazed as more and more things seemed to fly out of the small
pouch. The small canvas of the bag looked normal, then cans and tins started stacking
themselves neatly. Empty wrappers, papers and fliers that unwrinkled themselves and folded
out neatly into a little stack on the side. Other small bits and ends started flying out of the bag
magically; bits of mangled wire and brass. Small pins that were too tarnished to read. Bits of
scrap cloth and hardened cotton- stained with thick blood that had dried on it. Makeshift
bandages, long threads attached to shiny needles that looked a bit soot-stained on the end.

The oddities gathered. Empty water bags that were flaccid like leather. More knives, some of
them as long as Harry’s hand. Grimy glass bottles with screw tops, little tickets with an inked
print that bled on the corners.

Moody jerked his wand and growled, using a different incantation. From inside the bag,
something very recognizable shot out. Moody caught it magically, placing it on the table
between them like it was a live bomb.

Tom Riddle’s wand was pale, lighter than normal wands. Nearly white actually, like the skin
on birch trees. Longer than Harry’s, almost proportional to Tom Riddle’s long fingers. Moody
set it on the table between them- Harry would never forget the sight of that wand in his life.

‘I want to see your face when I kill you.’

Harry twitched, knowing he was making a small noise as his eyes locked to the innocent
weapon. Tonks took a few steps closer, her presence a comforting warmth behind him.

“Interesting looking wand,” Moody growled flatly, bulging eye rolling around strangely.
“Who you kill to make it?”
Tom huffed, a small noise that sounded so odd coming from him. “You and I both know
creating wands is a near-impossible task without years of training. Bone isn’t a conduit,
auror.”

“Yew, right?” Harry blurted, unable to shake the coldness that gripped him so tightly. “And
Phoenix feather.”

Tom’s eyes slid to him, locking on him firmly. Harry tensed his body, careful to keep from
trembling.

“...Correct,” Tom spoke, voice softer than before. He tilted his head, like a raven eyeing the
roadkill in front of it, “curious how you know such a thing.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Moody forcefully directed the topic back to the assortment of objects on
the table. “I want to know when and where you got these things from, and why.”

“Wait!” Tonks blurted, leaning over Harry so close her side brushed his shoulder, “Is that a
rubber?”

Harry choked, and much to his horror Tonks flipped her wand with a simple levitating charm
and sent a few small packets floating from the table.

Moody didn’t think it was odd, but Harry could feel him blushing all the way to his ears.

Tom didn’t seem scandalized at all, in fact, he looked bored with a highly uncomfortable
object floating directly in front of his face.

“You’re a bit young,” Moody stated bluntly.

Tom’s mouth twitched ever so slowly. “They’re given to everyone, auror. You know as well
as I that they’re used for more than the original purpose.”

Moody gave a small nod of admittance, completely ignoring the single thing which made
Harry want to run from the room more than Voldemort in the flesh.

The condoms (Harry still was stuttering over the idea of them) were pushed to the side, as
well as the tins of food once Tonks ran some diagnostics. From there on, Moody would
levitate a single object for Tom to explain, and then move to the pile of sorted objects. Metal
from a destroyed building, wiring from a smashed lamp post. Cloth from clothes, dirtied
bandages he hadn’t time to clean yet.

The biggest object that made Harry pale, was a single unassuming diary.

Leather, soft and scarred around the corners. Held shut by a loose cloth ribbon securing it
shut. The last time Harry had seen that diary, he had heard Tom Riddle screaming and the
warm gush of inky blood over his skin.

Tonks picked up on his distress and silently plucked the book, starting to unravel the cloth
knot.
Tom made the smallest noise, a small sound of protest that died a second after he started.

Tonks's hands kept moving, although her body tensed much further.

“What’s in it, eh?” Moody asked suspiciously.

Tom’s face looked the same, except something darker with a low seething edge was starting
to be apparent. “I would prefer the contents to remain undisclosed.”

Tonks flipped the cover carefully, her eyes scanning the name written at the top, then she
started to flip through the pages.

They were written in, thick ink in a small script that filled both the front and back of each
page. A sea of ink on the sparse expanses of white parchment. Every page covered again and
again. Tonks's eyes flickered back and forth, darting from one random page to the next. Tom
Riddle tensed, hunkering down ever so slightly as he stared at her unrelentingly.

Tonks hesitated at one part, finger hovering over the lettering.

“What is it?” Moody asked.

“...Nothing of concern, sir,” Tonks reported back. “It appears to be a historical war diary,
personal data not private data or information of concerning content. I suggest we continue
with the clothing check.”

Moody frowned, visibly annoyed that whatever was in the book provided no harm. Tonks set
it on the table, staring at the cracked leather cover for a moment before she slid it towards
Tom.

Tom reached for it, slowly pulling it closer to his side. It seemed odd, that with a choice
between his wand or a diary he would choose the latter.

“Harry?” Tonks prompted, startling the boy into sliding the procured clothing across the
table.

“You’re to strip,” Moody began with a low rumble, jerking his chin at the clothing, “we’ve
offered this which should work out fine. I’ll go through that book of yours more in-depth and
if there’s nothing in it that's of concern, then you can have it back. Your wand will be
confiscated until a time we change our mind over it. Once you're dressed, we’re having
breakfast with the rest of the house.”

Tom’s fingers tapped on the cover of his book. “A reasonable plan. Allow me a moment.”

Tom stood slowly, making his movements clear. He had no embarrassed stutter or waiver of
his hand; he seemed confident or uncaring over modesty. He stripped off the outer shirt,
disregarding it in a neatly folded pile on the desk.

Tonks whistled, pointing her arm suddenly. “Right arm, bicep. You’ve got a rune of some
sort.”
Harry couldn’t even see it, but when Tom reached over and unfastened something it flickered
into sight. It looked grimy and old, something sewed into a grey stained bandage tied tightly
around the diameter. Small designs or vigils or shapes were very faintly imprinted on,
although staring too long made Harry’s headache.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Moody huffed, squinting at the nondescript magic once Tom placed it
on the table. “That’s what, an avoidance rune and an awareness one? Trying to stay out of
sight? Made with blood, my, that’s rather dark in nature isn’t it?”

Tom didn’t look intimidated or impressed. “Apologies, I simply hadn’t the time to skip to my
nearest post shop and request ink, auror. With the bombs dropping.”

Moody didn’t seem too upset, but Harry felt his gut twist oddly.

Tom continued stripping, both Tonks and Harry looking away to keep the act private. Moody
didn’t bother, although something clearly made the older wizard wheeze out a startled breath.
When Tonks and Harry looked back, Tom was rolling the too wide waistband of Harry’s
pants tighter, using one of the long ropes from his bag (after asking permission in the most
disrespectful manner) in a makeshift belt. Harry wasn’t a big person by any means, but his
clothing on Tom both dwarfed the thin flesh on his arms and thighs, while hanging inches too
short on his ankles and wrists.

“Is this satisfactory?” Tom asked in the most condescendingly polite way.

Moody’s face barely twitched. “You’ve played this well brat, but you’ve overlooked
something important. You think you have an upper hand and you haven’t realized you’re here
under our mercy.”

Tom’s smile slipped into something irritated. “Oh? Enlighten me how your disregard for
basic humanitarian measures is considered mercy? You’ve been especially rude, it would be a
shame if the authorities were informed.’

Moody stood, his chair scraping loudly. He smiled, a wide grinned toothy expression that
made Harry instantly take a step out of his way.

“Bold!” Moody commended, “but you’ve been thinking this wrong. You’re bloody
intelligent, I’ll give you that. The thing is, Riddle.” Moody sounded nearly ready to laugh.

He walked to the main door throwing the doors open to snap the ward around them. Tom was
watching him with a small expression of growing paranoia and outright frustration. He didn’t
take well to the blatant insult that he had done something wrong.

“You see,” Moody began, the toothy smirk unrelenting. “You may be in the future, but you're
not the first bloody one here.”

Tom’s eyes twitched, moving subconsciously as he frantically thought through all the
possible things he could have done wrong. He had been so sure…
“Hello?” Someone piped up curiously, poking around the door-frame to peep in. “mum said
break’ is ready if you wanted to-.”

Harry’s heart fell and shattered in icy cold realization. Ginny Weasley paled, curdling like
spoiled milk. Tom stared at her blankly, not understanding.

“Welcome to the future you backstabbing murdering bastard.” Moody laughed.

Ginny Weasley blinked rapidly, swayed slightly, and began to scream.

 Quid pro quo
Chapter Summary

The culture shock of the world, when you surface and find yourself in a place you never
wanted to be.

Chapter Notes

I hope you enjoy this chapter! It got away from me a lot, I was going to emphasize some
parts more and others less, but well, I'll get to it eventually. I hope you like it.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Tom Riddle was positively charming and helpful.

After the initial freak out (where Ginny had to be restrained by the twins to prevent her
violent assault with a knife), Tom froze up in visible shock and confusion. It was a very
obvious expression, his jaw slacking in surprise and alarm at the noise.

There were a few minutes where he stood there in dumb shock, barely reacting past the
minimal signs of comprehension. Harry could almost hear the way his brain was hurrying to
catch up with the information thrown at him- he certainly was adapting better than Harry
would have.

There was a visible restart; Tom blinking quickly and nearly twitching as he processed. At
some point, something worked, and his entire body and face relaxed into something subtly
off.

His posture was relaxed and calm, shoulders rolled and spine slumped. His face was open,
the corners of his eyes relaxed into a somewhat innocent expression. It didn’t fit him, not in
the way he was nearly spitting venom just earlier.

“I’m sorry,” Tom apologized in a somewhat sympathetic tone of voice, “I...I don’t think
we’ve met-.”

Ginny screamed; the twins pulled her out of the room with visible difficulty.

Moody’s grin twisted into a somewhat disappointed expression, looking more annoyed at the
lackluster response.
“Er…” Hermione trailed off, not understanding the scene. “I’m..sorry about that?” Hermione
chewed her lower lip nervously. “She’s had a rough time.”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine as Tom nodded sympathetically, his face was incredibly
convincing.

“Don’t be so quick, Granger.” Moody grumbled sourly, “this one’s trouble.”

Tonks huffed quietly, crossing her arms annoyed although she said nothing more. She puffed
out a small breath, playing with a single strand of hair.

“I’m going to head back to headquarters.” Moody rumbled lowly, keeping his magical eye on
Tom. “Get in touch with...our head. As well as Dalour, reckon it would be good to bring him
in.”

Mrs. Weasley’s hands slipped on the small bowl in her hands. A small puff of flour exploded
upwards, painting a sleeve on her arm white.

“Oh,” she breathed in surprise, “Mr. Dalour? Oh you poor dear!” She gasped, turning her
attention onto Tom.

Tom bristled before in a split second shifting it to uncomfortable hesitancy. It was nearly
perfect how quickly he changed.

“Yeah,” Moody huffed sourly, “definitely Dalour. Tonks will be staying to keep an eye out on
you all, call in if anything happens. Don’t be afraid to incapacitate him.”

“Trust me, I’m not worried.” Tonks responded curtly, layering on the thickness of her
annoyance.

Ron looked at Harry in outright surprise. “Blimey mate, what did you bloody do?”

“Surprisingly, it wasn’t my fault this time.” Harry defended himself, causing Hermione to
giggle softly.

The strange atmosphere didn’t last long. Almost in rhythm, Mrs. Weasley stole them to tackle
a new task at hand. Hermione settled on an easier job- setting the table with cutlery. The
twins hadn’t returned, likely still calming Ginny down from her fit earlier. Tonks took a
steady watchful position near the fireplace. Hermione and Tom (surprisingly enough) was
taken into the kitchen to assist in breakfast itself.

Harry didn’t know what the more surprising factor was, the way that Tom incorporated
himself smoothly into the operation, or the way he had obvious experience with cooking.
Nothing was done by magic either, instead he worked his bruised hands through flour and
dough without a second of pause. Kneading and mixing flour and salt with a spoon so old it
probably was made before Tom was born. He didn’t argue once.

“Oh thank you dear!” Mrs. Weasley cooed, eyes filled with stars as the biscuits were placed
in the oven. Hermione watched as she shredded potatoes, questions obvious in her eye.
“So, Tom!” Mrs. Weasley started, the chipper tone was so amusing to Harry he almost
laughed. “Where are you from?”

Tom didn’t blink at the inquiry, although his voice was noticeably lighter than the previous
interrogation. “London, ma’am.”

Tonks mouthed it to herself, eye twitching in controlled rage. “Ma’am?”

Mrs. Weasley cooed, oblivious to the distressing elephant in the room. “Oh lovely! Lovely
lovely, you must be going to Hogwarts! What was your last name again, dear?”

Tom smiled pleasantly and ignored the question, assisting with the stacks of toast.

He eyed the muggle toaster with obvious distrust, and veered away from its use. Hermione
took it up easily, swapping off her fry pan without care. Tom took to it like a fish in water, or
maybe it was just his ability to mask his reactions which made it seem so effortless.

Soon, they were sliding heaps of biscuits and hash browns on the table, passing large mounds
of butter to one another. The twins returned, a pale visibly seething girl between them.

Ginny threw herself into her chair, the small glass of juice in front of her rattled.

“Don’t throw yourself onto the chair!” Mrs. Weasley scolded firmly, looking ready to toss a
dish towel at her. “Tonks dear, are you able to join us?”

Tonks shook her head slowly, not looking away from Tom. “I’d rather not, I have a feeling
I’ll be needed anyways.”

Harry quickly glanced at Tom, whose expression had sharpened ever so slightly.

They sat down, Tom’s skin seeming even more waxy with the others sitting nearby. Everyone
began to pass the food around, taking servings while offering small talk. Whenever Tom
made a word, Ginny began a low nearly feral growling which quickly silenced him into
merely smiling. Tonks seemed to share the anger, nearly bristling at every word.

Tom barely ate, instead he pushed the food around on his plate lazily. Harry could see the
way his face seemed tighter.

“Tom dear? Aren’t you going to eat any?” Mrs. Weasley asked concerned.

Tom’s face twitched ever so slightly, his fork scraped his plate loudly.

“Of course ma’am.” Tom responded smoothly, obediently. His face paled further as he
considered his hash browns.

Tom started to eat, politely and carefully. Once he started, he didn’t stop.

Any sort of reservation he had for appearance seemed to vanish the moment he actually ate;
his hands tensed and flexed like it took all sanity he had to keep using an utensil.
Everyone watched with grotesque fascination as Tom ate and ate and ate. He ate like he was
starving, more and more with increasing desperation. His servings became empty, he tensed
in a hunched position over his plate like he was protecting the breadcrumbs he had left.

Tonks made a small noise, waltzing across the kitchen to grab the nearby rubbish bin. She
nearly skipped over, looking very satisfied as she nudged it to Tom’s side.

“Oh,” Harry blurted in realization, looking around at the fairly rich fatty foods he had long
since grown accustomed too.

Tom managed a single glare, nearly trembling with the force of his willpower.

Ginny looked smug. Tom’s lip curled into something like a snarl- but then he dropped to the
side.

Tonks hadn’t been surprised but it was still something horrific to see someone vomit
violently. Tom’s borrowed clothing hung on him, but it didn’t disguise the aggressive
cramping and the way his entire body jerked with each painful spasm. The food he just ate
came up, dripping in runny yellow stomach acid. Large chunks, barely chewed in his
ravenous hunger.

He vomited again and again, until his mouth opened so far it looked on the verge of
dislocating. Jawbone moving absurdly far under his skin, shifting visibly under the skin of his
temple. His hair was matting with sweat where it had begun to air dry.

He retched, primal wet gasping noises as nothing else came up. It was easy to tell he hadn’t
eaten for a while; the white film on his tongue suggested similarly.

“Oh,” Mrs. Weasley managed, sounding pained, “perhaps we should move on to the living
room.”

Tom managed to open one eye, curled over on himself in his pitiful state. Even now, he
looked ready to lunge.

Tom deposited himself on a couch, sprawling across it in both a display of distress, and
something of boasting arrogance. He seemed to be glaring at Ginny, proclaiming with his
body language ‘this may be your house, but this couch is now mine.’

It was true, Tom had an aura that surrounded him that left you unsettled and far too aware of
your own body. Every insecurity came to the front of your mind, every vulnerability felt
glaringly obvious. Even when Tom Riddle was laying on a couch, stinking of vomit and
distress.

Tom looked more annoyed that they had seen his sickness, not that he had experienced it at
all.
“Moody will be back soon,” Tonks assured them politely, still keeping guard as they settled
awkwardly on couches. “I got an update, Mr. Dalour will be by likely before Moody comes
back.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded quickly, “of course of course! I feel horrid, is there anything else I can
get you, Tom dear? A nice cup of tea?”

Tom didn’t blink from his leisurely sprawl. “No thank you, ma’am. I thank you for your
hospitality.”

Mrs. Weasley flushed, Tonks growled. Tom closed his eyes and looked completely at peace.

They could have mistaken him for sleeping if not for the way his fingers twitched ever so
slightly at every noise. At Tonks’ request, Harry remained in the room with her. Maybe it was
because he too knew about the situation, or maybe it was because Harry knew him. Ron and
Hermione weren’t granted similar permission, and Ginny seemed completely banned from
remaining in the same room as Tom unsupervised. The redhead could likely kill Tom with a
spoon and pure determination.

After a period of time that felt much longer due to basic situational anxiety, the fireplace
flared green and a wizard stumbled out. He wore standard scratchy robes that signified he had
some sort of medical position or worked in a medical facility. His hair was trimmed
carefully- another symbol of his position.

Tom’s countenance sharpened as he too came to a similar realization.

“Wonderful,” Mr. Dalour sighed, slightly nasally voice entirely unwelcome. He walked
further into the room, depositing a small briefcase that looked made from toad leather. He
flipped the latches, pulling out an obnoxiously large book and an ordinary never-ending-ink
quill. “It’s been a hell of a morning, you’re lucky it's my day off and you’re paying my sick
days. What have we here, miss auror?”

Tonks crossed her arms slowly, looking stonily at the room. “Basic evaluation, suspecting a
full situation four although there may be other things included. This ‘ere is Harry who’ll be
staying as witness. That’s Tom, who you’re working on.”

Mr. Dalour stilled for a second in blatant surprise, then looked at Tom in something of a new
light.

“Tom, eh?” The man frowned, wrinkling his nose into a small sniffle, “you must be someone
pretty important to call me out so quickly.”

Tom didn’t shift from his sprawled posture. He didn’t move further than the bare minimum
required to talk: “So they say.”

Mr. Dalour almost smiled, then went to flip his book to an empty page. Harry peered at the
white expanse, and although there were no words written Harry’s mind filled with static like
a swarm of bees. He doubted he’d be able to read anything he wrote anyways.
“So, Mr. Tom.” Dalour began with a sniff, “what brings you to my attention?”

Tom didn’t react further. Solid and stationary like an alligator half submerged. “You tell me. I
presume that a full situation four is code for a categorical of shock although you seem well
versed with it already. Wartime does that, mediwizard?”

Mr. Dalour scribbled down what looked like distorted gibberish to Harry’s eyes. “A category
of shock, eh? What makes you believe that?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly, and finally he shifted upright into a seated position. Lazily,
long limbs folding and not hitching even with the expanse of bruising across his hands and
the prominence of his exposed collarbone.

Tom rose into a seated position, posture tall and strong with the gaunt lines of his face
drawing sharper and skeletal. Harry’s breathing became much more laborious as he could
vividly imagine scarlet eyes on the half smirk of amusement.

“Oh, you believe you’re so clever.”

Mr. Dalour kept writing, pausing after a particularly large stretch to sigh and look at Tom
with a very tired expression.

“Yes, I am clever. I have done this for a long time and frankly this is my day off so I would
love to have this finished as soon as possible. Please answer some questions for me, and we
can proceed as quickly as possible with this.”

Tom’s smirk didn’t waver; he tilted his head like a curious feline watching a finch in the
window.

“Thank you,” Mr. Dolour cleared his throat quietly. “You stated shock previously. Have you
been exposed to situations where you believe you’d develop shock?”

Tom’s eyes slowly slid to the side over towards Tonks. “What wards are in place for the
confidentiality of this discussion?”

“Perimeter.” Tonks clipped out shortly. “Nothing extensive. Due to the risk of your status.
The rest of the house isn’t privy to this but the findings are our information too. I’ve activated
a ward on Mr. Dolour’s entry where we’ll know if you lie, but we’re not forcing you to tell
the truth either. Don’t make us have to change that.”

Tom smiled and slowly spoke. “My favourite colour is purple.”

There was a thrum, a strange prickly sensation of odd. It made Harry squirm uncomfortably,
although Tonks and the new man didn’t seem that surprised by the feel.

Tom seemed to chew something over curiously. “Interesting choice. I’m not familiar with the
spell.”

“It would be impressive if you did.” Mr. Dolour sighed, scribbling something down with a
critical eye as Tom twitched ever so slightly.
“Please answer the question, Tom have you been in situations where you believe may have
led to developing some sort of trauma?”

Tom smiled, curious and sharp.

Tonks bristled slightly as seconds continued on and still Tom said nothing.

“Tom,” Mr. Dolour sighed tiredly. “I understand this situation may be incredibly stressful.
I’m trying to help you, and I reckon you aren’t used to that. Have you had many people help
you before?”

Tom looked far too curious.

Harry felt like his tongue was swollen and heavy in his mouth.

“Do you think you can help me?” Tom asked politely, calm and blunt. “Truly? Or do you
believe that your work with labeling and categorizing madness is all you can contribute. Is
this your ideal place in the world, or have you accepted that your worthless contribution
means so little you’ve settled for scum.”

Tonks looked ready to take one step forward, Mr. Dolour lifted one hand calmly.

“I see you’re feeling a bit targeted right now, and I’m sorry about that.” He apologized. “I
only want to help you, Tom. Is it okay if I help you?”

Tom’s lip curled back ever so slightly. “You are a pathetic contribution to the world.”

The ward didn’t thrum; Tom Riddle’s truthful opinion felt unshakably cold. Mr. Dolour
scribbled in his book.

“Do you feel afraid of me?” Tom asked calmly.

“No.” Mr. Dolour didn’t look up from where he was writing. Completely at ease.

Harry wanted to interrupt, to argue that Tom Riddle certainly was dangerous. The man
seemed completely unaware.

“I’ve killed a rabbit with a knife.” Tom spoke calmly. The ward thrummed with an
unmistakable sense of wrong wrong wrong.

Tom’s expression didn’t change. “I’ve hung a rabbit and watched it die because I wanted to.”

The wards didn’t thrum.

Mr. Dolour stopped writing instantly.

“Tom,” Mr. Dolour asked calmly, although it was a forced level of professionalism. “That’s
something quite impressive. Why did you want the rabbit to die?”

Tom didn’t rise to it, instead he stared at the man with something difficult to read.
“You don’t need to be here, you know.” Tom dismissed without acknowledging his questions.
“I understand why they summoned you. They think I’m mad, I’ve heard it often enough. I
don’t need a mediwizard.”

Mr. Dolour sighed heavily. “The idea may be a bit uncomfortable, but perhaps you could try?
You may feel better talking. Do you feel sometimes like you are alone?”

Tom’s eyebrows shifted ever so slightly, curious. “I don’t need a doctor.”

Mr. Dolour looked ready to rub his temples. “Tom-.”

“Have you ever been terrified?” Tom asked quietly, eyes bright and unsettling. “Have you
ever believed you were going to die, doctor?”

There was a cold atmosphere that descended on them, that chilled them deeper than any
admission would. The easy way Tom asked that, like nothing mattered in perspective.

“...No I haven’t-.”

“I have.” Tom spoke with a smile that did not fit on his face. A sharpness to his expression
that made even Tonks twitch. “I’ve watched men like you squirm like rats.”

Tom’s smile exposed his gums; his teeth were starting to yellow and his gums looked
inflamed and sore.

“I would love to watch you rot.”

The wards didn’t thrum.

A thick heavy suffocating silence weighed on them, oppressing. It laid over them like heavy
cream, sweet and saccharine.

Tonks cleared her throat and Mr. Dolour exhaled shakily, closing his book with somewhat
shaking fingers.

“Right.” Mr. Dolour spoke, his voice hoarse and somewhat shaky. “I’m going to...I’m...tell
Alastor that I’m removing myself from this case I don’t...Don’t contact me again I…”
Harry wasn’t surprised at all when Mr. Dolour scrambled off, unsettled and shaken by the
honesty of Tom’s words.

“Forgive me father,” Tom grinned feral, “it has been a while since my last confession .”

Tom was living proud, calm and confident. Mrs. Weasley didn’t understand why Mr. Dolour,
the order mediwizard for referrals left so suddenly. Normally the man was quite professional-
perhaps a bit skittish but nothing that would explain his hasty departure.
Tonks seemed even more frustrated, tense and scathing over the smallest things. It wasn’t
even noon yet and Mrs. Weasley was unsure of how to continue with the day.

The floo surged with fire, a small puff of ash and two figures were emerging.

“Moony!” Harry blurted, lunging to his feet with a breathless grin. Tom, having taken to his
couch in a defensive sprawl. He watched with a clinical eye, not rising to any sort of mock
niceties considering his morning so far.

“Hello Harry.” Remus smiled back, accepting the hug from the smaller boy. It was more of a
collapse against the man’s larger frame, but he caught him instantly.

“Harry!” Remus hurried in a hushed but worried voice, “are you alright?”

“I’ve had a really tiring day, Moony.”

Remus patted his back twice, looking very uncomfortable.

“Remus!” Tonks grinned, rushing from her guard post with a relieved whoosh of air. “ Please
tell me Moody is coming back!”

Remus looked equally startled by her own exhaustion. “I- yes. He’s fetching A- oh. I had…”
Remus trailed off, finally catching eye of Tom.

Tom stood, slowly rising to his short lanky state. He hunkered slightly, swaying and blinking
quickly once he stood tall before he adjusted to the sudden change in altitude. Then he
prowled, striding across the short distance of the living room.

Remus took an instinctual step backwards, dragging Harry with him. Remus made a low
rumble, something deeper than a whine but quieter than a snarl. Tom’s eyes glinted like a
sharp stone. He said nothing.

The fireplace burned brightly again, a plume of green fire. A wizard stepped out, casually
brushing soot off his bright maroon robes.

“Oh dear,” Albus Dumbledore spoke calmly, observing Tom with a hard look built into his
face, “it seems this is quite a situation.”

Tom’s face froze in shock, unable to comprehend. Worse than before, like an epiphany had
formed in all the worst ways.

“No.” Tom blurted, word slurred slightly with the numbness of his mouth. “No, no. You
aren’t- you- you’re bloody kidding me.”

Dumbledore smiled thinly, not friendly but not outright cruel. “Hello again, Tom. You’ve
aged well.”

Tom made a whine, a low noise of distress before the smooth composition of his words
shifted into the rough rhyming slang of his cockney from before. He spluttered over pure
sounds, hissing syllables before he spat out a furious line of “ I manage ter get oray and I end
up wiv this crap, isit?”

Albus Dumbledore blinked quickly in surprise before he chuckled quietly, almost fond. “Ah,
I missed that accent of yours. It vanished by your sixth year if I recall correctly.”

Tom recoiled; his mouth opening and closing before he hunched in fury. “I 'ope yer choke on
yor stewpid candies yer goat.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore sighed in relief, “what a beautiful sound.”

Remus smoothly tried to interrupt. “Albus? Perhaps we should…”

“Ah, yes. You’re most certainly right, my friend.” Albus nodded carefully, stroking his long
beard- braided off on one side messily. “Molly? A cup of tea would be splendid.”

“Oh yes!” She hurried, searching for a well worn kettle.

Tom’s nostrils flared and he walked backwards, not retreating but instead returning to his
couch to watch the proceedings in his natural state; angrily.

“I understand we have had quite an interesting day.” Albus confessed, lowering himself on a
nearby chair with a sigh of his old bones. “Ah, I see young Harry here has been keeping you
company.”

“The more I hear about him,” Tom began in the once more composed tone, careful British.
“The more I find his existence irritable.”

Remus choked on a laugh, and Harry found himself nearly grinning at the hilarity of the
situation. Oh Merlin, he couldn’t wait for when the boy learned about the scar on his head.

“Ah, I see.” Dumbledore nodded in sympathy, “this must be quite alarming for you, Tom.
What was the last thing you remember?”

Tom glared with unadulterated hate. “Don’t go betraying your intentions now, professor. One
may mistake it for compassion.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, accepting the saucer of tea that Molly quickly gave him. She
skirted off, leaving the group in their tense stand off.

“I apologize for any mixed signals I’ve given you,” Dumbledore apologized slowly, “I have
your best intentions in mind.”

Tom tilted his head, nostrils flaring. For however cruel and sharp he was with Tonks and
Moody, it was nothing compared to the glowing coals of fury that raged behind Tom’s eyes.

“Don’t lie to me now, professor.” Tom grinned behind sharp bared teeth. “You were always
fond of your white lies and half baked truths.”
Dumbledore’s face wrinkled in confusion. “I am sorry I don’t understand-.”
Tom’s face twisted into something that could never be considered pretty. Pinched and
strained, waxy skin over a taught canvas that painted him in shades of blood.

“Did you hope I’d die?” Tom asked him, low in a snarl. “Is that why you sent me back?
Again and again?”

Remus tensed, Tonks shrunk and Dumbledore aged like something exposed to the horrors of
the world.

“Oh,” Dumbledore breathed quietly and tired. “Oh I am so sorry. Tom, the war is long
finished. Grindlewald was arrested many years ago. There are no more bombs to threaten
you.”

Tom rolled his neck, cracking it audibly. His collarbone shifted under the parchment of his
skin.

“Maybe for you it did.” Tom answered after a pause, tasting the words in his throat like stale
bread over a tiring day. “It feels to me that I’ve left one war only to join another. This time,
only I am against the world.”

Dumbledore looked downward with a small nod, sighing through his nose. He clutched his
cup of tea tightly, the thin wafts of steam trickling upwards.

“I apologize, for all the ways I have failed you.” Dumbledore admitted, “and with that I feel
it is of utmost importance to inform you of the situation.”

Tom looked ready to lunge across the room, no weapon be damped, to try and assault his way
into solitary confinement.

“You see, Tom.” Dumbledore pressed one old weathered hand to his temple. “You
succeeded.”

Tom froze and his blood chilled.

“Albus,” Remus whispered alarmed, unsure.

“I failed you.” Dumbledore confessed to the room. “I failed to address your trauma, your
injuries and your requests for aid. I failed you, and you succeeded to become the most feared
Dark Lord of all time.”

Tom looked sickly pale, looking ready to vomit once more. “You’re lying.”

Dumbledore smiled thinly, face nearly as gaunt. “No. I’m not. After leaving Hogwarts, you
traveled on a crusade and partook in rituals and magics so dark it tainted and befouled you
into something hideous. Perhaps you were beyond my hope long before, but I view this as my
chance to correct the flaws of my past.”

Tom shook his head jerkily. “I- I do not-.”

“You murdered people.” Harry blurted, the well of rage that he normally did not feel flooded
over him and saturated his bones. “You murdered Cedric. You murdered my parents!”

Tom kept shaking his head in numb shock.

“You’re a bloody monster!” Harry screamed, jolting to his feet. Tonks grabbed his arm,
holding him back.

“I didn’t-.” Tom began, quiet and unsure. Eyes wide and perplexed, disoriented and lost and
so very confused. “I didn’t-.”

“I am so sorry for you, Tom.” Dumbledore confessed quietly. “For all your pain and
suffering. I have ignored you and in your negligence you have suffered far more than anyone
should ever.”

Tom reclined back, closing his eyes simply so he didn’t have to look at Dumbledore’s face
any more.

His lips were twitching, thin and twitching on his sickly face. Harry was too far away to hear,
and the blurry tears in his eyes distorted his vision too much for him to read his lips.

Tonks could read whatever it was, and it left her to exhale in a shaky sob.

Tom made a low noise, something small and hurt. It rose in volume, until it started to warble
into something of a scream. It rose and rose into a pitch so high, Harry could feel the hair on
his skin crawl and his teeth rumble with the vibrations of it.

Dumbledore waved his wand, whispering words quietly. It must have done something,
because Mrs. Weasley and Ron and Hermione and everyone else who sprinted into the room
froze just on the threshold of the room.

Tom’s head was tilted back, throat barred and jerking with the viciousness of his voice.
Louder and louder, like death throes of a dream now impossible to ever reach.

Tom Riddle screamed, because it was the only thing louder than sobbing.

It was impossible to describe. The level of isolation impossible to ever experience.

You could pack your things and run, take your name and your money and cross countries and
continents but you were never truly alone. You would always leave memories behind you, a
spiderweb of people who knew your face and your voice who could repeat it fondly or with
scorn. You could always return to a place you once knew as home, a place where people
would remember you regardless if they wanted to or not.

You had a name, an identity. Proof of your existence through the eyes of the world around
you. You were alive, you were alive at one point, you were alive always.
(How excruciatingly isolating it was, to realize that even memories no longer proved your
existence.)

There were various philosophical debates on the concept of individuality and existence. The
notion that personhood could only be obtained in a specific instances of altering factors. If X
and Y are achieved, then a person is indeed, a person.

Tom Riddle had no past, no patron saint to swear his loyalty. No head of house to assure that
he was their student, no establishment to claim he belonged. He had no family, no friends
who would recognize someone that defied the absolute of time. He had no plans, no ambition
that or goals attainable not out of inability, but out of pure impossibility.

(A person existed if they could X and Y. Was Tom a person, when variables were no longer
symbolic? When letters were foreign splashes of ink which meant nothing to him, as he
meant nothing now to the world?)

Tom sat on the couch, legs curled close to his body as he stared at a wall. Not glancing away
even as the house began to thrum with activity. Dumbledore sat there with him, calm and
patient. Sipping his third cup of tea. Perhaps if Tom waited long enough, the caffeine would
send the man into cardiac arrest.

Tom had no future ambitions. His political route was blocked now by the thoroughly tainted
and foreign structure of the ministry. He had worked through the unstable hysteria of wartime
politics, the immoral greed of those in powers. If the war was over, then it would be
something utterly new. He had no vantage points, no steps along pureblood names to gain
height along the social structure. Abraxas may be dead now; he always had that insufferable
wheeze. Orion seemed like a distant thought, too scatterbrained to ever be of much use.
Where would he be now? Married off and softened with domesticity? Had Cygnus fallen into
the madness that claimed his father and his father before that? Would the others have died
and moved on without ever considering where Tom had vanished to such a long time ago- a
student they once knew in a passing memory.

Where would he go? Where would Tom walk when he had no motivation to step forward?

Tom stared at the wall, and welcomed the tide of black nothingness he normally felt at nights
in the muggle world. When the sirens thrummed and the walls shook and he cared so little he
didn’t stir from where he slept.

If he was wearing the beads he found on an abandoned prayer bench, he’d twirl them
between his fingers in sacrilegious pondering.

What had he brought with him? A bag full of useless muggle objects, his diary and his wand.
His trunk was stashed under a shattered staircase, nearly impossible for most to reach.
Impossible for anyone to open without a knowing hand on its torn leather fasteners. His
books, his research, his potions and schoolwork were all lost to time.

He was alone, abandoned in way so completely different; he believed he were accustomed to

isolation but he knew now he was privileged.
“Granted the situation, it seems unfair to withhold you from a proper education.”
Dumbledore admitted calmly. “Fortunately, I am now the Headmaster of Hogwarts so your
admission into our school is well within my abilities.”

Tom stared at the wall, and wondered when the family that lived here before filled the cracks
in its mortar and smoothed it with paint. He wondered how deep the rot of its beams ran, or if
they warded it and locked out the bombs like the selfish wizards did to everyone else.

“...It is convenient that you had your wand on you at the time of your appearance.”
Dumbledore continued, not caring that Tom had yet to respond. “It is a truly tedious task to
find an alternative wand.”

Tom wondered where Dumbledore was, if he stayed in the castle as Tom was locked out of
bomb shelters by jeering children.

Demon! Monster!

“We will be able to sort you of course, after we have run proper medical tests and other
treatment if necessary. It wouldn’t do to have you walking around with injuries.”

Devil-spawn! Die in the fire devil spawn!

Tom’s lips moved numbly as he whispered to himself ever so quietly, “Ipse venena bibas.
Ipse venena bibas.”

Ipse venene bibas! Drink the poison yourself! Rid yourself of this child, Satan!

Tom inhaled slowly and deeply, his chest expanding as he exhaled and thought. “You’re
claiming to shelter me although an unmarked individual will never achieve much in the
world.”

Dumbledore didn’t look bothered by the statement. “That’s true. It’s fortunate that our friends
can claim identity for you. An exchange student, a child seeking asylum from less happier
lands.”

Tom didn’t look away from the wall. “A lie. A forgery of identity. I do not exist, I’m
nobody.”

Ipse venena bibas!

Dumbledore’s fingers shifted on the teacup in his hand. “That may be true. Perhaps use this
chance as an opportunity to achieve that which you never could. Use this as redemption. In
your religion, if I recall correctly, this may be called redemption.

Tom smiled at the thought. At the old man trying to use the words and chanting carved into
his skull from the desperate and the afraid.

The way that candles burned him, how wax made his skin crawl and rosemary and hawthorn
made his back itch.
Would the man use religion against him if he knew the lengths men went in the face of fear?
How men found the devil in the body of those who constantly defied.

“Redemption.” Tom tasted the word. It tasted like stomach acid, burning his gums and
mixing with blood.

'No one is as good and merciful as the Lord. But even He does not forgive the unrepentant.'

Tom would drink Dumbledore’s poison, because he knew not else what to do. A dozen
lashes, a cross held in shaking fingers as bombs shook the earth like a roar from some
demonic creature.

‘Please God let me live.’

“I’ll play your game.” Tom spoke, slowly dragging his eyes from the wall. “Do not mistake
me. I do not believe in God or that petty worship.”

A hundred lashes. Spit oil and flame to baptize the monster from his skin. A hundred lashes.
Pray until your knees bled and the priest beat the devil out of you.

Dumbledore looked surprised or at least as much as he showed. “Ah, forgive me. I meant no
offense, I had mistakenly presumed you were religious in the muggle Catholicism.”

Tom smiled thinly. Any longer, and he would bite his cheek to spill blood down his face.
“What tests are you mandating I partake in, Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore calmed, looking well versed in this particular path. “Ah, well, we have
arrangements to make, Tom.”

Tom Riddle smiled sharply, and wished the collar of thorns on his leg would bleed him dry.

“This is Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore pleasantly introduced to everyone in the Burrow, smiling
happily although Tom was succeeding in giving a rather vicious glare just over his shoulder.
“Due to unforeseen circumstances, he is our new guest for an undetermined amount of time. I
hope you help make him feel welcome, and yes Ginervra I am well aware of his identity. You
see, Tom Riddle here is fifteen years old, and through an anomaly he has appeared in our
time.”

The twins inhaled in surprise, glancing at each other in delight. Hermione looked alarmed
and very worried. Harry could understand that considering all of the drama they experienced
with a time turner.

“Tom here comes from when I taught Transfiguration,” Dumbledore chuckled heartily, “what
a wonderful time. Due to how our timeline appears to have remained in tact, I believe that
this has altered into an alternate existence where information will not destroy our own
existence. However, you see, Tom’s older self unfortunately went on to be named an
adversary of ours.”
Ginny lunged forward, it was only Tonks’ quick instincts which prevented the younger girl
from clawing her nails across Tom’s face. Tom took a half step back almost as fast, carefully
remaining out of reach.

“You monster!” Ginny screamed, face turning blotchy and red. “I hope you die!”

Ron gaped, Hermione looked stricken. Mrs. Weasley had yet to understand exactly the
situation.

“Yes well, that may be a similar interest of many.” Dumbledore admitted in thought. Remus
looked pained and ready to leave without acknowledging the elephant in the room.

“He’s Voldemort.” Harry found himself saying, cracking the stick of tension that had
developed the moment Dumbledore showed up. “”I mean, he isn’t yet, but he’s Voldemort
from before he turned Voldemort.”

“What?” Tom asked quietly, although now faced with a half dozen horrified faces. “Vol de
mort? Theft of death?”

Dumbledore hummed in thought, “curious. I had always beloved you intended to use the
homonym, flight of death sounds much fancier in French, don't you agree?”

Tom’s face quickly changed into carefully restrained desire for manslaughter.

“Harry.” Hermione blurted in stunned confusion, “I...that...you don’t mean that, truly?”

“Err, he is.” Harry uncomfortably confirmed, “I’d recognize that face anywhere.”

“Yeah! Like when you tried to bloody murder me!” Ginny screamed, thrashing in Tonks’
arms.

Tom huffed and soured, “You likely deserved it you gink.”

Ginny’s face twitched slightly at the unfamiliar word before she assumed correctly it was an
insult and returned to shrieking.

Dumbledore sighed tiredly, waving one wand with a mutter to silence the room.

“Now then.” He smiled politely, “I understand that Mr. Dolour was here earlier?”

“He quit.” Tonks informed curtly. “Bastard scared him off.”

Remus looked at Tom with a small downwards tilt to his mouth. Tom ignored him.

“Ah, I assumed such would happen.” Dumbledore nodded wisely. “Mr. Dolour was only an
investigative referral. It was unlikely he would accomplish much other than providing the
name of the professional we’d be best with. Fortunately, I thought ahead once I was informed
of the situation and already contacted Madam Dimitriu for her services.”

Remus choked quietly and looked alarmed. “Albus? You contacted Crina Dimitriu?”
Dumbledore blinked innocently, “why, of course. I thought a spectacular occasion would
warrant a spectacular woman.”

“Wonderful.” Tom drawled although it sounded aggressive, “another mediwitch?”

“Of course not.” Dumbledore chuckled fondly, “she’s a mindhealer and practitioner of high
regard. Merlin knows, she’s ever so fascinated with my stories of Fawkes!”

Tom grimaced and glanced away quickly.

“What about Hogwarts?” Mrs. Weasley interjected worriedly. “I know the holidays merely
just started but I can’t help but be concerned-.”

“Do not worry, Molly.” Dumbledore soothed, “If necessary, I will provide guardianship over
Tom-.”

“ No you wouldn’t dare!”

“-and provide the required mentoring he sorely needs.” Dumbledore assured calmly. “I
believe he will need no further monitoring after a gentle summer break. Although I do
believe a shopping venture is sorely required.”

The amount of rage on Tom’s face could not be contained. He looked ready to lunge, to
scream and try and murder Dumbledore with his hands alone. Harry took a step back, already
shaken by the unfathomable display of anger and hatred. The fireplace thrummed and the
kitchen area was even more cramped with the emergence of Moody once more.

“Ah, wonderful timing.” Albus beamed. “Off you go, Alastor will be escorting you to Diagon
for necessities.”

“Wait, now?” Mrs. Weasley squeaked in alarm, “oh dear! I have things to-.”

“Don’t worry about it, Molly.” Tonks beamed, finally releasing the seething Ginny to bump
into Remus’ side. “We’ll take the squirt.”

“I’ll come too.” Harry blurted suddenly, “er, I wanted to visit my vault.”

“But mate-.” Ron started, only for Moody to cut him off.

“Great! Let’s get going then.” Moody grumbled, using his cane to shove Harry away and
towards the fireplace, “nice and easy. Quicker we do this the less painful it is.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Tom gritted out in a low seething voice. He looked like he was
being escorted to trial, the only thing he was missing was the shackles.

They marched into the fire, barely having enough time to prepare.
Diagon was busy at noon. The summer events weren’t yet in full swing, the patio furniture
wasn’t outside and the fountains weren’t flowing. The traffic was less, but still active enough
that witnesses were around.

Tom looked around quickly, calm if not for the frantic gleam in his eyes. Windows were new,
stores were vacant or painted in bright foreign colours advertising things uncommon. The
cobblestone was clean, the sky didn’t glimmer with bomb repelling wards. It felt like a
dream.

“You er, okay?” Harry asked unsure. He knew deep in his gut the strange level of culture
shock. He could almost feel the nausea that was twisting the other teens stomach, leaving him
cramping with anxiety.

“...I’m fine.” Tom clipped out abruptly, harshly with how vibrant and joyous the day was.
The air smelled clean, a small smell of baking bread drifted down from further up the alley. It
was still a bit cold enough to wear a slight jacket. Tom had only the shirt Harry brought him,
hanging off him wrongly.

“First up, clothing.” Remus skirted the three towards the closest clothing store, not Madam
Malkins but something cheaper. They were on the Order’s budget after all, they had to make
due. Tonks and Moody stuck outside, leaning against the doorway imposingly. Tom huffed so
quietly Harry wasn’t sure anyone else noticed it.

The woman at the register looked alarmed by Tom’s state, or maybe by the clothing he was
wearing. His shoes weren’t even proper, instead they were charmed to be bigger so they
wouldn't fall off. In moments the poor woman had run off for the manager, looking
overwhelmed with the situation.

The manager emerged, and looked just as frazzled as the attendant before.

“Hello, we’re looking for a full wardrobe.” Remus smiled although it looked pained.
“Complete.”

“Oh,” the manager gaped over a second, swallowing quickly, “ah...house fire, dear?”

Tom’s yellowish waxy skin and slight bloodshot hue to his eye suggested anything other than
a house fire. He didn’t dignify her with an answer.

“Of course,” She nodded, shaken by his cold dismissal. “We have various sizes, arranged by
sizes and style of course. Do you know your size-.”

“Fatigue jacket. 34 long.” He clipped out sharply.

Harry, Remus, and the manager blinked at the foreign sizing. Tom exhaled through his nose,
shouldered past them, and began snatching things without care.

It an unnecessarily long time to find something that fit decently, didn’t cling so tightly it
emphasized the unnatural shape of his ribcage, and to argue that his boots should not be a
size larger than his actual foot size.
Harry felt thoroughly exhausted by the time Remus and Tom managed to get in a spitting
match over the necessity of multiple jackets. Merlin have mercy for however Tom Riddle did
his casual shopping.

The shirts they managed to settle on did fit better, although Remus informed that he was
looking around Sirius’ house for old outdated clothing that may fit better. Donations were
better than nothing, and nobody saw the point to give Tom a dozen different shirts to wear
when he arrived wearing clearly stolen garments.

They stormed out of the store with significantly less money than when they went in. It didn’t
seem like too much for Harry, but having lived with the Weasleys for a while he had grown
used to the standard monetary funds for purchases.

“Bookstore.” Moody grumbled, jerking his head to another secondhand store. Harry hadn’t
ever been inside, but Tom followed without another word. Harry noted that Tom and Tonks
really really did not seem to get along.

They had free reign once inside; Tom practically bolted into the forest of shelves and
cobwebs. Harry couldn’t even blame him.

Moody stayed near the front, but Remus and Tonks slipped to the sides to watch and follow
him down the rows.

Something about it felt wrong, it felt disgustingly so. Harry couldn’t place it, but it made him
feel like peeling off his skin. The blatant distrust, the lack of regard over Tom’s own ability to
shop.

Tom was in a new place, a new world with no wand or allies. Why was he under such a harsh
guard? Why was he being escorted around like a prisoner? Sure Voldemort had done horrible
things, but this was Tom Riddle, someone who apparently was randomly thrown into a pool
filled with sharks. It felt wrong to treat him like this. It felt wrong to make him believe he
was the enemy in another war.

Harry steadied his breath, then followed down the path of the book store Tom took.

It took a while to find him, and when he did Tom was pressing his forehead to one of the
shelves. Harry couldn’t place any of the titles of the books, some in a completely different
language while others were in runic forms. Harry didn’t understand, but something about
Tom’s posturing looked very vulnerable.

“...What books are you looking for?” Harry offered, breaking the quiet. The shelves creaked a
little, the lights buzzed with a huff of gas through piping.

Tom inhaled with a rattling noise, peeking one eye open with a glazed look. “Why are you
following me.”

It was deadpan and curt, and Harry felt very guilty.

He cleared his throat quietly, and stuck one of his hands out awkwardly. “I think we got off
on the wrong foot. My names Harry Potter, and uh, you’re Tom Riddle.”

Tom looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Most presume I go by Voldemort.”

Harry kept his hand outstretched. “Do you?”

A creak of the shelves, then Tom pulled away from where he leaned against the bookshelves,
eyes scanning over the titles and names of the books.

“They’re different.” Tom muttered in lieu of his name, nodding towards the spines facing
them. “It doesn’t seem like it, but I checked. If it was only English titles then it would be an
ordering choice, but other languages are different. Censored.”

Harry squinted at one book that looked like like doodles than letters. “Er...you read this?”

“Yes.” Tom bit out curtly, trailing a bruised finger along the books. “French. Latin. Passable
in Gaelic, I can read Coptic and Arabic. A few others. These books are all censored by the
Ministry. You had a purge.”

Moody appeared at the end of the row, although Tonks and Remus were still out of sight.

“Eh! Looking for texts already?” Moody asked with a satisfied snarl, drawing his wand in a
blatant threat.

“Your government is a worried one, isn’t it.” Tom muttered instead, tapping on something
that was clearly Latin. “What else is outlawed now. Livestock rearing? Knitting?”

“Brat.” Moody seethed, muttering something which flashed and suddenly Tom was buckling.
His left leg twitching visibly. Tom growled, and Harry found himself feeling sick once more.

“Pick your bloody books.” Moody spat, scarred remnants of his nose upturning, “we’re
leaving soon you Death Eater scum.”

Tom said nothing, his leg kept jerking. Once Moody passed around the corner, Harry reached
down to help Tom upright.

“I’m fine!” Tom hissed lowly, visibly limping as he forced himself further into the lines of
text, yanking what appeared to be random books off the shelf. “Leave me alone.”

“What were you looking for?” Harry asked awkwardly. Tom looked at him skeptic, on the
verge of ignoring him again.

For some reason, the boy found something in Harry’s honest question. His hand twitched
around the two books in his arms, but he spoke nonetheless.

“Sections on magical theory are removed.” Tom explained bluntly. “Light magic theory and
environmental remains. Mental and dark magical theory aren’t here anymore.”
Harry had never heard about mental magical theory. Dark magic was...dark magic. Things
that murdered people.

“If you open your mouth and say something based off biased opinion instead of fact, I am
sorely tempted to throw this book at your face.” Tom snapped out impatiently.

Harry blinked quickly, “err, sorry. I uh, I thought dark magic hurt people. I didn’t know that
there was magical theory behind it.”

Tom’s shoulders trembled with the force of his irritated breathing. “Lord forgive me. Why
can I not escape utter ridiculous government propaganda. What have I done to deserve this.”

“A lot,” Harry impulsively blurted. “You did say you killed a rabbit.”

Tom closed his eyes and spoke very slowly. “Harry Potter. I have a feeling, that you are going
to be a truly exemplar prick in my side.”

“Oh,” Harry very wisely said, “you really don’t want to know.”

Tom made a small noise of dismissal, grabbed another nearby book and stomped dramatically
to the front of the store. He was still limping.

Harry didn’t think the cursing was justified.

(Tom hadn’t done anything to deserve it.)

Maybe in a few years if someone asked Harry to look back on it, and to say when things
changed, he would say this.

There were a lot of moments that people remembered. Things or quirks about people you
always fondly talked about. A tone of their laugh, the way their eyes lit up. Maybe the sound
of their screaming, or the first time you heard them cry.

When Harry thought about Tom Riddle, he thought he’d think of the high pitched screaming;
of a basilisk chasing him with intent to feast. He thought he’d recall the bone deep fear, the
terror that made his teeth rattle.

But he didn’t think that anymore. Sometimes there were moments which stuck out more than
any emotion or sight. A quiet isolating event or something shared that impacts you like a
knife between the ribs. Something you could explain but when put in words it became
meaningless, like ash on your tongue.

Tom Riddle sat on the ground, dirtying his new clothes on the floor of a vault layered with
thick dust. Not a coin or bauble in sight. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing echoed over
everything he now owned; nothing.
Harry didn’t know how to explain it. When he thought of Tom Riddle, he thought of a thin
boy kneeling in a future where he had lost everything from the very start.

They returned back to the house, a bundle of bags and books that meant nothing. A sign of
knowledge that now promised nothing but a distraction from time. A way to avoid life itself.

The household was sharp and tense, the atmosphere had darkened and dampened into
something sour. Dinner was rapidly approaching, and Tom snuck away to the room assigned
as his like a fox hiding in a badgers den. He didn’t emerge, instead he stuck to the small stool
in the corner with his newly acquired book and ignored the world around him. His door was
lodged open, Harry was partially impressed Moody hadn’t simply removed the door from the
hinges. Nobody really followed him yet, not when the imposing mystery lady would arrive
later that evening to meet Tom. A highly qualified mindhealer for a highly troubled case.

“If you’re going to stare.” Tom murmured lowly from his place in the corner, small and
unassuming. “‘You best do it out of my line of sight. It’s distracting.”

Harry felt alarmed that his staring was that obvious, but then he felt that was one of the
politest things Tom had ever told him.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized just to break the atmosphere. “The book is interesting.”

Tom didn’t look up from the book. “This is Latin. You don’t know Latin.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, “maybe I do?”

Tom peered over the book at him with a bored expression. “ Matulae.”

Harry blinked at the foreign word, “er, pardon?”

“A pot.” Tom translated bluntly. “Or rather, a vessel for liquids. I’m sure you identify with it
quite well. Also translated as blockhead.”

Harry flushed and scratched the back of his neck. “Are you going to use Latin just to insult
me?”

“No, I also use it to explain how I take my tea.” Tom deadpanned sourly. “ Leave.”

Harry felt suitably embarrassed but also rather curious. It was an interesting sort of
conversation, or dialect that Tom seemed to use without pause. A struggle to understand
some articulations or reasons behind why he structured a sentence the way he did, but it was
fascinating. It reminded Harry of a few conversations with Hermione, interspersed with the
blatant humour of Ron when he was tired.

“You mentioned something about dark magic theory.” Harry felt like he was butchering the
explanation already despite having said nothing at all. “I’ve never heard about it.”
Tom looked ready to groan. He closed his eyes and lifted one hand from the book to press
against his temple. “If you’re asking me to educate you, you’ll ask proper or ask not at all.”

Harry felt properly scolded; almost embarrassed by the informal approach.

“Er, sorry.” Harry winced at his own apology. “...Could you ah...educate me?”

Tom stared at him bored. Harry felt the urge to throw on a ‘Sir?’ afterwards.

“You really are a blockhead.” Tom deadpanned with a sigh. “Light and Dark magic theory.
You understand that some styles of magic require different techniques to properly use. Basic
introductory spells mandate proper annunciation and wand movements while others require
intent and focus.”

Harry visibly brightened. “Like the Patronus charm! Yeah, you need to use a happy memory
for that but there isn’t really a wand movement.”

Tom looked surprised. He closed his book, setting it to the side to give Harry his full
attention. For some reason, it felt very important.

“...yes.” Tom admitted slowly, cautiously. His eyes flickered to the doorway for a second
before back at Harry. His head tilted ever so slightly, interested. “The patronus charm is a
difficult spell which is heavily inclined towards light magical theory. Do you know why?”

Harry’s mind blanked. “Because you...need to be happy?”

“A moron,” Tom mused contently, “you are an absolute moron. No you daft cobblestone.
Light magic theory applies internal emotional processes into external effect. The patronus
charm requires you to experience joy and then externalizes it.”

Harry was suddenly aware that his jaw was dropped.

“...what?” He asked, dazed.

Tom looked at him in disbelief. “Light magic theory and the tie to emotions. You must be
bloody- you surely know that. There was a lesson on it in my second year.”

“I have never heard that before in my entire life.” Harry admitted uncomfortably. “Light
magic has to do with your emotions?”

“No no,” Tom groaned quietly, more in disbelief over the situation, “light magic theory
externalizes your emotions. Dark magic theory conjures or creates emotions based on
environment. They’re inverse of one another- have you never heard of this?”

Harry shook his head, and Tom stared at the Latin book in dismay.

“...What are the regulations on dark magic artifacts?” Tom asked suddenly, shifting the topic
abruptly.
Harry’s mind scrambled. “Err...in my second year they were going to a few pureblood houses
to search for illegal artifacts?”

Tom inhaled heavily through his nose. “The names of the houses. The old houses or all
pureblood estates? The London ones or also the country homes?”

Harry scrambled, “I...I don’t know? Draco got- err- the Malfoy’s had their house searched. I
don’t know what they found but I know a lot of people were complaining about it.”

Tom stared at a wall, and didn’t look away. “Abraxas would have argued. The Wizengamot
would never have...he...what about the other families. The Blacks, Lestranges. Rowle.”

Harry struggled with the position he was in. How do you tell a young Dark Lord that all the
families he knew were either insane, imprisoned, or wanted by the law for various shady
dealings.

“Er...they’re in jail I think.” Harry tried to remember. “Lestrange is. Azkaban.”

“The ‘ell?” The low brass cockney emphasized just how stunned Tom was.

“Yeah.” Harry grimace, “there’s a lot of uh, illegal dark magic going around. It’s hurt a lot of
people and now there’s laws to prevent people from being hurt.”

Tom stared at Harry, his face impossible to read. There was something in his eyes, an
exhaustion that was so deep Harry couldn’t explain it if he tried.

“No, Potter.” Tom sighed, looking very very tired, “this is war propaganda.”

Before.

The bombs didn’t drop during the day. The Zeppelins and planes stayed away in the morning
hours, when the overcast sky and dull sun would light up the destruction from the night
before. The sunlight was security from a foreign threat, and the start of a domestic one.

The streets that weren’t as destroyed always filled quickly with the people that remained. The
people with money and vouchers, the tickets for food and clothing and the vanity that came
with it. They were the ones that the police would still come for, the areas where the muggings
and theft didn’t frequent. It was also the area where Tom was most likely to be caught, to be
thrown to the side for abandoning the cause. He was young, but he looked older.

Tom slid sideways, pressing against a few of the houses with walls still in tact. The air
smelled like ash, a wet mildew smell from the fires in the night that were put out with sewage
water. It was nearly harder to find freshwater than it was to fine safety.
Tom walked, ignoring the chill in the air. His coat was fine, it wouldn’t need to be patched for
a while still. His boots on the other hand were starting to fall apart, the stitching decayed
from the days they spent under compost. He’d need new ones soon or he’d risk something
much worse.

Tom glanced upwards with a frown. He couldn’t see it, but ever since the disaster with the
opposing front a ward had been placed up. A safety net and a call for surrender all at once.
Tom couldn’t ever see it, but he could feel it thrum under his skin. Under the bloodied bits of
his nails. Sure, the trace on him removed itself once he came of age but in the war-zone, all
magic could be detected. Since the murdering, the explosions of fire and Germans, all magic
was to be illegal in muggle populated zones. Cast a spell under the ward of war, and lose your
finger to the agony of ministry caliber magic.

Lose a finger, or lose both feet to rot. The choice was alluring, and he knew the spell to locate
the recently dead. The corpses that were still warm.

(He hadn’t done magic in a while, not even when the rattling bombs made him flinch. A
finger or his feet. A finger or his feet.)

Tom kept walking, scuffing his boots on the dusty plaster that rained down from a broken
building. Soon the churches would fall, their delicate stained glass would shower them with
hail. Tom wondered if the planes had targets in mind during the night, or if they let their
explosions rain like hellfire with no cause.

Tom kept walking, a small bit of cobblestone rattled. He heard a cough, a wet one filled with
phlegm or mucus. Tom was interested immediately.

It was hard to navigate the bombing zones, where a single step could mean your last. Bits of
exposed metal could pierce your leg and infect you. Rats could scurry free with the madness
that left them frothing. Fires sometimes never stopped burning in the core; shifted rubble
would send it ablaze. It was a dangerous life for the urchins of the world. Tom hadn’t the
chance to bathe in a while now.

He located the coughing, a man who had chosen to sleep in a random house. It was struck,
and Tom ignored how the likelihood of he being in the same situation increased every night.
The man had rubble on him, splintered wood piercing his skin and clothing. It too, was
fraying on the edges.

Tom walked in the remnants of the house, mindful of the broken glass on the floor. He would
have taken any bottles of drink the man had hoarded, his throat was parched.

The man wheezed, glancing at him tiredly. Blood on his face, internal bleeding then. He’d die
soon.

The man said something, gibberish to Tom’s starving mind. It took a second for Tom to think,
to associate sounds with words and meanings.

“Le français?” Tom asked, slurring a little on the language. The man wheezed again, voice
deep and wet.
“Parlez vous français?” The man gurgled out, accent in his mother-tongue unmistakable.

Tom breathed in the ash and plaster in the air and shifted his language to another he learned
out of necessity. “Yes, I do.”

The man laughed, amused beyond words. His skin was waxy and shiny, he looked old but not
so old grey could speckle his hair yet.

“How special am I,” The man wheezed out, hand sifting and curling in the sawdust at his
side, “to have company on my deathbed.”

Tom eyed him carefully, looking around the small shelter the man had spent the last night in.
“I like your boots.”

The man wiggled his feet, the relatively undamaged shoes scuffed the floor. “Bah, they’re
yours once I’m dead.”

Tom nodded, and settled himself on the floor. It wasn’t safe to be out during the day when the
crime started.

The man wheezed, and Tom started searching through his bag. It was easier to take inventory
during the sunlight, even when his bag was as deep as it was.

“What have you got?” The man asked him, voice wetter than before.

“Nothing for you.” Tom deadpanned, and ignored the man.

The sun moved overhead, the shadows stretched. Tom wondered if the man’s jacket would fit
him, maybe he should take it too.

“You not go to war, boy?” The man asked, slurring but still comprehensible.

“Too young.” Tom responded curtly.

“Ah,” The french man nodded understandingly, “street rat. Smart to stay out of sight.
Dangerous during the day.”

“Dangerous during the nights.” Tom countered lazily, not paying the man any thought.

“Dangerous always,” the man cackled, pausing to heave and retch. He had eaten something,
it made his vomit less watery and more grey than yellow. Tom would have to search to find
whatever food he had stashed. “Dangerous world.”

Tom ignored him and kept taking inventory. He’d need to find water soon; the canal was too
rancid to bother with but the stench may have kept people from the near houses.

“Dangerous dangerous world.” the Frenchman mumbled to himself. “Fled here, France too
dangerous even for a poor Frenchman like myself.”
 Maybe the man had water hidden around here somewhere, jars of it or an area he cleansed it
of worms.

“Terrible thing, war.”

“Good and evil always fight.” Tom retorted lazily, ready to recite bible passages that had
been shoved down his throat. He could recite them easily, even before the war. Spoken over
and over so many times his throat had paper-cuts and his lips were red like the flesh of an
apple.

“No!” The man laughed as if Tom’s words were particularly funny. “I have seen monsters,
but they wear many faces, boy. No such thing as good and evil in this world, no such thing.”

Tom tilted his head slightly, the mad ramblings were of a curious sort. “What then? What of
the front and the soldiers in battle? Who are we fighting?”

The Frenchman's eyes were glazed, his breathing irregular and strained. “Not evil, and we are
not good. Only power for men, and we fight for it because we are strong enough for it.”

Tom hummed and watched as the man started to shiver, whispering to himself over and over.
“Only power...power and those too weak...weak to seek it.”

Tom ignored him, and gave him the decency of privacy when he died. Tom removed the
jacket and his boots as the death rattles still shook his body; before his muscles stiffened and
he became as hard as cobblestone.

Tom huffed as he noticed the jacket wasn’t the right size, it would only get in the way. He
draped it over the man’s face, another casualty that people would forget. The rats would feast
on him now, and maybe in the eyes of starvation someone would feast on the rats.

Tom took his boots; he was right, they were his size.

Chapter End Notes

Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!

 Angels are bright still, although the brightest fell.
Chapter Summary

Where one prison is exchanged for another.

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay, exams got to me and then winter sunk into my skull a little too
cruelly. Here we go, it's a bit shorter but this chapter was late anyways.
Happy Holidays everyone, and a good New Year

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The walls of 12 Grimmauld place were bleak, old peeling wallpaper and a faint musk of
mildew.

The house had been recently fixed, scrubbed and cleaned to the best of their ability. Tom
could tell, from the faint smell of cleaner in the air and the way the floor slipped under his
socks. If he traced his fingers on the walls, he knew he’d feel where the paper started to flake
from amateur brushing.

Tom sat in his room, a glorified prison cell, and had his eyes closed. The clothes given to him
fit, everything else was supplied with a thinly held barb for the concept of freedom. It was
stabbing close to the life Tom had forcibly left behind him. Out of one prison cell into
another. He wondered when boredom would haunt him. He wondered when he’d need to start
hiding tins of spam under his mattress.

“So,” Sirius spoke, exhaling heavily through his nose. He was sitting backwards on a chair,
one hand propping his chin up. “You’re looking good for a monster.”

Tom’s face twitched, he didn’t dignify the man with a formed expression.

The sheets on the bed were soft, luxury compared to what he was used to. His wand was still
absent, as were his boots. He wasn’t overly attached to them anyways.

His books were stacked on the nearby table, a converted sewing table that had been combed
through for needles or scissors. Nothing Tom could ever use as a weapon, god forbid Tom be
let loose with a needle.

His thigh stung under the bite of metal. His palms itched from the unfamiliar soap that his
body was not used to. It didn’t burn like lye, it was softer and dainty.
“How much longer are you going to lock me up?” Tom asked, a low flat murmur that barely
resounded in the room.

Sirius watched and felt a small anxious cough disguised as a laugh. “So, you speak.”

Tom opened his eyes very slowly. Sirius’ face twitched into something like a grin.

“Well, what do you know.” Sirius huffed out, “your eyes aren’t all snake face.”

Tom’s face remained blank. He distantly considered spitting some meaningless words out in
parseltongue but the effort was beyond him.

Sirius shifted on the chair, it scraped slightly.

“Alright kid.” Sirius started with a small cough, “so err...Albus is out getting some medical
witch I think. I was here to make sure you didn’t…”

Tom cracked his knuckle quietly. “What. Go on a rampage? Attack you with a sugar spoon?”

Sirius grimaced slightly. “Merlin, you’re not allowed in the kitchen. Or anywhere with
knives. Bollocks, I need to check the loo…”

Tom snorted and rolled his eyes with enough force his head shifted slightly. “Are you going
to let me out or not.”

Sirius stood, the chair scraped. He walked towards the door- showing his back to Tom. Tom
made no movement, and with a low spell the lock clicked open.

“Alright, have at it.” Sirius beckoned with a small scoff of frustration. Tom stood, his trousers
brushing over his blankets with a soft noise. His thigh stung.

“Are you going to escort me around?” Tom asked tonelessly, walking past Sirius without
looking back. “Escort me like a prison guard?”

“Pretty wordy, aren’t you?” Sirius retorted.

Tom said nothing more. He investigated the hallway curiously, opening the unlocked doors to
peer in with blank expressions. He didn’t cringe at the dusty closets filled with cobwebs; at
the moth eaten sheets and old rotten brooms. Tom had a remarkably accepting expression
when faced with an infestation of roaches under one floorboard.

He kept walking, investigating until he knew the rooms on the same floor. With how isolated
Tom was from the rest of the building, the only surprise he encountered was a large spoiled
Hippogriff squawking at him the moment he walked in.

Tom uttered one of those curses, the low whimsical one that made Sirius gawk and cackle at
the unexpected accent. Buckbeak wasn’t amused, instead Tom for a small moment faced a
very real probability of being maimed.
“ Ssshite!” Tom Riddle spat out, ducking low and stumbling out of the room. The twang was
still audible, distorting on what may have been a stutter or some sort of speech impediment.
Buckbeak roared at him, feathers flaring in anger. Tom shrieked back nearly as loud: “
Gormless cack!”

Sirius wheezed, and forgot how to breathe.

Tom’s face was ugly, the bright flush on his cheekbones only highlighted the shadows under
his eyes.

“Watch out,” Sirius smirked, wide eyed and all teeth, “I’ve got a Hippogriff.”

Tom’s breathes were heaving, his grin in response was nothing but feral teeth.

“Is it safe to have him out in public?” Hermione whispered, watching Tom over the top of
her book.

“Er…” Ron trailed off, glancing up from his chess set he was putting up a valiant battle
against. “I...don’t think so?”

“Padfoot is here.” Harry pointed out quietly, trying not to stare too much. “He wouldn’t put
us in any harm.”

“Are you…. sure?” Hermione whispered back worriedly.

“You all are aware,” Tom Riddle spoke from across the room, staring at the book in his long
bruised fingers, “That you whisper very loudly. And I have very little patience left today.”

“He’s a bit grouchy.” Sirius added in, “he met Buckbeak earlier.”

“That hellbeast,” Tom snarled out quietly, voice mumbled slightly from behind his book.
“Should be shot.”

“Testy.” Sirius rolled his eyes, pulling out his wand to play mindlessly with sparks he
conjured.

“Is that…” Hermione’s voice rose in pitch to a near squeak, “...safe? Couldn’t he steal your
wand?”

“Eh?” Sirius blinked in surprise. “ Him? I bloody hope not.”

Tom made a noise that couldn’t have been disguised; indignant sputtering was always
understandable.

“Padfoot would stop anything.” Ron grunted, shifting one protesting chest piece. “Or just bite
him. Like that one time.”
“I said I was sorry.” Sirius defended with a playful huff. “But no, I doubt we’re compatible.”

“Compatible?” Hermione perked up curiously, “like how a wand chooses a wizard?”

Tom lowered his book with a look of outright disgust. “How are you all so daft you dismiss
the most basic information? Oh, my mistake, you’re country has simply burned and
destroyed historical information because you’re being run by incompetent oafs.”

“Wow,” Sirius sighed with a small twitch of his cheek, “I wish you had said that with your
adorable little accent.”

Tom’s face was impressively, composed.

“Wands do not choose the wizard,” Tom snarled out viciously, personally offended by the
slights and misinformation shared in the room. “Our magical cores are shaped through our
experiences and are attuned to us personally. You can’t just use someone else's wand.”

“What.” Ron blinked with wide eyes, mouth dropping into a small gape. “Why the hell not?
I’ve done it all the time.”

Tom looked ready to storm off.

“You blow up.” Sirius interjected with a slightly disappointed sigh. “It’s uh...a bit more
obvious with...certain magic types. If...say, Malfoy were to use your mum’s wand, I reckon
the ferret would lose his entire damn arm.”

Ron tried to resist smiling, he failed.

“But if you used your brothers wand, you likely wouldn’t have anything happen. It depends
on blood relation a fair bit, and the type of magic you’ve used more.”

“I doubt any of your wands would react appropriately to me.” Tom sniped out sourly, flipping
a page in his book. “And not due to your irritating misconceptions over light and dark magic,
my magical core and channeling is superior to any of your wand’s capabilities.”

Ron soured and jerked his chin out. “Oi! Prove it then you shite!”

Tom snapped his book shut. Sirius looked ready to intervene.

“Do you think me a fool?” Tom spat back sourly, eyes burning with the level of his
frustrations. “You think i am unaware of my positioning? I have nothing to prove to you, you
blood traitor.”

Sirius tilted his head with a small frown. “No, actually...there’s some weight to it. Here.”

Then, much to Harry’s horror, Sirius flipped his wand around and offered it to Tom handle
first.

The room chilled, Hermione’s breathing stopped. Tom stilled.

“...you’re not being cute, Black.” Tom spoke lowly.

“I know.” Sirius responded sharply. “I want to test this. Shoot sparks, and if you do anything
else, I’ll tear out your throat and be done with you.”

Tom inhaled slowly through his nose. He reached out, and took Sirius’ wand in his left hand.

He held it daintily, the wand seeming small in his loose grip. Pale skin, cautious eyes.

“Periculum.” Tom spoke smoothly, voice shifting into something more fluid as clearly Latin-
and with a muffled Bang! Red sparks shot from the end of the wand.

Almost instantaneously, Tom jerked his head back and gave a low hiss of pain. Strained and
wheezed, hitched breath from between locked jaws.

Sirius jumped slightly the moment his wand clattered to the ground, bouncing slightly on the
floor boards.

Tom didn’t look at his hand, he stared forward at the wall. His nostrils flared ever so slightly,
in pace with the controlled heavy breathing.

His left hand flexed, slowly uncoiling to slide as subtly as he could towards his book again.
Visible, even across the room, his hand smoked dark grey tendrils. Thick blisters were
bubbling, a small odor of charred meat.

“That’s what happens when you have incompatible magic.” Sirius chirped out, plucking his
wand from the floor. Tom’s face didn’t shift. A thin trail of blood was twisting down his
wrist, hiding under his sleeve.

For the first time, Hermione had nothing to say.

The front door opened with a soft creak and the unmistakable sound of Albus Dumbledore.
Following after, the sharp clicking of heels on wooden flooring.

Tom Riddle hoped dearly, that there was another individual; he feared the day Albus
Dumbledore discovered stilettos.

Voices became louder, and from the stairwell two people emerged.

“Headmaster!” Harry grinned breathlessly, Ron looking up with a grunt. Hermione smiled
weakly, relieved that a symbol of stability had returned somewhat.

“Oh,” Sirius spoke, the word falling out of his mouth like a deer stumbling over ice. “ Oh
no.”

Tom quietly scanned his eyes over the woman trailing behind the headmaster. She couldn’t
have been too old; she has the marks of age no amount of potions or skin treatments could
ever remove. Thin and unassuming, but physical stature meant little in the world of magic.

“Ah,” Albus chuckled softly, “I see you recognize our esteemed guest.”

Sirius backpedaled, wordlessly floundering before he gave a small meep.

Well, that was quite interesting.

“Sirius Black,” the woman spoke, a slight accent on her words although her English was
flawless. Something rounded and articulated differently- Belgian? Romanian perhaps?

Sirius crumpled in on himself, the woman didn’t smile.

“Escaped convict, detained in Azkaban for a marvelous amount of time. I presume you spent
such time in hiding,” she rattled off with a small quirk in her tone. “Impressive, perhaps I
should invite you for dinner?”

Harry gaped, and Sirius paled.

“Oh, don’t tease the boy too much.” Albus chuckled lowly, “I’m afraid he may run away
from you.”

“Or chew off his leg in desperation to escape.” The woman responded smoothly and calmly.
“I assume I require no introductions, however for the sake of dramatics I may as well. I’m
Crina Dimitriu, dragged away from my work due to Albus’ pleading.”

Tom did not like this woman, by the way Sirius Black ( an escaped convict? ) flinched away
from her.

“I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Mr. Black,” Crina continued calmly. “Word spreads at my
work. Unfortunately, I wasn’t bribed, nor paid to attend to your madness.”

Crina Dimitriu turned around, she was wearing tall heels under her rather unremarkable
clothing; trousers and a conservative robe.

“Mr. Riddle, I presume.” She spoke. Eyes sharp but ordinary. On further glance, her facial
shape led him to hesitantly associate her with Romanian ancestry. “We have an appointment.”

The room vacated- Sirius Black all too eager to escape. Quickly, Ron, Hermione, and Harry
also left under Albus Dumbledore’s calm beckons. The living room door slid closed,
separating the fairly large room from the rest of the house.

“Well, that was exhausting.” Crina sighed, using her hand to wipe the dust off one of the
chairs. It puffed in the air, wafting around softly.

Tom watched her with a small frown. His hand stung, his thigh throbbed.
The door slid open, Albus popping his head in once again. “Ah, the wine you requested.”

Crina crossed one leg over her knee, “Thank you, Albus dear. I certainly hope it is from the
vineyard you specified. I would have fetched it myself if not for your so timely invitation.
How unfortunate you interrupted me, an old habit of yours I believe.”

Albus shifted ever so slightly uncomfortable, levitating the bottle across the room. Tom
noticed how it was faintly blue, a deep azure that wasn’t anything he recognized. Perhaps
glass companies changed with the time period as well. “Ah, I apologize, Crina dear. I assure
you I will make it worth your time.”

Crina’s eyes focused on Tom, even as she retrieved the bottle from the air and began to trace
her fingernails along the cork stopper. “I doubt you have anything to provide me, Albus, that
will be worth my time. The only worthwhile opportunity is currently trying to determine why
I’m here. Tom Riddle, I believe. And I rarely forget names.”

Tom’s face twitched ever so slightly at the sudden attentive eyes on his face.

“How unfortunate,” Tom began, wetting his lips, “that I care so little for yours.”

She tilted her head ever so slightly, not seeming surprised or offended with his barb. “How
wonderful to hear.” She responded politely, “I do hate wasting time talking about hobbies of
no interest. Since you’ve helpfully defined our dynamic already, you’ve determined our topic
of approach. It seems there’s a discussion to be had, Mr. Riddle.”

Tom’s eyes widened slightly, Albus exhaled with a wheeze.

“Ah, yes.” Albus Dumbledore shifted slightly, “Crina, you may discuss-.”

“Although Mr. Riddle is under the age of adulthood, you are not his guardian or legal
representative.” Crina coolly interjected, “as such, he is not your responsibility nor is he your
charge. Our discussions are confidential, Albus dear. They’re also in no way able to be
influenced by yourself, or I may as well return home to work on my book.”

Albus Dumbledore’s jaw snapped shut, he looked suitably chastised.

“Ah, my mistake.” He began, pausing a small moment. “Forgive me. Shout if ah...my
presence is needed.”

Albus ducked out of the door and closed it quietly. Crina gave a small sigh, pulling out a thin
wand to tap against the wine bottle. It magically opened, the cork unraveling. From the bag
she brought with her, she pulled out a crystal stemmed glass. Tom watched in hidden
confusion as she poured herself a modest glass of the dark red liquid.

“As I briefly stated,” she began calmly, “your unique status as nonexistent equates to my….
forgetful oversight of laws concerning liability to your guardian. Your actions in no way
affect others, and I operate under no obligation to disclose information regardless of content
or intent. You are neither of majority, or minority. You do not exist, and I hardly see the need
to mention this failure to Albus.”
She finally glanced up, pulling another crystal glass from her bag. “Wine? You are, after all,
not an age.”

Tom gave the briefest of nods, so thoroughly overwhelmed he couldn’t think of a way to
counter the strange persona of this woman.

“Excellent.” She hummed, flicking her wand with the barest whispers of spells. “Funny, isn’t
it? I know two offensive spells and another dozen for opening and sealing bottles of wine
depending on content.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance, “chardonnay requires a...less
forceful touch.”

She flicked her wand and spoke, sending the crystal glass levitating to Tom’s side. He
plucked it with his right hand, holding it daintily. Crina hadn’t a sip yet, and he was no fool to
drink before she had.

“Tell me, Mr. Riddle, where am I from?” Crina asked flatly.

Tom swirled the glass slightly. “Romania.”

She nodded without any sign of disapproval. “Romanian magical education is divided into
specialized fields determined on profession. In my youth, I decided to investigate mind
magics more thoroughly.”

Tom stiffened ever so slightly. “Legilimency is a difficult art.”

Crina smiled, a thin upwards quirk of her lip that was hidden a second later by her sip of
wine. “That’s true.” she spoke after she swallowed, lips stained red. “I do not claim mastery
over Legilimency. I find more natural resonance with Occlumency. In fact, the world
certification board agrees with my claim that I am an expert in the field.”

Tom took a sip of his own wine. It was smooth, then a harsh snap of sour on his tongue. It
burned through his nose in the taste of alcohol.

“I have mastery over astral projection, and consensual possession and shared sensory
detection.” Crina continued calmly, “although on average I open more wine bottles than I do
open other’s senses.”

Tom took another sip calmly.

“I have published several books exploring the mental abilities of those afflicted with various
curses. I’ve also been called in to assist with cognitive examinations for a few dark cognitive
spells, such as broken personalities. A few studies were published, if you care for such
meaningless information.”

Tom tried to ignore the small sliver that pierced him at that. “Why do you assume it would be
meaningless information if you spent so much time on it?”

Crina leaned back to make herself more comfortable on her chair. “Meaningless, because it
does not apply to you, Mr. Riddle. I’m one of the most accomplished mental medi witches in
the world, and I do hate having my time wasted. Not everyone can be bribed with alcohol.”
Tom’s face twitched ever so slightly. “You appear far too young to be so accomplished in
such a short time.”

Crina didn’t so much as blink. “My job is very stressful. I take more relaxing baths than
advised for my own sanity.”

“You sit in bubbles and forget the world?” Tom asked coldly.

“Of course not.” Crina took a sip from her wine glass. “I splurge with lavender and volcanic
salts. Do give me some credit, Mr. Riddle. Not all of us crawled our way out of a worm
infested trench.”

Tom’s hand curled around the glass in his clutches. The other flexed until blisters ruptured.

“Oh dear,” Crina noted, not seeming very disturbed by the sight of dried blood and puss.
“That looks like incompatible magic damage. I wonder why you would ever attempt
something so self injurious.”

A pause, then Crina shook her head. “I apologize, that was rhetorical. A patient of mine
refuses to talk so I do enough for both of us.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you ceased talking all together.”’ Tom smiled, bitingly sharp.

“Because my words are threatening.” Crina translated. “Because you enjoy the false sense of
fear you inspire in others. Unfortunately, I’ve been exposed to countless horrors and you do
not impress me as you hope to.”

Tom ignored the sharp bite and how his anger spiked for a small moment. “Do you ever grow
tired of rambling?”

“Do you ever grow tired of attempting to inspire fear in others despite no physical proof of
your abilities?” Crina countered with almost a flair of something playful. “Perhaps you
should wring a birds neck for me. Stab a kitten to show me your true psychopathic nature,
Mr. Riddle.”

Tom felt conflicted. He could obey the seething voice in his mind which urged him to lash
out and confirm he was something to be feared. On the other hand, by doing such things it
would confirm that everything she had said was valid and as such, applicable to him. Tom
Riddle had survived so long by being the most intelligent creature in the room. He thrived off
knowing he had an advantage, and any time he was without was surely chaos.

Tom Riddle bit his tongue, and resisted rising to the anger in his blood. Crina smiled, bowing
her head in the most subtle display of admiration yet.

“Impressive.” She murmured calmly, “I was nearly certain you’d snap at that one.”

Tom’s hand twitched ever so slightly, and he didn’t respond.

“I think that hand of yours is quite impressive.” Crina mentioned, taking a small sip. Her
glass was running low on wine, but she seemed in no way hampered by it. “The fact you
willingly used someones wand while knowing the possible ramifications of it. You measured
your risks and reward and ignored the ramifications of pain or injury. You haven’t hesitated
once, and your glass hasn’t tipped despite your agitation. Ambidextrous?”

Tom’s mouth twitched slightly. “A dominant left hand is a sign of the devil's’ child.”

“There are more signs to you than having a left hand dominant.” Crina pointed out.

Tom gave a small nod of his head in return.

“How desperate you must feel.” Crina continued quietly, trailing off with her fingers tapping
against crystal. “To willingly maim yourself with that. Based on your own magical signature
and the state of the room when I entered, you used Mr. Blacks?”

Tom said nothing, and that itself gave him away.

“How curious,” Crina mused with a first spark of pure curiosity in her eyes. “Your core and
signature must be very divergent to react so...hostile, over someone different than you. You
must be incredibly protective over your wand then, who has it?”

Tom took a sip of his drink and tasted it quietly. He swallowed, and swallowed his pride.
“Albus Dumbledore.”

“I’ll speak with him to have it returned.” Crina responded almost instantly. “Tell me, do you
make yourself hurt?”

Tom didn’t respond and Crina huffed quietly.

“Forgive me,” she apologized tensely. “I forgot myself. At times it is difficult speaking with
youth due to the...censorship over such...topics. May I diverge the topic into more familiar
territory?”

Tom eyed her carefully. “You propose this how?”

Crina set her glass on the floor and reached into her bag again. She retrieved a small paper
box, along with something plastic and unfamiliar to him. She opened the carton, and Tom
would never forget the paper poison that soothed him when the ground rattled.

“This entire carton is yours.” She passed it over politely. “I assume you can figure the lighter.
It is muggle in origin, but simple to operate. Nicotine withdrawal is cruel given your
situation, and an oversight of the moronic collection operating as your warden.”

Tom fumbled out one of the sleek paper rolls. The small stains on his fingers still remained, it
had been a while since he had found a package in the broken ruins of the bomb sites.

The lighter had a button, he clicked it and burned his fingers with a familiar kiss of warmth.

“You have your smokes,” She beckoned calmly, “I have my wine. I want you to talk to me,
Mr. Riddle. You’re more fascinating than I presumed, and we all know you're not adapting as
well as you pretend. Granted, you are an excellent actor.”
Tom inhaled, choking himself silent on the fumes he embraced. Asbestos under his skin, a
cooling buzz to calm the hive of wasps that injected venom in his blood. The opportunities
this woman provided gave him an out, with a sacrifice of his pride and security.

“Are you working for Dumbledore?” Tom asked, muffled with smog.

“No,” she responded with a smile, “Dumbledore is one of my patients. Or rather...he cross
examines information of mine to assure it is credible. Dumbledore works for me.”

Oh, that was something different.

“Perhaps we should start this conversation differently, but productively.” She offered with
neutral ground. “What was the last spell you performed?”

Tom told her, rolling Latin over his tongue like it was the wine she drank.

She nodded without any sign of displeasure. “The corpse locating curse. What were you
searching corpses for?”

“Clothing.” Tom said briefly without hesitation. “My shirt was ruined, I was scavenging the
dead for a shirt not rotting.”

“Mm.” Crina said. “You must hate the clothes stores.”

Tom almost laughed. “Viscerally.”

Crina tipped her now empty glass. “Tom Riddle, I believe we are going to have wonderful
conversations.”

“You’re walking down a road, and you see a wounded bird.” Crina paused, tilting her head
ever so slightly. The lines by the corner of her eyes were more noticeable now. “Or...rather,
you see a wounded man. Perhaps that would be more understandable? You see a wounded
man, laying sheltered near a building. What is your first thought, Tom?”

There was the urge to lie, to say the proper answer the one she expected. There was the urge
to say the truthful thing, the only option that may leave her in shock and revolted by his
nature.

“It’s...a man.” Tom began, the word feeling odd and numb as he spoke the truth in the first
time in his memory. “An injured man. I don’t care.”

Crina smiled thinly, the unique expression he finally could place after an hour of her time. It
wasn’t judging or sharp. It wasn’t approval or disappointment either, it was her...expression
of equality. Of recognizing they both were individuals that had topics to discuss.

“My first thought is recognition that it is injured as well.” She confirmed softly. “And yet, I
want to use the opportunity to murder it. I want to crush its bones. There is a primal rejection
of weakness which nobody ever discusses. The culling of the weakened sprouts, the removal
of weeds. It is as common and as natural as the desire to protect and nurture. Of course, I
wouldn’t crush it, but my first thought is to do so.”

Crina shifted her body forward ever so slightly. “I am perfectly sane and I experience such
thoughts. Why do you believe yourself to be such a monster?”

Tom’s mouth felt slimy and cold. “I am a monster.”

Crina for the first time, frowned.

“Is that the label you’ve associated with yourself now? A monster?” She seemed
disappointed, or upset by something Tom couldn’t place. “In the world, we do not have true
monsters. We have concepts and unexplained phenomena which we accredit to monsters. A
murderer does not make you a monster, Tom Riddle.”

Tom flinched. He felt hollow, like something had clawed his innards like a pumpkin on
Halloween. “You have no idea of what I’ve done, and what I will do.”

Crina made a small noise, a little airy sigh. “How lazy, to discredit your future and whatever
faith you have to something as minor as coincidence.”

“Leave my faith out of this.”

“I imagine,” she bit out sharply, cutting deep into him like bared wire on his thigh. “That
you’ve done all you can in your life to convince others that you are just as demonic as you
wish you were. Perhaps then, you imagine, there is a reason for why everyone has abandoned
you.”

“There is a medical witch coming,” Crina spoke lazily, finally relaxed enough after having
made some sort of progress into Tom’s psyche. “She’s waiting outside. She’ll run a complete
medical check and background. There’s countless vaccinations you’re out of date on.”

The buzz of nicotine was the only thing soothing him to where he wouldn’t lash out. “I
presumed as much.”

“Once again, you don’t exist in the world of documentation.” Crina informed him calmly, “all
medical notes are linked to my own diagnostics reports and documentation. I will be aware of
all findings, but of course, nobody else will have legal availability to view such findings.”

“I doubt you’d inform Dumbledore of it even if I were dying.” Tom spoke dryly, bitterly. He
inhaled a thick drag that made his vision swim.

“You’re right.” Crina smiled behind a small twist of her lips. “I wouldn’t. He gives me a
headache and only causes more paperwork. Would you prefer I remain for the duration of
your examination, or simply Owl you obnoxiously at a later time with all findings we need to
address?”
“Owl me.” Tom responded snappish. “Better yet, purchase me an owl.”

“I’d be concerned you’d kill it out of spite.” Crina hummed.

“Aren’t psychologists not supposed to form attachments to their patients?”

Crina smiled thinly, the small expressions of her approval. “You’re correct. I only accept
specific clients with qualities I find interesting. I cannot help but find myself attached to
them. I have only known you for a short time, but already I am quite attached to you. Does
that made me a fool, Tom?”

He scoffed loudly. “Yes. You’re always a fool for becoming fond of someone.”

Crina smiled, the lines on the edges of her eyes crinkled. “I said I had formed an attachment.
Why does the idea of attachment equate to fondness? Is that what you believe? That to be
enthralled with the mind of another, it will ultimately result in friendship or love or family?”

Tom’s teeth bared slightly. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t.” She agreed. “I doubt you’ve ever allowed yourself to form attachments in your
entire life. Or at least, not to those of the living.”

Tom didn’t flinch, but by the small smirk on Crina’s face, she knew she won that debate
anyways.

“I’ll be in touch.” Crina smiled, packing up her wine glasses and the half empty bottle. She
left him with the half empty packet of cigarettes and the muggle lighter.

“Try not to hurt anyone else.” Crina spoke in a quiet drawl, “hurting yourself is within my
paycheck. I don’t apply to others.”

She walked past him, her heels clicked. The moment the door closed, Tom grabbed the
nearest pillow and threw it across the room with a shriek.

He grabbed the half burned cigarette, lighting it desperately to inhale so forcefully the filter
burned and burned his fingertips. He was choking out smoke when the door opened and a
plump witch stumbled in.

She took one glance at the smoke before her eyes got wide in alarm. She hurriedly closed the
door, taking out her wand with fumbling fingers.

“Oh dear is that Dragonpox?” She hurried out, eyes wide on the smoke.

“No.” Tom ground out, flipping the burned end to put out the ash on the couch. It sizzled
satisfyingly. “It’s muggle.”

“Oh.” The witch breathed in confusion, but thankfully didn’t address it any further. “Well,
we’re here for a full examination for documentation Mr. Riddle! Can I ask some basic health
questions before we begin the examination?”’
Tom couldn’t argue anyways, so he let it go.

“Have you ever stayed in a hospital before?” She asked chipper. Tom’s eye almost twitched.

“Muggle disease.” He ground his teeth. “Scarlet fever.”

She blinked in alarm and scribbled it down, “Do you have any ongoing medical conditions
such as asthma?”

Tom very pointedly did not look at the cigarettes still by his side.

The questions continued, going on and on for various issues Tom couldn’t answer, or were
simple. The date of his last dental visit (which Tom had never seen), any injury as an infant
was beyond his knowledge. The entire section regarding family history was completely
foreign to him.

It was irritating and demeaning, especially with the apparently latent infection of a few
diseases he recognized in name; cholera, giardia. The mediwizard looked particularly ill
when she managed to pull a half dozen insects out from irritable scabies.

“Right.” She squeaked, looking slightly green. “You’re 5 foot and 7 inches, which is 170
centimeters. A bit...oh, a bit light, dearie. You’re 101 pounds, or 45.8 kilograms. That’s a
body mass index of 15.9, which is a bit light for your age-.”

Tom rolled his eyes and casually ignored the alarmed ramblings of the woman. He only tuned
back in when she was displaying obvious fretting over various nutrient deficiencies.

Oh it was going to be delightful once she forced him to strip.

Eventually the time came, and she had a small worried flush to her skin. By the time he was
forced to take off his shirt, she had already locked on to a few things that stood out wrong.
The hollows of his collarbones, the way his ribs protruded. The scar tissue of amateur potions
he hadn’t managed to remedy with commercial potions. Small cuts were still scabbed, small
marks were still bleeding.

“Oh.” She whispered in horror, her squeamish face twisting even further. “Sweet Merlin.”

Ah, she’d found his back then.

She didn’t touch, and he took savage glee in the way her eyes lingered far too long on the
crude handmade needle tattoo on his forearm, warding him away from minor illnesses and
sickness; the lashes and bleeding wounds, or the large purple bruises symmetrical on his
waist.

“Dreamless sleep potions as well.” Tom spoke in a tone almost purring, chipper in how the
mediwitch likely would be taking a vacation day tomorrow, “at least a month’s worth.”

“Okay.” She hoarsely accepted, blinking quickly before she started scribbling rapidly.
Tom hadn’t realized what a pathetic world he lived in, with pathetic people. He was already
missing in a strange sick way the intelligent company of Crina Dimitriu

He was foolish to stay in the public areas of the room, but he couldn’t remain in the stuffy
shroud of dust he was forced to endure his psychiatric session in.

Already, the word seemed sick and disgusting on his tongue. Mental sickness, the names for
madness that sent men from the trenches to their deaths. He had seen them firsthand, the men
screaming and clutching their skulls at demons nobody could see. Tom thought them pathetic,
but something about Crina made everything different. Someone intelligent wouldn’t waste
their time on meaningless buffoons, those without hope. Someone like her wouldn’t waste a
life goal on discussing and interrogating those already consumed by madness.

But he couldn’t imagine him needing something like mind healing. He didn’t need a
straitjacket, the electricity and cutting his brain in half he had heard the Germans were trying
out. To be different would be his death, to be different would call for holy water.

He shivered at the thought, so he fled to the drawing room with most sunlight and curled in a
chair as small and unassuming as possible. His diary was in his lap, unopened but a
comforting weight on his lap. The cracked cover was dirtied in one corner, he’d have to find
oil somewhere to soften it and fix it the best he could.

The door opened. The youngest girl of the redheads came in with the older girl, Hermione he
remembered.

The younger froze, then glared at him with a silent snarl.

“Oh great.” The younger girl snarled out viciously, hands twisting as if ready to draw a
wand. Tom’s left hand, healed of the burns, flared in phantom pain.

“I’m not sitting in a room with a monster!” The younger girl screamed furiously.

Hermione tried to shush her, or restrain her in some way. Tom let his eyes slide away, gazing
at the paintings on the walls instead. He remembered them foggily, from the descriptions
Orion gave him.

“Get that bloody book away from me!” The girl screamed, pointing at the diary in Tom’s lap.
Tom felt a headache flare.

“Then get me something good to read!” He snapped back irritated. The leather was smooth
and soft in his grip, something to help ground himself.

Hermione glared at him and gave a small scoff. “I only have Shakespeare and I doubt you’d
have enough patience to enjoy classic literature.”

Tom had a fairly stressful day. He had endured countless challenges, but enduring the
stupidity of aggressors was a tad too much. Tom inhaled shakily and exhaled smoothly. He
calmed with a synthetic cold, a small smirk that curled on the edges viciously.

The younger girl, Ginny, paled and ducked out of the room instantly. Hermione froze, almost
unable to believe what she had seen.

“I wouldn’t appreciate classics.” Tom sniped out short and coldly. The words seemed to hang
there, and Tom’s smirk was a little bit more vicious. He scanned through his memory, the
nights at the orphanage of reading books by lantern light because of boredom.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” Tom startled, words rolling gently as he
remembered the lines of playwright on old stained paper. “Creeps in this petty pace from day
to day, to the last syllable of recorded time.”

Hermione stared at him, the horror from before was starting to bubble, transfiguring itself
into something curious and restrained. “...Macbeth?” She guessed quietly.

Tom’s grin was as sharp as before. “I find the tragedies more appealing. Romance is his
wasted effort.”

Hermione shuddered. “People would argue that Romeo and Juliet was his best work.”

“How unfortunate.” Tom spoke cruelly, “that people tend to be moronic to a fault.”

“You can’t blame people in general!” Hermione’s voice rose to a high pitched squeal. “That's,
that’s bigotry!”

Tom’s expression didn’t falter. “If you want to debate over literature, I advise you to read.
Whatever knowledge you possess now is inferior. Philosophy, then come back to me.”

Hermione flushed, an ugly splotchy red that Tom took savage delight in. Her eyes welled and
watered slightly, she sniffled at the insult then stormed out. The door clicked shut behind her,
rattling in its frame. Somewhere in the house, a portrait began to scream.

Tom looked back at the book in his lap and flipped open his diary to a random page. The
spidery scrawl of his own handwriting mocked him, the words even more so. He could
remember every entry, every moment as he wrote in darkness or in the light that pierced the
mortar dust and smoke. A fault in his memory, that he struggled to remember such basic
trivial things.

He let the book close again, and traced the small cracks along its spine and cover. His thigh
burned, and he was very hungry.

He was partially surprised he was even invited to dinner that night. With his ( painful )
appointment with Crina earlier, to the horrified mediwitch that had passed him the
prescription potions for nutrients, weight gains, and dreamless sleep, and then lashing out at
both Hermione and Ginny (her name was), it was a miracle he was given food.
He ignored them all to the best of his abilities, well aware of how Sirius Black was sitting
next to him at the table as his warden. He could smell food being prepared, the thick smell of
yeast that only accompanied with fresh bread. Already he was salivating for a bite, but had
enough knowledge to recognize consuming food at this point would only irritate his delicate
stomach.

He could likely have some of the bread, for it was taunting him at this rate.

“No!” Ginny screamed from in the kitchen. “I refuse! I am not having dinner with that
monster!”

“Ginny Weasley!” Her mother screamed back in turn, “do not call him such things!”

“I bet you he wants to murder everyone!’ Ginny screamed, voice rattling the glasses of water
on the table. “I bet you he wants to slaughter all the muggles!”

Tom sighed and traced sigils into the table. He knew it wouldn’t do anything, but it was
helpful to keep his mind sharp for what he would need to carve eventually. “I don’t. If that
matters at all.”

“Probably not.” Sirius consoled with a small huff. “You really messed with her. Or, you will.
Bloody hell this is confusing.”

Tom felt a small surge of annoyance, that this was an annoyance to him. Oh, it was entirely a
minor inconvenience for Tom, being thrown into a world where he had nothing going for him.

The food was set on the table, daggers being shot at Tom from every source. He ignored it, at
least this he was used to receiving at the orphanage. He was ready for the rug to be torn out
from under him, for them to jeer and laugh about how he ‘did you really think you’d be
eating today? Go to your room!’

He was arching forward, curling slightly over the empty placement of his plate. Sirius
watched him, his eyes oppressive and heavy on Tom’s back. Tom’s stomach gurgled,
cramping agonizingly although he knew not to listen to its anguished cries.

“Well.” Mrs. Weasley startled, smiling although it was partially forced. Tom’s eyes were
locked on the bread in front of him, focused with the single minded intent of a predator. “I’m
so happy we’re all back here together!”

Ginny snorted from where she was seated a fair distance away. Well without of striking reach
with a butter knife. “Shouldn’t our resident monster say something?”

‘Shouldn’t our devil-touched say something?’

Tom’s eyes didn’t leave the table as the well familiar blessing scattered through his thoughts.
It was impossible to forget it now, from the way he was forced to speak out loud for everyone
at every meal. The way they would cane him if he refused to speak even as a child.

Tom opened his mouth and regurgitated blessings with the taste of acid. “Bless the Lord for
the bounty he has provided and he in my body repel, the touch of Satan that rots my flesh and
renders me impure Bless he who shall carve his mark upon my skin and rid me of evil of self
glorification, amen.”

‘Amen.’ The children in the orphanage would echo.

Tom lunged forward, and tore into the bread like a wolf tearing into a carcass.

He heard the news of Dunkirk, in the papers that brushed through the streets.

The troops were coming home, fed with tea and biscuits when Tom was scrounging for bits
of molded cheese. The rats of London, swamped in grease and dust.

The wand he had in his hand wasn’t the best, but it worked with his core to a fair amount. He
had scrounged through the room of forgotten things, testing out various sorts to determine
what would function the best. He knew, that with the eyes of Professor Dumbledore watching
him, he likely would be checked for recent magic use in his ministry registered wand. It was
much safer to have a second wand, even though it wasn’t perfect.

It made his flesh crawl, itching like ivy and pox on his skin. It didn’t make him bleed or
explode, so he counted it a win.

The troops were returning, and he knew they would scavenge through London for the shreds
of familiarity they left behind. They were fools to come back, to add to the festering cesspool
of rot and pollution that the Thames was.

There were corpses in the buildings, a fire had spread last night and the ash and smoke was
so thick even Tom choked on it from kilometers away. He knew many must have burned,
roasting under the pain of it all.

The ward was still in effect over London, the backlash of any magic being used in the city. A
deterrent to more terrorism, but at this point, Tom was scraping low on his supplies. His last
shirt had caught fire from one unexpected bombing, his trousers survived only from his quick
rolling in the plaster coating the streets. His bag was miraculously fine, but he wouldn’t last
long without any sort of clothing at night.

He could always try robbing a store, but with no weaponry he knew it wouldn’t result well.
He needed to search the dead; if he was lucky, he may find tickets for food or genuine
clothing on the corpses.

He pulled out the borrowed wand, placing it next to his medical supplies he already had
ready to go. Holding his wand in his right hand, he inhaled and tried to calm his nerves.

He spoke the incantation, feeling the thrum of absolute pleasure buzz through his nerves from
the use of dark aligned magic. It was a heavily influenced curse, seeking fresh dead for the
selection pool of inferi. He wasn’t looking to reanimate any bodies now, but the curse cared
 little for intent beyond what it could perform.Tom exhaled in an exhilarated wheeze, nearly
falling into the trance from the bliss from it. It had been a long while since he could relax.

Then, the ward crushed down on him, like a boot on a small child.

Tom choked, the wand dropping from his hand. His bones rattled, his spine crackled, and he
bent into contorted positions on the ground. A pitiful wheeze as the breath was stolen from
his skin. His eyes flickered shut and he drooped, allowing himself to suffer as the wards
crushed him, oppressive and heavy as it tore through his skin in obvious displeasure.

It faded, and the sticky warmth of blood drained from the gouges in his side. Large gashes,
flayed sections of skin. Tom ignored the gruesome marks of archaic magic the ministry
implemented. They were all afraid, especially since the rampage Grindelwald had done
earlier. Tom reached for the gauze and bandages and started to try and piece his flesh back
together.

He could see from the corner of his vision the purplish hue that permeated walls. The
glowing violet that detailed to his eyes only the shape of a dead body. He could see around
four in his eyesight, hidden in the small closets of bombed homes. Likely trying to find
shelter in their last moments. They now gave Tom a chance to survive.

He stumbled his way to his feet, ignoring the small animal whine that spilled from his lips as
his torso throbbed in pain and bled anew.

Maybe, if he was lucky, one of the corpses had bandages nearby. He was running low on
water.

Chapter End Notes

Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!

 Mea culpa
Chapter Summary

The memories of what we have done, haunt us in our dreams.

Chapter Notes

Warning, there is implied dark content in this chapter.

This is the introduction of the darker themes I'm trying to use in this work. They will
steadily increase and be more blatant as the story goes on.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

O my God, I thank you for having preserved me today

and for having given me so many blessings and graces.

I renew my dedication to you and ask your pardon for

all my sins.

In old times, before the dawn of medicine and the age of eternal glory, the thoughts of the
unconscious mind were interpreted as the word of God. The dreams and sightless passage
were written and spoken and from that, prophecy of the land immortal became true. People
would bottle the blood of women who passed in their sleep; would sell elixirs that lesser men
would beg for. A child would cut off their thumbs with innocent eyes and like a lamb, ask if
they too would be received.

Tom wondered once, what use nightmares had in the world. Surely if God spoke to them in
their dreams, then nightmares would be there no longer. Were nightmares and night terrors
the touch of a devil, or a sign that Sin has sunk itself so deep even the messenger had begun
to rot. Tom’s head was filled with wood lice, gnawing and shaking free with bits of shattered
bone.

He wondered if his sins were so foul, that he would be tormented every night for his actions.
He knew now that with this curse of being out of time, that his torment was for things he had
yet to do. Tom didn’t believe in God, but sometimes through the haze of starlight and
monsters chewing on his toes, he wondered if he was wrong.

Tom screamed at night, jolting awake with heaving breaths and flashes of things he couldn’t
remember. His left knee throbbed; he likely flexed or kicked in his sleep and made it sore.

His nightclothes clung to him, wet with perspiration. His hair was askew like unbrushed
wool. Eyes wild like the wolf, hands crooked and flexed like the wood of the Shepard's
crook.

Tom wasn’t truly awake yet, mind fogged and clouded and buzzing with half formed fears.
His lips moved slightly, muscle memory repeating his apologies over and over. Mumbling out
slurred words as slowly awareness came to him.

The wallpaper across from him had peeled away, curling away as the glue hardened with
bubbles and lumps. Boiled in place and leaving the paper to curl downwards like the tongue
of a curious toad. The floorboards were weirdly shaped, nails sticking upwards like
thumbtacks. His side table had toppled, the sheets on his bed were thin ribbons. The
doorknob was gone and around the base a muddle of hardened molten metal.

The door burst open, swinging on lopsided joints. There was nothing to impede it now that
the lock resembled a sheet of ice.

“Kid!” Sirius barked out, his wand held up and glowing. He didn’t go for the light switch.
Tom glanced upwards, and wasn’t at all surprised to see that the bulb had shattered.

“What.” Tom tried to snap back, but the shaky feel to his voice was far too apparently to get
away with a countenance of composure.

Sirius Black stared at him in the dim light, stepping carefully around the glass and upright
nails scattered across the floor.

“Real mouse trap in here, innit?” Sirius muttered to himself, nearly stepping on one longer
nail that evaded his eye. Tom kept his eyes on the mounds of blanket the hid his feet. His
thigh was throbbing, which was a bad sign.

Sirius finally made it closer, just as Tom’s rapid breathing was only a tad shaky. The man
frowned then made a soft sigh, clearly noticing how Tom’s clothing stuck to his backside.

“C’mon.” Sirius soothed, using one thumb to indicate the open doorway, “there’s a bit of a
lumpy couch you can sleep on for tonight. I don’t think you have other sleep clothes, I’ll find
something.”

Tom said nothing, but as he swung his legs across the bed he hissed instinctively curling.
Small specs of red dotted along his left pant leg.
“Hurt yourself, eh?” Sirius murmured quietly, soothing as he lowered himself onto the bed
carefully next to the still recovering teen. Sirius grabbed one of the long strips of what was
once Tom’s sheets, doubling it up to a suitable thickness.

Tom winced, peeling the sleep pants downwards, finally getting to the source of the issue.
Something which reminded Sirius of a garter from his wilder days, except this one was made
of metal and a thick woven hair. The metal spikes pointed inwards, like little talons that
clawed into the meat of Tom’s thigh. Scarce hair and thick black scabs like the shell of
beetles. The skin of his leg was silvery and translucent, spotted scar tissue that indicated a
level of casualness to the grisly scene.

“It looks like your magic made you heal.” Sirius grimaced, drawing his wand closer for
inspection. “Your trashing tore your skin more than this….thing, would have otherwise.”

“A cilice.” Tom bit out, fishing his long thin fingers under the metal teeth to loosen the scabs.
Without care for grace, he pulled- freeing the teeth from his thigh only to dig them deeper on
the other side. Blood dripped anew, trailing downwards in disappointing tear marks. Tom
didn’t show any sign that it pained him, or perhaps he learned to care naught.

Sirius said nothing even as Tom undid the belt’s latch, peeling away each of the metal teeth
from his thigh one at a time like peeling the sticker off a new broom. It popped tree, his leg
looking as if gnawed on by some ravenous creature of his own demise.

Without a care, he fashioned it tightly (Sirius paled) on his other thigh and pulled his trousers
up as if the blood stains and leaking wounds meant nothing to him. Maybe they didn’t.

Tom climbed to his feet, toes flexing on the floorboards. Eyes glazed and tired, dark circles
haunting him even when awake.

“Let’s go.” Sirius murmured gently, guiding a safe passage across the room. The tacks, when
Tom drew near, all rattled away from him. The glass melted into the cracks between the
boards.

The door swung open on its creaky lopsided joints. The tapestries on the walls were all
shredded, the lights burst and useless. It looked like there was a fire from one broken light.
Only Tom’s room had a melted door handle or upwards nails.

Commotion was bustling as the house slowly woke. It was an early hour, far before the sun
would rise. Tom followed after Sirius, quietly allowing himself to be lead to the one living
room where a large velvet couch looked lumpy, but inviting.

“I’ll have to search the main floor. You shredded most blankets in the house I reckon.” Sirius
confessed quietly, keeping his voice a low murmur since Tom was still exhausted.

Cabinets and doors were opening, voices were muffled but increasing in volume. Tom pulled
one knee to his chest, pressing his forehead against in with hopes the pressure would soothe
the throbbing and spinning of the world.
Sirius returned in a little while, a thick flannel blanket over one arm. Tom cracked one eye
open to scan the surface- there were thin ribbon tears along the sides like the dull claws of a
cat.

“The others are awake, really messed with the whole house.” Sirius informed him gently. The
differences in his character was startling. Tom said nothing, but he did curl slightly tighter as
the blanket coated his sides and back with a soothing pressure.

His head was spinning, flashes of memories he couldn’t quite place. His stomach was
clenched and churning on the unfortunate precipice of vomiting, yet his body burned with
perspiration and vertigo behind his eyelids.

The door swung open, louder mumbles. Tom resisted a whine of annoyance.

“You!” Someone screamed, high pitch and agonizing. Rapid feet, and Sirius stepped forward
with a hushed noise to soothe the attacker away.

“Don’t worry, Ginny.” Sirius murmured gently, holding the small girl’s shoulders with each
hand carefully, “Ginny, it’s fine. I’ve got it under control.”

The door was open like a dam, and more people poured in like mountain runoff. Wedging
themselves into the cracks of cobblestone. Tom kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the
whispers that always followed him.

“What happened!” Hermione asked, voice thicker with sleep but very worried. She hesitated
a moment before rushing to hug the youngest Weasley, comforting her and restraining her in
one movement.

“Padfoot?” Harry asked, slipping through the doorway with Ron following behind, “Padfoot
what was with the clawing?”

“It was nothing,” Sirius hushed the group, trying in vain to escort them out of the room. “Just
some unexpected accidental magic.”

“ What?” Ron asked dumbly, looking quite gobsmacked. “Gin’ didn’t do anything!”

“Except now my blankets are all torn to hell!” Ginny screamed, her voice an octave too high
for Tom’s threshold.

He groaned quietly, pressing his face even further into his knees. Similarly soothing the ache
behind his eyes, and drawing the eyes of others onto his small body.

“Oh,” Harry clued in first, blinking quickly before he grimaced in sympathy. “Yeah, that
would..be bad.”

Sirius sighed in exasperation, and tried once more to escort the group out.

“I bet you did this on purpose!” Ginny spat, thrashing in Hermione’s grip. “I bloody liked
that blanket!”
Tom’s hand clenched as he straightened his head slowly, shifting his body slightly so that the
blanket fell from where it shrouded him.

“I am trying,” Tom spat out, voice filled with venom, “to get some ruddy sleep.”

“You’re the one that woke us up.” Ron muttered scathingly. Still loud enough that Tom head.

Tom was tired of this.

“Get out.” He snapped, eyes blazing. He jerkily forced himself to his feet, the ground
swaying ever so slightly as his vision adjusted. “Get out.”

Ginny stuck her chin out, “make me you bastard.”

Tom’s lip curled, his head hurt, and his thigh was beginning to really bother him. “I want you
to get out.”

A chill, a heavy suffocating weight. Tom swayed further, Sirius cursed. Ginny stiffened in
Hermione’s grip before she twitched and began to turn. Slow and bewitched, vacant in eye.

“Bollocks.” Sirius muttered, one hand grabbing Ginny to shake her free from whatever light
compulsion Tom managed in his tired state.

“Get out!” Tom spat again, hand twitching and curling into fists at his side. Hermione and
Ron took a step backwards as self-preservation controlled their actions. Harry watched with
large, irritatingly sympathetic eyes.

“Stop this.” Sirius barked sharply at Tom, then returned to shaking the groggy and confused
Ginny. “Hermione, take Ginny and get out of here.”

“Yes, Sirius.” Hermione stuttered, grabbing the hand of the younger girl before dragging her
out of the room. Ron hurried after, tending to his younger sister.

Harry watched, gnawing on his lower lip as Tom began to sway ever so slightly from where
he stood.

“You er, had a nightmare.” Harry blurted with no tact. “I uh, I don’t mean…”

“Get the hell out of here.” Tom growled low, looking ready to grab the nearest lamp fixture to
throw at the boy’s head.

“I just-.” Harry stuttered over his words uncomfortably. He ducked his head sheepishly,
almost bashfully. “I...I sometimes see…”

Harry paused, then looked at Tom skeptic.

Tom didn’t like it. He didn’t like how Harry almost appeared to see through him, like his eyes
were scanning over his soul and the actions of his desperation. He didn’t like how the
conversation stopped and froze, how Sirius stiffened in comprehension by the act of
conversation cessation.
“What?” Tom snapped out, although it twisted on the end with an emotion nobody could
place.

“...Nothing.” Harry finished, wringing his hands nervously, “just...you know you’re safe
here...right?”

No. I’m not. Tom thought viciously.

Harry said nothing, but he did finally walk from the room just as everyone had walked out of
Tom’s life before.

The morning brought awareness and light on the situation- and on the heavy bags under Tom
Riddle’s eyes. It was obvious the other hadn’t gotten a lick of sleep after the night screaming.
The level of viciousness in his gaze didn’t waver, even as he was served a plate of bland eggs
and plain toast. It was still uncertain if too much grease and lard would bother his sensitive
stomach, so only bland foods were given to him.

“You look horrible.” Ginny said quite delighted, sitting near him with her heavy plate of
bacon. Harry knew, that the redhead generally didn’t enjoy such fatty foods so early. The
smell was rich in the air; Tom leaned away nauseated.

“Hmm?” Ginny asked, maintaining eye contact as her teeth crunched through the crispy
meat.

Tom said nothing, but the shadows of his glare only looked more sulky with the purple marks
and translucent skin.

“Ginny, eat with manners.” Hermione spoke in a hushed voice to the girl, still mindful of how
dangerous Tom Riddle was.

Ginny huffed and snapped her mouth closed.

“You look like you didn’t get any sleep.” Harry awkwardly broke the praise.

Tom said nothing, but began to cut into his toast with aggressive talons of a fork.

“You aren’t chatty.” Ron muttered into his plate of potatoes, scooping up a large mound to fill
his face.

Ginny brightened, her whole body perking up. “Then lets chat about something we all have
opinions on!”

Harry felt something cold and heavy settle in his gut, “Ginny-.”

“Murder!” She practically crowed out, propping her face up as she stared intently at Tom
with a look of a wolf staring down its food. “What’s your opinion, Tom.”
Tom inhaled through his nose, and continued to dig into his toast.

“Surely you must think murder is okay in some instances.” Ginny’s words were gaining more
of a bite. “ I can think of a few individuals.”

Tom set his fork down with a clatter. His face shifted into a smile that looked out of place
with the juxtaposition of his eyes. The bags made him look more ghastly, tired and fed up
with the girl’s antics.

“Oh I see,” He began, almost demonic with how his lips pulled back, “philosophy is your
beast of burden. Well then, Ginny, most humans share a bias toward the value of empathy,
which makes a Kantian notion of ethics quite natural to us. If murder were not forbidden by
law and social taboo, individuals would still experience guilt for doing it. From many
perspectives, the injunction against murder is more than just a...social convention. It is an
evolved or a psychogenic trait, and as such a universal concept to anthropologism. From this
point of view, yes murder is wrong.”

Ginny stared. Ron’s potato fell from his spoon onto his plate with a small splat.

“...You know Kant?” Hermione whispered, more to herself.

Tom tilted his head ever so slightly, eyes focused on the very overwhelmed young girl. “Even
in your confession over desire for murder, it seems obvious your desire for murder
contravenes even the most basic values of empathy. What a horrid existence a beast must
experience to have as such.”

Harry blinked quickly. He didn’t quite understand everything Tom just said, but he was fairly
sure he had just somehow insulted Ginny quite cruelly.

“Well.” Hermione cleared her throat shakily, “I’ll be reading today.”

She paused, looking at Tom shyly and still fairly unsure. “...If you’re bored, I do have a few
books that may be of interest.”

Tom ignored her, and tore into his toast once again.

Alastor peered at the torn shreds of fabric. Gathered from all over the house.

“Which floor was this one from?” He asked, prodding one bunch of cloth that had thin
hairline tears all across the length.

“Kitchen.” Sirius nodded, crossing his arms from the doorway. “Other end is from Ginny’s
room, the furthest floor in the house.”

Moody frowned, tracing the scraps and tears with one heavily calloused finger. “You saying
that boy managed to tear up fabric from every floor in the house.”
“Not only that.” Sirius jerked his head towards the general direction of his room. “The nails
were upturned, the doorknob melted too. Multiple levels of accidental magic.”

Moody exhaled in a rush, running one hand through his wiry hair. “Merlin. You said he did
conscious control of Ginevra?”

“A basic compulsion.” Sirius agreed with a small frown, “physical contact shook her out of
it. He was desperate, night terrors.”

“Ah,” Moody grimaced sympathetically, “bastard things. Any other signs?”

“He tried my wand. Horrible reaction.” Sirius shrugged slightly. “I’m not too sure any wand
here would work.”

“Potter’s might.” Moody agreed with another grimace. “Don’t let him touch Potter’s wand.
This level of accidental magic may just destroy half the house with a proper conduit, even
without a spell.”

“Maybe I should set him on my mother’s portrait.” Sirius jokingly offered, “maybe he could
shut that bitch up.”

Moody managed a small sideways grin, “might be so. Keep an eye on him, those sleeping
potions are coming in once we finish scanning them all. Can’t ever be too safe, poison’s a
thing. He’s been a good little prisoner, hasn’t he?”

“Perfect.” Sirius dryly countered. “He’d even listen and take notes for Bins’ lectures.”

Moody laughed, a loud scratchy noise. He shook his head fondly, shifting the wreckage of
destroyed blankets and drapes to the side. “Keep him comfortable. We’ll open his leash a
little, see what he does with more room. No point muzzling him if he knows not to bite.”

“I really hate the dog expressions.” Sirius sulked, but nodded nonetheless. “We need to bring
in Crina?”

“Crazy woman is off hunting down dark wizards.” Moody shivered, “hate having her around.
Makes my skin crawl.”

“Imagine my situation.” Sirius shivered, “she bloody well singled me out. ”

Moody shook his head sympathetically. “Poor bastard. I heard even Albus is a bit frightened
of her.”

Sirius visibly shuddered, “any woman able to make bloody Grindelwald cry is someone to
stay the hell away from. Merlin, let me know when she comes around, I wanna be hiding as
far away as I can.”
“Have you ever murdered anyone?” Harry asked Tom, not looking at the boy’s trouser leg
where it was stained with blood from an unknown source.

Tom didn’t look startled, or interested by the question. “I don’t have a wand.”

Harry shook his head and locked his jaw. “Before. Did you ever murder anyone?”

Tom paused, running his finger over the cloth of his shirt in a soothing habit Harry noticed.
IT looked like the boy was marveling over the fabric, the leisurely comfort he had never
known before.

“Magic outside of school,” Tom began in a slow thick voice, heavy with implications. “Is
illegal. I may have...fantasized of it. I’m not foolish enough to take away the opportunity I
have. Or had.”

Harry nodded, looked down at his folded hands.

“My first year at Hogwarts,” Harry started awkwardly. “I...I think...there was a teacher trying
to kill me. Nobody actually told me what happened, but I think I killed him.”

Tom didn’t look over. Almost like it was uninteresting.

“I’ll never forget it.” Harry continued in a low murmur, “the sounds of his screaming. He...he
had a stutter but when you scream...it’s so..”

Harry shuddered uncomfortably, then looked away.

Tom ignored him, or maybe he never cared to begin with.

“No no no.” Tom gasped out, scrambling over broken bits of rubble and dust. The shadow
from the hidden alcove obscured colour, but the smell was reeking and no movement
betrayed him. “Oh God oh God.”

Tom shook his head, trying to get the thick cloying smell of rust out of his nose. So thick and
pungent he could taste it, like liver under-cooked.

“Get up.” Tom whispered, his fingers sore and bleeding from where they caught on the rough
edges of the brick. One nail was broken, chipped away when he clawed at the cobblestone.

The man didn’t get up. It smelled thick and sickly.

“Oh lord.” Tom gasped out, barely aware of how his chest was heaving and his sight
obscured in what little light was there. “Oh God, I’m bloody well so sorry oh shit-.”

Tom shakily scrambled even further, his trousers catching from how poorly they were
fastened. “I didn’t mean ter.” He whispered brokenly, uncaring of the whistling wheeze of his
hysteria.
The man didn’t get up. In what little light filtered through the crack in the exposed cellar
ceiling, the man’s eyes were open and unseeing.

Tom had heard that sometimes rocks could leave men blind. Like fever when they burned too
hot. He hoped it was that. He knew it wasn’t.

“T-Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” Tom choked out, a
bubbling wet laugh as the blood kept spreading towards his legs. It didn’t matter, his trousers
were already stained and damp.

“Though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool.” Tom chanted, his skin itching and
burning. He could feel his hips throb, where they would be stained dark with bruises. He
leaned over and heaved, bile mixing with tears and more to leave a salty foul mixture in his
throat. He wished he could scrub it out until his teeth fell out.

The man stared at him blankly. The gash across his temple vicious and wide- the brick Tom
managed to pull free in the throes of his panic.

‘Wait, no I didn’t say yer-.’

‘Oh shut up ya tramp. I’m already payin’ yer-.’

Tom squeezed his eyes closed tighter and clawed his broken fingertips into the dust around
him. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as write as snow. Though they are red as
crimson, they shall be like wo-.”

‘Pretty little thing, ain’t yer? Hold still yer little shite-.’

Tom leaned over and puked again, hating how shaky he felt.

He shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be trembling. He had done this before- he was
starving. He sometimes puked later but he never was too hurt and it didn’t matter. Sometimes
his eyes bleed red when he couldn’t breathe but he was starving and Diagon wasn’t opening
and he didn’t want to-.

‘How much fer an hour, brat?’

Tom’s breathing hitched. He forced himself to his feet, and tried not to think of how wet and
warm the man felt when Tom fished out the meager amount of coinage he had. It was barely
any, it was a fortune in these times.

Tom was starving; and he didn’t mean to.

The man was dead, and his stomach rumbled. Tom leant over and heaved again, trying to not
slip on the gore he couldn’t see when the body began to rattle in death throes.

“I didn’t mean ter.” Tom whispered to himself, shaking like a leaf as he made his way out of
the ruined cellar, ascending towards the street where over salvagers scoured the ruins for
anything to survive. “I didn't mean ter.”
The brick was nearby, lumpy and misshapen. The angle was all wrong, but with hysteria
came blessed strength, and accidental aim on a weakened skull. Tom slung his arm behind his
back, thrashing to be free of the grip. The brick met, and Tom-.

He leant against a nearby building, feeling flushed and shaky. He didn’t mean to. He-.

He knew he was drawing attention to himself. With his bloodied pants and vomit stained
shirt. He hoped nobody looked further on his collar, but he doubted anyone would care other
than an upturned nose. Tom was trying to survive, morals and ethics be damned in the face of
death.

The nearest store was a bookstore, on the center street of Vauxhall Bridge Road. It was
unharmed from the bombs, and had a still surviving bridge over the cesspool of the River
Thames. Tom knew that if not for the vomit in his nose, he’d smell the sewage and death that
filled the streets.

Tom began walking, trying not to limp. The road was open, a few people bustling but barely
giving him a glance. He looked like he had wandered through shrapnel, or was hit in the last
night. The whistling still throbbed in one of his ears.

The book shoppe had a bell above the door, the smell of sawdust from new locks on the doors
and windows. Tom shuffled in, trying to wipe his nose and face the best he could from his
teary eyes. At most this would be an alibi if he needed it. He didn’t think it would matter. The
man would rot in a cellar, disgusting and ashamed of his vulnerable state. Exposed and
trapped and he would bloat and draw in flies. Tom felt like hurling all over again.

“Do you have coin?” The shopkeeper snapped, eyeing him sharply. Tom’s state was rather
poor, the sweat on his neck and brow only emphasized.

“Yeah.” Tom cleared his throat, trying to disguise the cracking of it, “Er, somethin’ small.
Basic.”

The man snorted, looking at Tom with a grimace. He plucked one ordinary book, something
which had seen better days.

“Steer,” The man held the floppy book, waving it calmly. “It’ll hold ya.”

“Thanks.” Tom gave a jerky nod, plucking a set of the basic pens. He didn’t need something
fancy, just an alibi. Just something basic.

“Write your name in it.” the man tapped the brown cover sharply. “That way your grave can
get a stone on it. Proper name for proper heaven.”

Tom nodded jerkily, plucking the proffered pen (much better than the one he just selected for
purchase), and scribbled on the inside cover Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He passed over the pen, fanning the page to help the ink dry.

“Keep it in your inner pocket.” The man pulled his own jacket away, gesturing to the location
on his breast. “Safest place. Useless if we can’t recognize your face after its bloody
 wrecked.”

Tom nodded, keeping his head low. The idea that one day he may just...be a book to
document his entire life.

He shivered, passed the coins and took the book. The diary really.

He shivered again, hiding back to where he had stashed his trunk and books, his wand hidden
out of sight. He didn’t know any wards but when he returned to civilization he’d have to
research basic ones. He needed to find better trousers, and stay low for a while. He couldn’t...
work, when there were bruises on his thighs. His stomach cramped, his book burned in his
pocket.

He could find food another time, he was used to it. He needed to hunker down, protect his
things another night and pray he survived the night.

He fumbled with his book, flipping it open to smooth unmarked parchment. Not the quality
of books he adored, but the quality he deserved.

‘The eyes stared at him, facing judgement and yet Tom was the one-’

Tom’s breathe left him in rattled as his bloodied fingers clutched his trousers tighter. He was
so sore, he was so tired.

(He wondered, if there was a chance of salvation left for him now that he succumbed to a
mortal Sin.)

He shakily picked up his pen, and pressed it to paper.

Dear God, he wrote, the words chanted at him and carved into his skull flowed from his
fingers easier than English. I know I am touched by devils words and I beg forgiveness for the
sin of all I am.

Please Lord.

I'm sorry that I'm alive.

Chapter End Notes

Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!

 Delectatio morosa
Chapter Summary

Where self-preservation is subjective,

and picking your poison only leads to some things worse.

Chapter Notes

This chapter implies distressing images, as well as darker subjects. This is the start of
the decline into more morbid darker territory, thank you all so much for reading up to
this point, and I hope you can keep reading.
Remember to take a break if you all need to.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Here's a fan-made playlist for Diablerie!

The blessed gift of being a burden, was the ability to hide yourself.

To be someone easily forgotten, or remembered only through scathing looks and violent
curses. Moments of weakness, times when even your mind struggled to recall what was true.
The adoration that walked aside hatred, gave Tom the ability to disappear.

So, Tom allowed himself to vanish.

The cessation, of existence.

The choice to fade as if you were never anything at all.

Nobody would admit that they had fallen into habit, that they had grown accustomed to Tom
lurking around the house. The paranoia and anxiety that felt like a heavy curtain was drawn-
sunlight and fresh air that nobody could truly describe other than the sheer absence of him.
The children smiled more, Ginny played and laughed again. And Tom hadn’t been seen in
days.

Sure, it could have been something horrible, but on request Albus had reached out and Crina
(over a rather venomous Floo call) informed them that Tom was, in her words, an ‘intelligent
individual who does not require coddling, and is aware of his actions.’

So, they had left him be. Food delivered on a clockwork schedule, left outside his door or
passed inside to the pale, unsettling child with unblinking eyes.

They made sure of course, that Tom wasn’t getting up to anything... bad, but from what
Sirius had reported the interior of Tom’s room looked and seemed casual. There didn’t
appear to be anything wrong, or anything suspicious as to what his intent was.

Tom didn’t come out, so everyone else could.

Behind the door, Tom knew this rationally as well. He knew that his existence itself was
burden on the new society constructed in the arms of an old dusty house that stank of rot. His
bed was clean (after purchasing new linens for the entire building) and food well cooked.
Richer and thicker than anything he had before- leaving him heaving and gagging on bile as
the vanishing chamber pot stunk with that ever so thin layer of acid that never quite left. At
night he snuck out, walking silently with bruised and practiced feet down the staircases to
raid the pantries of bread and preserved foods. Plums, apples, tarts that he didn’t think would
go missing. The bits that had fallen off in the back of the oven, the remnants of stew in a pot
not yet cleansed. The bottles of milk that had been set aside to be recycled- still containing a
saucers worth at the bottom. The food nobody thought of except in passing, the sustenance
that would always be forgotten.

Tom gorged and gorged, feasting on the scraps he knew nobody would notice. The portions
and hidden things he could sneak back and hide in the crease under his mattress. Compressed
under time, but something Sirius hadn’t quite discovered yet.

His potions were there too, a soft blue that spoke to him with comfort very little could offer.
Prowling back to his room, careful to remain hidden from the few awake portraits, Tom
slithered towards the foot of the mattress to pluck one of the vials with grease stained fingers.
Dreamless sleep potion tasted like something sweet and thick, the sugary remnants of syrup
and vanilla.

Already he could feel it press in on him, heavy weight on the feeble state of an insomniac. He
stashed the vial, curled onto his bed and pulled the covers so high he could imagine he was
back in a ruin of his own making. Maybe now, cast out and shunned by the only place in the
world he dared think he belonged- he’d finally find a place carved out for him.

Tom woke with a scream bubbling on his lips, sour and tasteless and the pained gurgle of a
distended abdomen.
Another explosion, another bright flash of colour like gunshots outside his door with an
accompanying roar of some otherworldly beast. Sparks of blue fizzled under the door,
revealing their origin to be something as... innocent as fireworks.

Another bang, another rattle on the door like the furious shrieks of the starving trying to
break in.

Tom’s hands curled on the sheet, his clothing sweat damp and clinging to his side. His
stomach was engorged and rounded, nausea and bile haunting behind his teeth.

Another explosion, another flash of light-

‘Please God let me live, please God let me live-.’

“Yeah Fred!” Someone shouted hoarsely, laughing just beyond his little door and down the
stairwell. “Try the chimera one!”

A roar, like a waterfall or the scream of a bomber falling down from heaven.

Down down- down, until it exploded like a flower unfurling with the acrid stench of
gunpowder.

Please God let me live-

The fireworks all exploded with cheers like children screaming.

Tom could feel his body shake, like how his window pane rattled- and with the scream of
bombs Tom scrambled across his bed and fished out another vial.

He couldn’t think- he was going to hurl and everything was spinning and distorting ever so
slightly. A mask over his face, ropes pulled too tightly against his chest and he couldn’t
breathe.

He slumped over boneless onto the bed, clearly unconscious.

The window rattled; a dragon made of sparks screaming as it fell to earth in a blaze of fire.

The saddest thing, about being unwanted.

(Nobody cared when you started to fall from grace.)

“Shopping trip!” George shouted, making sure that his twin was echoing the same message
all throughout the house. “Get your ruddy arses up and moving! Shopping trip!”
“George!” Mrs. Weasley shouted back, “language!”

“Sorry mum!” They echoed, already sprinting past Ron who was looking spectacularly
dopey. “Come on! Off we go to wake the sleeping dragon!”

“To pluck the feral Hippogriff!”

“To defeat the savvy sphinx!”

Hermione huffed, looking on disapprovingly as the twins rushed up the stairs, cackling and
laughing over something. They vanished from sight, and Hermione turned her sights on
Harry.

“Oh no.” Harry recognized the look in her eye and instantly went on the defensive. “Mione,
Mione I don’t care-.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit reckless!” She hissed out, completely ignoring the disclaimer
already in the air. “That’s Tom Riddle! Taking him out in public? Honestly!”

“She’s got a point, mate.” Ron yawned.

Harry’s eyes widened as he glanced between the two of them. “Wait, why do you think you
need to convince me? Tom Riddle is- he- look, he’s bloody brilliant so of course I think it’s a
bit stupid on our part. But we can’t just keep him locked up!”

“ I think it’s a good idea.” Ron muttered, but with no real bite.

Something seethed, a small puddle of rage making itself coolly present. Harry glared, his face
flattening into something vaguely dismissive. “Oh right. It’s not like you know what it’s like
to live in a cage.”

Ron winced and Hermione instantly looked away in guilt.

“Come on,” Harry muttered sourly, “let’s just get some fresh air.”

Diagon Alley was active in the way only summer could be. Children and friends running
around, peering inside extravagant displays in windows while ice cream dripped onto the
cobblestone from toddler’s meaty fists.

Tom didn’t look happy about it, although the dark bags under his eyes had vanished. He
likely had been sleeping much more now that nobody really saw him.

“Alright!” Mrs. Weasley chirped happily, trying to herd her red haired children, and Harry,
Hermione, and Tom through the streets. Tom was visibly stiff, weaving through the crowd of
people with a small curled lip. A grimace, or maybe a snarl in the making.
“Aww, don’t worry mum!” Fred laughed, looping one of his arms around Tom’s stiff
shoulders. “We’ll watch him for you!”

“Yeah, don’t you worry!” George cheered, casually grabbing Tom’s other shoulder. They
turned instantly, jerking with the speed of the movement and the twins dragged Tom to a
nearby post shop.

“I wouldn’t want to be him.” Ron grimaced, shaking his head in sympathy. Hermione looked
in the direction nervously, “you don’t think he could use their wands, right?”

“Likely not,” Harry spoke, not understanding but feeling like he knew it wouldn’t work. “Did
it look to you guys like...Fred and George really wanted to drag Tom away?”

“You’re seeing things, mate.” Ron huffed, eyes locked on a new racing broom model in one
window, “nobody would want to hang out with that monster.”

“Right…” Harry confirmed, feeling his skin itch.

Tom was smart, it wasn’t hard to understand why he was dragged away so quickly.

At first he thought it was to separate him from the younger girl, the sister of the twins. He
could feel the subtle jerking over his shoulders, the arranged walking that guided him in sync
to one nondescript stationary shop. As if it was arranged previously to the moment.

What would the twins want with him, other than retribution for his existence?

Tom couldn’t help the slight stiffening of his muscles, the tensing of his shoulders and
sharper gait he retained as he was gracelessly dragged by red haired guides. He felt like a
cheap commodity, dragged around through the crowd of faceless strangers.

Through the quill shop, behind a stack of books made of suede and leather strips. Tom’s eyes
glanced over them, skimming the merchandise with no interest. His ears open and focused,
listening to the change in steady breathing.

“Alright,” Tom began, voice low and steady. His fingers traced the thick vane on a turkey
feather quill, bright with autumn colours. “What is it you want from me?”

The twins didn’t appear surprised or unsettled by his ability to read the tension. They
frowned slightly, unwavered by his boldness.

“We’re making new inventions,” one started, the one with slightly faster cadence. Fred, if he
recalled correctly.

“But the ingredients we need aren’t in Diagon.” The other grimaced, rolling one shoulder to
try and loosen the tension gathered there.
Tom nodded slowly, plucking the quill to play with it absentmindedly between his fingers.
“You’re looking for apothecaries with specialized ingredients.” A spark of inspiration struck;
he peered from the corner of his eyes at the two older wizards with a small tug of his lips.
“You’re looking for backstreet apothecaries. And- oh, you think I know Knockturn.”

“Don’t you?” Fred asked, voice blunt and cut with a challenge in his posture.

Tom placed the quill back on its stand. “It’s been a while. I’m sure things haven’t changed
too much.”

“If you try anything,” the one twin started, eyes sharp and cold, “we’ll make you regret being
born.”

Tom withheld the snappish retort, and instead smiled as thinly as he knew how.

He was right, Knockturn hadn’t changed at all. There was a sense of...immortality, in the
weathered stone and rusting iron. The bits of broken gargoyles that eroded in the rain. Time
had no relevance to the storekeepers, or the hags that begged for coins on the corners.

Tom knew that he and the twins looked out of place- not wearing the shapeless black cloaks
that frequented the shoulders of others even in the heat of summer. The small fog and mildew
made the hair on the back of Tom’s neck stick to him, damp with perspiration. It smelled like
tar and burnt potions, overripe oranges on the cusp of rot.

“Stay close.” Tom muttered under his breath, wishing more than anything a nearby vampire
would pluck one of the twins with a savage grin. Tom knew, that they wouldn’t do such
things, but the clutches of fear were strong powers indeed.

There were a few apothecaries, specializing in various categories. Poisons and potions,
enhancements and tonics. One a fair bit further sold an assortment of ingredients and
prepared potions on stock, some more illegal than others. It was more realistic that the
selection would overwhelm the boy, proving Tom precious time to bargain with whispers
with the shop owner.

(He would never admit it, but the clinking of dreamless sleep was running low. Prescriptions
were...difficult, to refill for substances such as that. In the depths of Knockturn, such things
were as available as candy and shrunken heads.)

“Here,” Tom murmured quietly, trying to not draw attention as he slipped under the awning
and through the various long beads. The rattled with the movement, sounding like rain on a
rooftop as the twins followed behind. It was infinitely darker inside the shroud, dimmer and
softer on the eye. The sign was covered in cobwebs, the steps chipped and decaying from salt
ground into the mortar.

“This is the place,” Tom muttered, opening the door and sliding in, uncaring of how tentative
and hesitant the twins were behind him.
The inside looked just as he remembered it, although more stock. The business must have
done well for itself- there were more jars and more price tags spattered all throughout.

He could have recognized it with his eyes closed, through the thick scent of slightly rotten
ingredients. The low musty odor of a vial cracked along the seam, the smell of burnt wax or a
bit too ripe fruit. Formaldehyde stuffed into preserved eyes, to the point of unflatteringly
bloating.

Tom could feel his skin itch, a low flushing heat that burned in his vessels and a strange
itchiness under his teeth. It thrummed like magic, except it was the carnal hubris of men. He
ignored it, he had a handle on it. It wasn’t an issue until he deemed it so.

The twins broke apart from him, instantly shuffling towards shelves with ingredients. Tom
spotted what looked like a decapitated birds head before his lip curled in disgust. This shop
was far below him, but he had lowered himself further before for the sake of survival.

(Was it really? Survival? Was what the unconscious cravings of his throat told him? He had
done everything within his power to live, and yet here he was. It wasn’t poison, but it very
well should have been.

‘No, it isn’t.’ a louder part of him protested sharply. ‘What use is all our effort if we’re too
weak and sickened to act when the time is right?’ )

Tom walked to the front counter, keeping his face blank. The man at the desk, browsing a
gossip magazine stained with rust on one edge, barely looked up. His stool was tilting to one
side, or perhaps the style of leisure came at a risk to decency.

“I want to browse your selection.” Tom spoke quietly, firm and flat although his ears were
peeled for any sign of the twins overhearing.

The cashier didn’t seem interested, or perhaps the gossip of modern day have evolved beyond
the disgusting propaganda Tom knew all too well.

“Talk to Arch.” The cashier blurted lazily, one crooked thumb over his shoulder beckoned
Tom to the small half door that separated the store from the stock. The sheep from the more
intelligent survivors of the flock.

Tom didn’t thank the man, but he did brush past him firm enough to jeopardize his balance
with the cost of dropping the out of date magazine. Tom didn’t smile, but he sure felt the urge
to when the old lazy man spat cursed in a low mumble.

The back of the store didn’t look any cleaner or nicer from the front. The boxes were crates,
splintered on the edges from steel forcing the nails to uproot. It looked smuggled, illegal
merchandise hidden in plain sight behind a cheaply made air freshener advertising
Norwegian Pine!

Tom resisted the urge to sneeze, even when he found ‘Arch’ leaning against one of the
splintering crates smoking something purple and foul out of a pipe that looked far too exotic
for such a... wonderful business.
“Oi,” The other spoke, voice deeper and more hoarse then it should have been for his age.
Likely the pipe, the smoke shifting his throat and disfiguring it but the clutches of an
addiction were always so lovely. “Watcha doin’ here, brat?”

Tom’s face didn’t shift, Arch scowled and set his pipe down carefully. His teeth were starting
to shimmer like mother-of-pearl, dyed lavender on the edges. Tom didn’t know the substance
in question, but it smelled sickly like all things did.

“Looking for something.” Tom countered, flat and sounding as exhausted as he felt.
“Dreamless sleep.”

“Eh?” The other squinted at him, the wrinkles along his eyes betraying his age despite the
soft texture of his skin. A sign of youth potion, treatments that- as far as Tom knew although
things could have changed- were illegal. Hadn’t they required blood from those under the
magical age?

“Dreamless sleep, eh?” The other, Arch, clicked his tongue, scratching his chin. The sound
irritated Tom, although he reacted no further than a slow blink. “I tell you what, I got plenty
more of whatever you want. Juice to knock a dragon out.”

Tom nearly twitched. Nearly. “Only dreamless sleep.”

Arch huffed and his hand twitched towards his pipe. He didn’t grab it, but Tom could
recognize the action all the same. “So that’s your poison, eh? Ruddy cheap piece of shit, go
big or get bloody out I say, but no, drives away all the hags. Ugh, brat. Fine, cough up your
silver I’ll crack at it.”

Arch slid to his feet, sliding his feet across the floor in a loud scuffing sound, mumbling and
spitting all the same time. Tom followed the stench and kept his face blank. His skin itched
and his throat felt raw.

“Here’s your bloody shite.” Arch kicked a crate, fumbling for what looked like a metal
crowbar before he smashed the lid off, pulling out what looked like a beaker of something
slate grey- maybe blue in better lighting.

Shit quality, likely mixed and cut with other cheaper ingredients. It came in a beaker for
God’s sake, like the jugs you got of Butterbeer at the discount grocer.

Tom’s nose twitched ever so slightly as Arch shook it, small frothy white bubbles mixing
through the carefully sealed beaker. The wax wasn’t broken.

“Here’s your ruddy tea.” Arch huffed, setting it on top of a nearby table amidst the cigar
stubs, “four sickles.”

A steep price for something so poorly made. Tom could likely bargain, but he had a set
amount of time before the twins noticed his absence and came looking. Catching him in the
back room would only make things worse, so Tom had to quickly take the situation into
something he had control over.
A throb in his temple, a thick churning bubble in his gut. Oil and water- Tom felt like
vomiting.

“I don’t have coins on me.” Tom made himself speak, careful to not look at the jar to reveal
just how much he need- wanted it. “I have something else.”

Arch stared, eyebrows lifting in a condescendingly haughty grin, before it started to sink into
something surprised and flat. “Oh yeah?”

“Not here.” Tom choked the words out, they tasted bitter and sour. Maybe he was the thing
going rotten in this store. “I’ll show you in the back.”

Arch huffed and jammed his hands in his pocket, slinking down between the creaky crates
and splintering floorboards to a thick iron door with bars across the window. The alleyway
stunk of feces and something starting to decay. Maybe a dog had taken residency in the filth,
maybe the dog had become the filth.

“Yeah?” Arch asked, baring his teeth with something sharp, “You’re outside now, yeah?
Watcha say I don’t letcha back in.”

Tom’s face hurt and he kept it flat. His hands trembled but he made sure the man didn’t see.
That’s who he was, after all, a man. He looked youthful from illegal remedies, potions with
blood and other fluids that reversed appearance at the harm of some prepubescent sniffling
brat. It took a special type of individual to stomach that; Tom knew how to find them in the
shady bars or those hidden with pregnant wives.

(Tom felt like fucking puking already; it took him months to learn to stomach it.)

“I don’t have coins.” Tom repeated bluntly. Arch’s eyebrows rose and the glimmer of
something unspoken sealed itself in a bargain between the two. Tom felt disgusted with
himself so innately, he wished he could pretend nothing would ever come of this.

(Tom wondered, with salt burning his eyes, on his cheeks, if this is Hell.)

It always took a moment, a few minutes of wide unseeing eyes and uncontrollable shivers
before the world came back in focus. His breath rattled his chest, the shuddering inhale
forcing his chest to expand and everything to continue. The cold numbness would pass as all
things did, as well as everything else rotten.

“Oi!” Someone shouted, peering into the alleyway with a furrowed brow. Tom winced,
pulling his knees up to his chest with a small twitch down his spine.

The stranger approached the ally, sneaking in to squint into the darkness of the overhand.
“My word! Boy, are you alright? Don’t you know it’s dangerous down here?”

Tom internally sighed and winced at his poor timing. He slowly lifted his head, throwing a
glare in the man’s general direction.
The man was middle aged, a strange mustache that looked more fitting for a ministry monkey
worker than a wizard in the alleys of Knockturn. The ensemble of clothing suggested
something else as well, likely dirty money in all sorts like that.

Tom was already riding the highs of revulsion, self loathing twisting its way in a wild
untamable beast which reared back and whispered into his tired ear, ‘he has coins, then.’

Tom’s mouth twitched, he saw the man’s eyes flicker southern.

“I’m fine.” Tom croaked, voice a low breathy rasp. The man winced second hand,
approaching more out of concern than fear of grime to taint his leather shoes. “You don’t look
fine, my boy. Do you need help? A hand?”

A hand extended, held out politely. Eyes roamed over Tom’s clothing, catching on the stains
both old and forming. The hand didn’t retract.

“I’m fine.” Tom repeated, then took the hand daintily, not pulling back even as the man
squeezed perhaps a tad bit tighter than the norm. His thumb and finger wrapped around the
knobby bones of Tom’s wrist, a shackle of blood and skin.

“My dear,” The man grimaced slightly, eyes flickering towards something dead in the corner
of the ally, “my name is Balazir Doge, who might you be?”

Tom noticed, that Doge didn’t release his grip around his wrist.

“Nobody of importance,” Tom croaked out ugly, not wincing as his body ached, “unless you
care.”

Doge hesitated a moment too long to ever provide certainty in Tom’s mind.

“Knockturn isn’t nice.” Tom whispered, eyes flickering to the grip- likely to bruise at this
rate. “Why are you here, Doge.”

The grip tightened. It would bruise.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Doge responded in a lower voice, eyes scanning over
Tom’s clean but mangled and knotted hair. Messy and gnarled at the roots from unfortunate
treatment. “You likely could find work in better areas, my dear.”

Tom’s smile exposed all teeth, loose in their sockets and rattling like the hiss in his chest.

“I ah, search for potential clients in a selection of the taverns in the area.” Doge cleared his
throat quickly, “a worker for the ministry, you see.”

That didn’t explain why he was lurking in the shadows of a darkened alley, why he was so
eager to step into the shade to offer a hand to a child.

The man’s eyes flickered up at the stone building, maybe he recognized the apothecary for
what it was, or maybe he saw something in Tom himself.
Doge released his wrist, instead working his way up toward his elbow, then higher.

(Tom didn’t shiver, he refused to flinch away.)

(He could manage it he could bloody fucking manage it.)

A stroke of thumb along Tom’s sharp jawline, around the sunken hollows of his cheeks-
already filling out with fat. One of Doge’s hands could likely smother his entire face with the
barest of efforts.

“I think,” Doge started, sounding strangely out of breath, “that you need some help, my dear.
Here here- take this.”

Doge’s grip didn’t shift, but his free hand dug into his pockets to retrieve a small coin purse
made of velvet. He seemed to realize a moment too late how impossible the task would be to
fish out coins with only one hand and the tight drawstring. Instead of removing the calluses
on the pad of his fingers from tracing now the shell of Tom’s ear, he snuck his left hand under
Tom’s coat- to deposit the coin purse on Tom’s inner pocket.

‘Don’t move’ Tom hissed to himself, skin crawling and vomit burning on the back of his
tongue. ‘Play along.’

Doge’s hand retreated far too slowly, before diving back into one of his waistcoat pockets to
fetch a small card of stationary. High quality, bold with fine font displaying words Tom
couldn’t see from the angle.

“My contact.” Doge spoke, voice hoarse and partially strained, “It ah, nifty piece of magic. It
ah, if I am within the alley it will...point you to my location. For...consultation. I ah, do enjoy
the local taverns.”

Tom’s eyes didn’t look away. Doge’s hand felt like boiling poison, eroding his skin with
every touch. “It looks like I may be seeing you again, then.”

Doge exhaled with the smallest shiver, then stepped away from his indecently close position.
“Buy yourself something precious, my dear.”

He departed, stiff in gait until he hastily vanished from the sight of the ally. Tom instantly
reached toward his face, clawing with short rugged nails against the spots where the man had
touched his skin. Dried salt flaked away, like snowflakes onto the ally ground.

The coin purse felt heavy, thick with money that could refill his stock for ages. Tom greedily
fished it out, mouth salivating at the Pavlovian instinct where money equated to food.

(Tom wouldn’t be able to eat for hours, not with how sick he felt.)

The coins were tarnished and dirty, a few shining within the bundle. Copper and silver- Knuts
and Sickles. Maybe one galleon within the pot- more money than Tom remembered having in
a long, long time.
Tom leant back and exhaled brokenly. He should stretch it out, be frugal with what little he
had even as drool threatened to slip down the tracks that had long since dried already. Tom
knew his face likely was disgusting, and yet he had been given... charity.

Tom hated pity, but at this point he needed to take the gift horse and not question it. In this
case, the gifted sickles that could buy him an entire crate of the shit potion in stock.

Tom hung his head, shivered, and ducked quietly into the store once again.

The twins didn’t seem to notice his absence, but the clock on the wall spoke that it had been
only around twenty minutes since he slipped through the back door. Time moved so slowly,
when every second lasted much longer than it should. The sink in the back of the store bled
rusted water, but anything was better than the grime across Tom’s flesh. A smirking smug
look from Arch didn’t help, nor did his raised eyebrow when Tom deposited the small sack of
coins and left the store with a dozen beakers of caravan potions lab dreamless sleep, stashed
in a small bottomless bag he had been given back from his previous belongings. Nostalgia, of
the old times he explained to the auror in charge of him. A bag that although seemed
harmless, was now pinned to his thigh under his clothing with metal spikes and blood- the
cilice Sirius never commented on.

Tom itched to return, but wandering back from the shady crevices of Knockturn took time
with the two twins bickering nervously over borderline illegal potion ingredients. Nothing
compared to the literal crime attached to Tom’s side.

They kept walking, out of the fog and towards the fresh air. The business card in Tom’s
pocket burned the entire stroll.

“Where are they?” Fred muttered, squinting above the crowd to try and spot anyone.

“Oi!” George grinned, pointing in one direction, “found Ronnikins! Over at ice cream!”

The two whooped, grabbing Tom tightly to drag him through the wades of people. They
parted, like Moses and Tom found himself biting his tongue at the irony.

The ice cream parlour was of course, crowded. The splash of red hair betrayed itself to be
Ron, however the accompaniment quickly became recognizable. Hermione eagerly was
flipping through a book, still glossy with its tags. Harry was curiously prodding what looked
to be a sherbert vampire bat, which was snapping in protest at his spoon as if the charmed
creature actually was sentient. Tom would have long since stabbed the ruddy thing.

“Hey!” Fred waved, hopping the small fence. George grabbed Tom’s wrist- (Tom flinched
but neither paid it any attention) and forcibly threw him over the fence into the less cluttered
area of the outside patio.
“There you are!” Ron huffed, chocolate smeared on the corner of his mouth. “He didn’t run
off? Shame, you coulda’ cursed ‘em.”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed with a glare, “did you find what you needed?”

“Yep, not a problem.” Fred dismissed, sneaking forward to boldly nip the ear off the
squabbling sherbert bat. “Oo, didn’t reckon you were an orange bloke, Harry.”

Harry shrugged, not upset with his bat at all. “It looked interesting.”

George came back, dragging two chairs. He plopped one near Hermione who scooched to the
side. The other was on the other side of Harry, between him and a girl Tom hadn’t looked at
yet.

Fred hopped into the seat near Hermione, George casually flopping over the armrest to lay in
his twin’s lap. Nobody acted like it was odd, perhaps the level of physical affection was
something more permitted in this time.

Tom daintily sat in his chair, keeping his spine straight and his eyes unseeing forward directly
between Hermione’s critical eye and Ron’s grudging glare. He had already made his opinions
known in regard of how Tom should be treated.

“So, uh.” Harry started awkwardly, “how’s your summer, Luna.”

Tom didn’t look, he kept himself composed. His skin still burned, his body still felt wrong,
canvas stretched too tight over a wooden frame.

He stared between the two, and Tom let himself float.

(People always said that rats were the ones to feed on vermin, the ones that feasted on the
lowest level of society and brought plagues to others.

Tom never found that fitting.

Why was he, a damn orphan rat, when his greatest desire was to survive?

Why was he doomed to die over the selfish nature of others? Tom wasn’t going to allow
himself to starve to death, he would do everything necessary to ensure he lived.

Tom wasn’t a rat, he was a scavenger.)

“-Om.” Someone said, gently and softly and very curiously. “That’s a nice name. I haven’t
seen you before, are you new to Hogwarts?”
Tom snapped back into his skull, whiplash ringing a headache behind his eyes. He turned his
head slowly- feeling small bubbles pop in his neck with the stiffness of his posture.

The girl there had her head tilted curiously, a small melodic lilt to her voice. Her eyes were
wide, a starry blue that was slightly darkened with the dim lighting, blonde hair held back
with bumblebee styled hair ties.

Tom stiffened, his entire skeleton locking into place. His stomach tilted, his eyes widened. He
could feel, the individual beads of sweat that pinpricked so quickly along his upper lip. The
unflattering moments he knew in himself as well as the thrum of adrenaline coursing through
his veins. Fight or Flight; live or die.

“Hi,” the girl smiled distantly, looking at her starburst of colours in her little ice cream cup.
“I’m Luna. You look very out of place here, did you transfer from somewhere?”

Tom said nothing, the tendons in his hands bulging with the strength behind holding it back.

(He was so tired, so stressed. The tide of emotions and fear washed the world into shades of
white and grey.)

“Yes!” Hermione blurted out of place, “he ah, he’s staying the summer with us!”

“Oh,” The girl smiled at him, “That’s nice. I’m going to get more ice cream, daddy said he’d
meet me in a little while anyways, he’s talking to a new intern at the quibbler.”

Tom couldn’t breathe, he could feel sweat trickling down the nape of his neck.

The girl looked at him with big blue eyes, and bright blonde hair. He couldn’t hear an accent,
but you couldn’t trust anyone they’d steal him away in a heartbeat; freak, unnatural, demon-
child, experiment-.

“I wonder what I should get next,” Luna hummed, frowning at her bowl, “would you like to
come with me, Tom?”

No, no, no

“I’d rather not.” His voice was strained, forced casual and clipped. He could see Hermione’s
eyebrows raise at the sound of something off.

Don’t trust them, don’t trust a bloody Kraut. They’ll sell you out they’ll kill yer bleedin’
mother.

“Really?” Luna said, eyes looking downcast as she stood slowly, her chair scraping as she
offered one hand with a small smile, “I insist. I’ll pay, my treat.”

Yeh hear it, kid? They’ll take ya, and they’ll rip yer skull open and see what makes you tick
you little bloody freak! Yer ‘ear me! They’ll rip you apart you li-

“Come with me,” Luna urged.

Blonde hair, blue eyes.

Tom knew he made a noise, small and nearly silent from the back of his throat. He could feel
Harry startle, the rub of fabric on cheap plastic chairs.

They’ll rip fresh meat like you apart like a fu-

The table shattered, impounding inwards like a giant stepped on it. The girl, Luna, screamed
as the impact knocked her off her feet- collapsing to the floor under the weight of broken
wood. The bright cloth awning shriveled through a sudden shift- hot and cold, heat and ice
with a rattling snap as thermal shock exploded.

Glasses rained in shrapnel, loud bangs of ice and metal warping like gunfire. A blonde haired
girl on the ground-

“Wegghen!” Tom spat, shrieking in poorly accented German. It warbled as he jerked himself
backwards, eyes locked on the struggling Kraut. He heard they had been using children,
luring them out. Slaughtering entire cities, stealing families in the night. “Wegghen!”

Another thermal shock, his skull hurt and his sinuses felt numb with the sudden chill. Snow
was gathering on the ground- a table over was on fire.

The alley of Diagon screamed, shoppers rushing away from the quickly spiraling out of
control situation. More magic, a larger snap! As the railing itself warped into dangerously
sharp points.

“Luna!” Hermione screamed, scrambling to her feet, eyes flitting between Tom who was
looking more feral than sane.

“Harry!” Ron shouted, tugging his leg out from underneath the internally smashed table.

Harry seemed to understand, because the next thing Tom could barely comprehend, someone
tackled him sideways onto the ground.

(Either the adrenaline or stress of the day was enough for the impact to knock him clean cold-
or maybe it was the metal corner his temple slammed into on the way down.)

After the bombing, the worst night yet, the sky was grey with dirt. Yellow, like tarnished
brass, clouded in the sky.

High above in the rising sun, there were birds. Like the gulls near the coast, circling for fresh
fish. The fishermen hadn’t brought back seafood in a long time. Instead, the harbour was
filled with military boats, bringing in covered blankets that sometime already were stinking.

Tom watched the birds, too large for normal species, soar on the thermals twisting through
the ruins of some neighbourhoods.
 Vultures weren’t common in Britain, in fact they had been extinct for as long as Tom knew. A
lack of big game, a food supply unable to sustain them.

He saw them dive, flocking and soaring with wings large and brown over sites trailing ash
and char.

Tom wondered, if by the end of this, he too, would be a vulture.

Chapter End Notes

Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!

 Flatus vocis
Chapter Summary

Where Crina decides that sometimes enough is enough.

Chapter Notes

I was bored today and in all honesty, I have no idea how I did this either.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Tom was slowly growing more insane by the hour. The lack of stimuli, the carefully
monitored eyes and wards that washed over his skin like a jolt of electricity.

He hated it, far far more than he would ever admit. He allowed it to slide off him, a guarded
calm expression as internally he seethed over the audacity of it all.

Hermione Granger seemed to be the only one recognizing his struggles. She certainly wasn’t
a friend, but she had been treating him differently ever since the excursion to Diagon, and the
incident as everyone was so quietly stating. The incident, being Luna Lovegood, a pureblood
soon-to-be fourth year receiving broken bones in both legs under the weight of crushed
concrete and a large decorative table. Since then, Tonks had been quite accommodating in
avoiding a specific phenotype involving blue eyes and blonde hair. How wonderful.

Tom, as one commonly does, was nearly reaching combustion in the forced casualness of the
communal living room. Sirius Black, his excellent caretaker watched him with a barely
repressed grimace. Hermione was staring at him firmly, both Ron and Harry attempting to
ignore the increasing tension with a game of exploding snap. Another round, and perhaps
Tom would be the one to snap instead.

“Okay,” Hermione huffed, her hands clenching into fists to somehow inspire an internal sense
of confidence. “I- ah-.” She licked her lip, eyebrow furrowing before she boldly stated, “One
plus One equals Two.”

Harry and Ron, timidly, stopped their game to look at her a bit concerned.

“You alright there?” Ron kindly asked, “books touched you a bit too much?”

Sirius didn’t say anything, but he too looked ready to fetch the poor girl a drink as if she had
been overworking herself.
Tom felt the buzz of energy in his mind stir at the question, a gentle invitation into an
argument he could burn. He looked at her, evaluating the competitive gleam in her eye.

Tom didn’t smile, but he did smoothly counter, “one plus one equals three.”

Now all eyes were on him, pondering the notion that he had finally lost his mind.

Hermione didn’t light up, but she did cross her legs and look at him with some sort of
academic interest. “The number one has already been assigned mathematical significance and
its value properly appreciated and accepted.” She puffed.

Tom barely looked at her. “Give me statements.”

Ron looked at Sirius, who looked at the red head in dismay.

“I don’t understand what’s going on.” Ron blinked slowly, “Harry? Mate? Any of this
making sense to you?”

“Not a word.” Harry mused, pondering the cards on the table.

“The mathematical value of one is certain,” Hermione started. “The principles of addition are
certain. That entails that the mathematical value of one and addition create the value of two.”

Tom finally turned to look at her. Something shifting in his eye. “If I were to not believe the
value of one, nor the principle of mathematical addition, I should then conclude that the value
of two is not possible to understand.”

Hermione twitched. “No, they’re independent.”

“Relativism isn’t an applicable approach.” Tom snapped back sourly, looking almost
disappointed. “I thought you knew philosophy.”

Hermione flushed, and looked downcast quickly, ashamed of her hasty word choice.

“Above that,” Tom murmured quietly, glancing downwards at where his foot twitches every
so often. “The idea of mathematics is something intangible and thus, subjective. It is
ridiculous to entertain analysis over intangible subjects.”

“I caught one word there,” Harry confided in Ron, “they’re talking about ghosts.”

Hermione stiffened sharply. “If you want to discuss magical theory-.”

“For God’s sake, that’s far above you.” Tom snapped viciously. “You play with the idea of
numbers, I take it you’re a fan of Arithmancy?”

“You aren’t?” Hermione huffed, looking insulted.

“I tested out.” Tom smiled sharply, his eyes shadowed by the crease in his brow. “It was a
waste of my time and ventures. I found it not necessary.”
“Un-.” Hermione spluttered, “It- it is the concrete foundation for constructing spells-.”

“Based on the subjective values of language!” Tom spat back, practically bristling. “You’re
pathetic notion of One plus One- tell me, Granger, duex et deux font quatre, is that true or
false?”

Hermione’s mouth opened, jaw lifting and closing as she spluttered over a response, “I don’t
speak French!”

“Good! Then you comprehend the absolute insignificant value of words! Words are concepts
constructed by individual societies, the only value of words or numbers are the significance
we assign over them- do you agree that in certain cultures there is no existence of the number
zero?’

“I- yes!” Hermione shouted.

“Then you should understand that such notion or meaning assigned to the number two could
equally be assigned to three! One plus one equals three!”

The two were nearly panting, Hermione’s chest heaving while Tom’s hands had taken to
uncontrollable twitching. His cheekbone was shifting as well, as if ready to spasm in his
frustration.

“That doesn’t account for Arithmancy!” Hermione composed herself, speaking in a flat tone
that wavered slightly towards the end. “Where the value of numbers is assigned to
consonants and syllables-.”

“Which are societal constructs.” Tom deadpanned. “Different languages use alternative ways
to structure sentences, as well as the removal or addition of entire letters which cause your
mathematical reasoning to be void.”

“It’s how you make spells!” Hermione snapped shortly. “That’s how it’s always been!”

Tom’s smile dug deeper, contorting his face like a snarl. “You are insufferable. You want to
understand just how asinine your petty views of logic are? Fine.”

Tom stood, a sudden sharp movement as he stalked a few steps forward, standing in the
center of the room with his eyes locked on the girl sitting at a lower elevation to him.

“Accio,” Tom spoke slowly, voice deep and seething, “in your basic Arithmancy courses, you
assign numerical values per letter. Accio in order of the English alphabet is then assigned the
values, one, three, three, nine, fifteen. If you use your addition then division- which is what
your basic introductory generally uses, you have a sum of thirty one. If you use the Latin
alphabet with groupings of letters assigned per number, you have one, three, three, nine, six.”

Hermione was quickly losing her angry flush, intrigue and guilt colouring her face instead.

“Following Latin based spell construction-” Tom was going off on his tirade, “we sum these
values and then break them into a single number equation- which would be two plus two
equals four, which oh wonderful abides your construct of mathematical value.”
Tom’s eyes sharpened, something delightful and wicked playing in his mind. “However, if I
were to alter this value into something impossible, shifting the value into something that does
not equate to the same value- the word cito, similar in definition yet different root structure.
Do you agree, that Cito should not work in place of Accio?”

Hermione couldn’t make noise, instead she made a strangled croaking noise.

“Better yet,” Tom continued on his tirade, seeming to enjoy himself, “let’s work under the
presumption that the word flowerpot is not equal in value and assignment to an entirely
different language, and now somehow a first person conjugation of a verb as well-.”

“What?” Sirius was croaking out, looking just as mystified and confused as Harry felt. “I-
flowerpot?”

“The idea of words and their associated meaning is something purely cognitive,” Tom
ignored the man, gazing at Hermione intensely. “If I were to cognitively assign the noun
flowerpot my own understanding of an entirely different selection of sound, I too could shift
the idea of spells entirely.”

“That’s not possible.” Hermione finally managed to croak out, looking as if in the midst of an
existential crisis. “That- that sort of- magic doesn’t work like that-.”

Tom’s lip curled. He outstretched one hand, contorted in a claw in the general direction of a
decorative pillow across the room.

“ Flowerpot,” He spoke, spitting the word as if it was something foul, “ -pillow.”

The pillow shot to his hand, and Tom swayed slightly with a small grimace.

“What.” Ron started, eyes bulging out. “ What.”

Sirius jumped to his feet, looking ready to tackle Tom to the floor.

“No!” Hermione looked on the verge of screaming, both hands fisting her hair and tugging on
the roots, “I- you can’t do that. You- that is against the rules set in place and established by
the idea of spellcasting I- no.”

“He broke magic.” Harry spoke numbly. “He just bloody broke magic.”

“You said you know philosophy,” Tom hissed, bending in half to reach Hermione’s level in
height. His voice thickened in the level of his frustration, a strange lyrical style change in
emphasis as Cockney stirred its low social class- head, “Yer self-entitled, dog an’ tick ,
Hampton Wick.”

The door opened, a woman’s head peered in with a somewhat flat expression. She frowned
ever so slightly, her hair pulled back into a hasty and somewhat styled bun.

“Oh,” She said, flatly and unimpressed yet somehow not alarmed by the mounting hysteria,
“is this a bad time?”
Sirius flinched back with a meek noise, sitting quickly on the couch as if to be a smaller
target. Crina’s nose wrinkled slightly, although her face smoothed as she observed Tom’s fury
and Hermione’s pale complexion. “Oh dear, are you scaring the children again?”

Tom craned his neck halfway, glaring at her with a frozen snarl and the eyes of someone a
minute and a knife away from murder. “Bugger off.”

Crina clicked her tongue, stepping through the threshold casually. “Oh, you’ve given the poor
girl an existential crisis. What did you ask?”

Tom’s neck bulged slightly, a thin rope of muscle protruding as he tensed his body to control
himself. “The concept of words and numbers.”

Crina nodded slowly, “that’s an interesting one. Does truth exist without evidence?”

Tom exhaled quickly through his nose. “The idea of morality and right and wrong are not
practical concepts.”

Crina nodded politely. “That’s a fascinating one. Mr. Black, would you like to contribute to
the discussion? I’m sure you’re perspective would be delectable.”

Sirius paled. He sat up, then stood in a single jerky movement. His footsteps were loud thuds
on the floor, until he left the room and ventured further down the hall.

“There bloody is good and evil.” Ron muttered under his breath, scowling at the table.
“Bloody monsters.”

“Oh?” Crina asked, elevating her voice slightly higher so Ron could realize (with a shiver of
shame) that he had been heard. “Would you like to extrapolate on that idea, Mr. Weasley?”

“Uh.” Ron said wisely, choking on his words.

“There is no such thing as good and evil.” Tom countered with something flat, determined
and...secure. Unfaltering, knowing without hesitation that what he said, was something set
stronger than conceptualization. “Only power, and others too…”

“-weak to seek it.” Harry finished in a small strained noise.

Tom’s eyes met his, locking on in a wordless soundless question. Harry twitched, feeling
more exposed than he ever wanted to be.

“Come on guys,” Harry broke the eye contact, standing quickly to try and corral his friends,
“let’s uh...leave Tom to his…”

Harry didn’t finish his sentence- they were already leaving.

Harry felt Tom’s eyes on him all the way until he managed out of sight.

Crina settled herself casually, taking the seat Tom had sat in prior to her visiting. Tom
bristled, recognizing that the only reasonable seating now was the single armchair Hermione
had been occupying just prior. That, or he could walk across the entire room to sit an
absurdly far distance away- he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of it.

“I find it quite lovely that you have such obvious fascination.” Crina began delicately,
reaching into her always present bag to pluck out- much to his surprise, a package of smokes.
“Would you like one?”

She made no movement to get up, nor to throw it at him. Tom bristled once more, weighing
the benefits of ignoring the tantalizing offering, or having to grovel at her hand for a
forbidden gift.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Crina rolled her eyes, setting the package down gently next to
her. She fished out something else, long and ornate. It was shorter than a wand, but only just;
Tom realized that he had recognized matrons wielding such things with tails of smoke
following them.

“That’s a bit long.” Tom remarked dryly, eyes flickering over the accessory- likely bone or
horn from the slight impurities along the length. “Are you going to the theatre?”

Crina glanced down at the cigarette holder, frowning slightly as if disappointed. “I was
hoping it was something racy, considering I’m lacking the elbow length gloves.”

Tom eyed the package, still sealed in a thin plastic package. Crina fumbled with the foreign
device, looking slightly annoyed with the intricacies of the (now) antique.

“Dare I ask how you came to own one?” Tom asked dryly, finally standing to prowl forward.
His temper had soothed in the face of Crina’s intimidating intellect- fumbling with a hollow
stick like it was a great secret.

“I’ve been investigating.” Crina began to murmurer lowly, almost guiltily. “I’d be a poor
professional if I hadn’t researched to better suit my patients.”

“Your research,” Tom rolled the word tauntingly, “is getting me fags and wasting my time.”

Crina’s nose twitched. “My research, involves you showing me how to use this blasted thing.
Also, in this era what you call ‘fag’ is now a social slur. If you repeat it, I fear I’ll have to
punish you accordingly.”

Tom ignored her- it was unlikely she could dish out any sort of punishment at all. He did
make a note of the turn of phrase, such a slip could be disastrous in the wrong setting. He
pondered, plucking the metal lighter to turn paper ablaze, how much had changed in his
absence.

He loaded Crina’s holder, securing it in place as well as the second filter. He didn’t laugh, but
he knew he wouldn’t forget Crina’s wrecked wheezing and coughing as smoke invaded her
lungs and brought tears to her eyes.

Tom, maintaining eye contact, pulled so harshly a third of his stick burned in a small crackle
of paper and nicotine. Crina scowled as well as she could with teary eyes.
“I heard you were shopping,” Crina spoke, voice hoarse and a far cry from the usual smooth
tone she forced herself to maintain.

Tom said nothing, closing his eyes and relaxing as fire and poison stained his fingertips.

“Well,” Crina continued wistfully, “I was enjoying my evening. I had just drawn a bath, you
see. To me those are...ah...considering my audience, perhaps I should say that my baths are
heavenly to me. Truly, a sacred moment of unity between relaxation, and the stress headaches
my patients gift me.”

Tom flicked the cigarette butt on the floor, watching in boredom as the ember grew- nearly
catching flame on the threadbare carpet, before it extinguished itself in a tuft of rancid smoke.

“Or well,” Crina shrugged, twirling the cigarette in her hand, forming smoke trails in the air
in front of her. “Perhaps I would have enjoyed such a thing, if not for your wardens intruding
so forcefully. Do you not feel guilty, Tom?” Crina asked, eyes wide with fake innocence,
“that poor, poor Albus encroached upon my watery temple?”

Tom snorted under his breath, a foul dirty sound that instantly filled him with self loathing.
Crina smiled ever so slightly, satisfied with her barbs of humour before she choked on smoke
and left herself wheezing once more.

“You’re doing that purely for show.” Tom noted, understanding the appeal yet also finding
her pathetically idiotic to reveal such an obvious flaw with her demeanor.

Crina looked miserable, scowling at the burning cylinder as if it was at fault for her decisions.
“Obviously. How else am I going to succeed in my malevolent ambitions in destroying the
social hierarchy to reinstate a less aggravating world?”

Tom did not laugh. He exhaled quickly through his nose, but he did not laugh.

“Unfortunately, I do indeed have a purpose for trespassing.”

Obviously, Crina had explained before that she did not like being here unless she had to.

“I have tests for you,” Crina explained, extinguishing the butt of her cigarette with her
pointed shoe. “Various types, academic, reflex, processing as well as magical core. I know,
simple things truly. I am willing to wager half of my wine cellar that you are not dyslexic.”

“Only half?” Tom asked with a small quirk of his eyebrow.

“You’re not worth all my wine.” Crina said simply, tapping the top sheaf of paper. “These
tests are average based through all of primary education, through to Hogwart’s curriculum
that Albus was so kind to provide for me. I added in international testing grounds to see your
score in subjects not generally taught in the Hogwrts Ciriculum- of course these are only the
paper based since I am not a licensed test evaluate for practical work. After that, we can go
further into other informational records. This stack would take a lesser man a few hours. I’ll
give you one.”

Tom eyed the bundle, it was quite a bit.

“Feel free to remove the reading comprehension tests,” Crina tapped the stack, “I’ll be testing
you on my own, through the battlefield of verbal combat. I’ll be back in an hour, I do enjoy
vexing Mr. Black.”

Crina stood, deposited the stack, and gave a small casual wave as she slipped out of the room.
Tom knew the papers had anti-cheating wards, perhaps even runes woven into the fibers
somewhere. They felt thick and firm, ministry level with a...phrasing which led Tom to
believe it must have come from an international operation.

He plucked the fountain pen Crina had left him, much more functional than a quill.

Fifty eight minutes of scribbling, he finished the stack.

“Albus!” Minerva McGonagall spoke in a hushed tone, frantically rolling through the
parchment provided for her. The first floor meeting room had been cleared away, a small
quasi map on the wall that constantly updated based on their information. The majority of
their information was stored there, hidden in very secure boxes and shelves.

“Albus! These results!” Minerva continued, staring at them in partial awe. They were...they
were extraordinary.

A knock on the door and Albus’ weary sigh alerted Minerva, that perhaps there was more to
this story than she could see.

The door opened slowly, a middle aged woman with a youthful face stood in the threshold.
Her eyes skimmed over Minerva dismissively, landing on Albus.

“I presume you’ve ignored the results.” She hummed, her voice a practiced flat tone that
prickled Minerva’s neck. Whenever she had heard such an inflection, it generally came with
scoffing or aggravated barbs from her students. Someone who embraced such a….a...a
irritating tone was outlandish.

Albus rubbed his nose, shifting the glasses on his face slightly before he stood slowly.
“Minerva?” He asked, offering one arm tiredly.

“Of course!” She rushed, accepting his arm as if to support him. The woman didn’t seem
interested, or perhaps she cared so little for age with her...her potion fake face, that the needs
of the older were beyond her.

Albus more led Minerva, than Minerva led him. Up the stairs, then some more. Towards a
smaller communal room that Minerva remembered a few members preferring to spend time
in, on the assortment of couches and chairs over the larger rectangular shaped room.

The younger woman walked in first, uncaring if they followed. Already Minerva was biting
back choice words.
They slipped through the doorway, Albus instantly taking a lopsided armchair missing one
carved foot. Minerva settled herself nearby on a lumpy couch, sniffing in disdain as the
woman decided to settle herself on a- clearly, transfigured chair more similar to a throne than
something humble.

“Hello,” the woman began, in the same flat tone although her eyes finally focused on
Minerva with jarring accuracy, “I am Mind Healer Dimitriu. I am the Overseer of
Nurmengard Castle, as well as the Convener of the International Committee of Magical
Cognitive Research and Health. I understand that the UK is currently not a member of the
ICMCRH, however due to my residency and multiple patients spanning global, it is
necessary information to provide.”

Minerva stiffened in alarm, looking over at Dumbledore who had the smallest wince frozen
on his face.

“I- excuse me?” Minerva whispered in alarm, “ Nurmengard?”

“It’s a recent position.” Mind Healer Dimitriu said equally flat. “The political Premier
experienced an unexplained psychotic episode. I hear he is still in recovery, of course not
under my care. The Austrian Ministry of Magical Conduct assigned me formal international
certification for the activities of Nurmengard Castle.”

Minerva leaned back in her chair, feeling quite faint.

“I always knew you would achieve much, Crina, dear.”’ Albus spoke, his voice soft in his
age.

Crina- her first name it must be, smiled ever so flatly. “Of course, Albus. And yet,” She
inhaled, reclining in her seat as if perplexed by something sitting before her, “you requested I
perform a full diagnostic review over my own patient, share the results of said review, and
when the academic performance is on display you seem to...repudiate, the admission of my
client into your school?”

Minerva quickly looked down at the scroll still clenched between her fingers.

“We had not agreed on this.” Albus spoke quietly.

“We hadn’t.” Crina agreed, looking almost excited by the conversation. “You mandated I
perform a complete diagnostic on personality disorders . I know you were anticipating
something quite horrid, Albus. Perhaps you should look at the results and tell me what is
missing?”

Minerva scanned through the document all over again, shuddering at the number scoring and
registry along most performance tests.

“The boy is unwell.” Dumbledore spoke.

“He isn’t, and that’s your problem.” Crina’s smile didn’t meet the cool flatness of her eyes.
“You have little understanding of the mind, Albus. You already have labeled the child as a
monster, and yet there is no diagnosis to be made for Antisocial, Narcissistic, Borderline,
Schizoid, or Bipolar personality disorder. In fact, it appears that only negligence has left him
in the state he is currently exhibiting.”

Albus aged, his hand running against the side of his face tiredly. “Crina, you cannot
possibly-.”

“My client,” Crina started, cutting him off instantly, “has a highly functioning declarative
memory, as well as processing abilities far above that of his age. His cognitive reasoning
skills challenge that of an adult, his emotional intelligence is above average, Albus, and his
stimuli decoding time are astounding.”

Crina pointed at the sheaf in Minerva’s hands. “You will see that not only are his academic
performances suitable for the curriculum he has learned, but his alternative studies he has
pursued out of boredom already surpass the minimum for international testing for his age. If
you allocated proper supplies or even materials, my client could easily take his NEWTS by
the following summer. Instead, you suggest I lock him up in Nurmengard Castle.”

Minerva inhaled in horror, jerking away from Albus who looked far too tired for the
discussion.

“Albus.” Minerva whispered in horror, feeling more stunned as the Headmaster merely
sighed into his hand.

Minerva settled herself, and made eye contact with Crina.

“Excellent.” Crina said calmly, as if she had been waiting for this the entire time. “I find it
necessary to inform you that my client has, what I suspect to be, an autoimmune disorder that
has damaged his current ability to defend against minor diseases.”

Minerva nodded slowly, trying not to shudder under the intimidating woman’s gaze. “Madam
Pomfrey, our resident Mediwitch, is well suited for any sort of ailment.”

“I know.” Crina said calmly. “I suggest, that my client be housed outside of your dorm
system. Your hospital wing provides a selection of individual patient rooms which can easily
be outfitted to suit his needs.”

Minerva’s eyebrows rose, “but, the class schedule-.”

“Can be adjusted.” Crina consoled her, “admittedly, I believe there will be a selection of
extracurricular coursework for international academic pursuits. I also, wish to ask Albus to
return to me my client’s wand.”

The room settled into a heavy, cold atmosphere once more.

“Crina-.” Albus spoke, his voice hoarse.

“The episode you contacted me for was a single prompted event.” Crina clarified flatly.
“Such repeats are unlikely. If you would prefer, I can ask my client to come in the room.”
“He’s here?” Minerva asked, licking her lower lip nervously, “I’d like to speak with him.”

“Wonderful.” Crina blinked, waving her wand. The door nearest her creaked open, an
individual jerkily rising from some sort of casual lounging near the wall.

“Oh.” Minerva said.

Tom Riddle’s eyes flickered over Albus dismissively, settling on Minerva with something
unreadable. He held one hand out, palm up patiently.

“His wand, Albus.” Crina repeated, “you’ve been unethically withholding my client’s
belongings long enough.”

Albus bowed his head in defeat.

His wand felt odd in his hand after he had gone so long without it. As familiar as his knife, or
bag. As important to him as his journal.

Tom wasn’t an idiot, he knew by the tired look on Albus’ face that Crina had done him a
great service in getting him enrolled. It was something he truthfully hadn’t thought he’d
achieve- he imagined being locked up for a long time now.

It would be...odd, returning to Hogwarts. Not to the dungeons, but to some private room by
the Hospital Wing. Classes changing depending on his performance, on his interest.

Crina had provided him a list of various courses permitted by international students, things
that would rely on essay and written format with a practical towards the end of the year that
he’d have to show up for appointment for. Beyond that, he’d be taking general classes if they
appeared to challenge his intellect enough to keep him active.

There was one thing, that he was not that excited for.

Crina was intelligent, she was well aware that Tom could not be left alone to his own devices.
He couldn’t be... released to roam the streets alone. He was still a security risk, but he had
enough personal rights and the ability of autonomy to not be pinned down like a dog.

So, Crina casually offered an alternative that Dumbledore found acceptable, and the
headmistress found horrific.

Tom didn’t care- what was one more handmade tattoo rune to the other he had imprinted on
his arm?

Before
It wasn’t one of his worst ideas, but it was far from his best.

Tom knew that the focus of Ancient Runes were far beyond him, he had taken the course and
looked into supplementary materials when the content became too dull, but he was playing
with fire. Literally.

The nearest newspaper store was destroyed, raided by the crime that had increased. All of the
men went off to war, all of the boys went off to war. Where were the policemen? The fire
department? The law or the jurisdiction? The illegal selling of food stamps, of batons and
knives taken off corpses. The wagons filled with rations, being hauled away by nameless
people to sell to the hungry women on street corners wishing they were swollen with babe.
Perhaps then, they would be fed and survive if not the child.

Tom wasn’t fortunate like that. He had tried getting into Diagon alley through London almost
every night, every time he tried it was sealed shut. The last time he tried magic, it left him
crippled on the ground in a pile of his own fluids. He hadn’t tried since, not foolish enough to
test a ministry level ward twice.

He was on his own for now, but magic wasn’t only defined as the ability of a wand.

He didn’t want to use wandless magic, what little he could manage that was. If the ward
crashed so heavily on his wand, would it smite him with an accident as well? Could it detect
his every movements?

He wasn’t safe in the eyes of the muggles, and he wasn’t an ally in the eyes of the wizarding
world. The Orphanage had long since been abandoned, raided by hungry homeless men
looking for anything to eat or sell.

Tom would be a prize in their eyes, so Tom made sure they would never look at him again.

“Notice-me-not.” Tom whispered to himself, over and over as if the simple mantra would
soothe the shaking in his hands. He wished he hadn’t used his last cigarettes up a few days
ago, he would kill for something to steady his nerves.

He held the needle carefully, flickering it in and out of the candle flame. He’d have to find a
new one soon, this one was shrinking until soon it would be nothing but a stump.

In and out he passed the needle, careful to not let any dust touch the tip. He’d have to find a
new sewing kid after this, but if this worked then he’d be fine for however long it took for the
ink to bleed out.

He pulled it out of the flame, letting it cool before he fished for the sewing thread wound
round a spool. He looped it once, twice, six times around the end of the needle, close enough
to the tip only a single stem of straw could be pricked before caught in the tight bound string.

“Okay,” Tom murmured to himself, dipping the needle and string into the inkwell at his side,
mixed with muggle black printing ink and the last bits of his ink from Hogwarts. It swished
 darkly, quickly staining the cotton thread and sinking deep into its pores.

Letting it soak, Tom fished for the bit of charcoal he had, twisting his arm around to trace
carefully the rune pictured in his spellbook, faintly visible in the light of his stumpy candle.
He had to redraw one of his lines, making it too long.

The hairs on his arm prickled, distorting the picture he carefully sketched. He should have
used the knife he’d stolen and cut off the hair before he began. He doubted the blade was
sharp enough to shave; he should have burned the hair down to the root.

It was too late to do that now, not with what little candlelight he had left. Tom dug out a sock-
his only clean one left, and shoved it between his teeth. He knew it wouldn’t hurt too long,
but he couldn’t afford to take breaks and after a while the buzzing would cause his hand to
flail.

With unsteady hands drawn by paranoia and hunger, Tom fished out the little sewing needle
and punctured his skin. The needle stung, sharp and quick. The compression on the cotton
string squeezed out the ink it had absorbed, and forced it under his flesh in a mark of his own
making. Again, and again, until little blackened pinpricks bloomed under his skin and little
droplets of blood dripped down his arm.

Again and again, until magic rune bled black on his skin and the candle finally, burned out.

Chapter End Notes

Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!

 Intra muros
Chapter Summary

Where Tom knows the world works like Economics.

Cost, Benefit.
Trade-off.

Chapter Notes

SPRINT WRITING.
Honestly, hang on.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Crina is unusually interested in you.”

Harry jumped, hand jerking reflexively. He stared at the dark stain over his summer
homework, already bleeding and disfiguring the word he had managed to write. With a small
sigh, he scribbled it out, knowing that Snape would likely mark him down an entire letter
grade for the countless smears throughout the parchment.

Tom had been watching him for a while now, leisurely like a large cat. His eyes were sharp
and intimidating, something about his constant observation reminded Harry uneasily of Aunt
Petunia’s glare through the windows. Watching his every action, waiting for some sort of
falter.

“Yeah well,” Harry huffed, glancing over his butchered scroll to see if he should consider
rewriting all of it anyways. Hermione likely could help him, she had finished her summer
homework nearly the first week off. “What can I say, adults seem to love sticking their noses
in my business.”

Tom didn’t scoff or smile like Harry expected. His expression remained the same, ever
constant watching. It was still odd to see him about, dressed in casual clothing (if slightly ill
fitting) and sprawled across moth eaten furniture. Harry could only ever remember Tom
Riddle from the Chamber, dressed in pristine clothing and silken undershirts. Now, he looked
younger, gaunter, and somehow more real then the pressing veil of adrenaline from Harry’s
youth.

“She thought it was ironic.” Tom spoke, a dull lull that didn’t reflect his face, “that I found
myself interested in you. Do you know why that is?”
Harry swallowed thickly and ducked his head back down to scribble a few more useless
sentences onto his essay. “No bloody clue.”

“I don’t believe that.” Tom said. He stood then, long legs folding like some sort of
marionette. Graceful and seemingly defying the basic rules of gravity. Nearly floating as he
walked, silent padding steps over the thinning carpet.

Tom bent over at the waist, head drawn near to Harry’s elevation from where he was
scribbling on a coffee table.

Tom frowned, an ever so slight quirk of his chapped and splitting lips. Harry hadn’t
remembered the ghost of the diary ever looking so horribly sick.

“Why are you lying to me?” Tom asked, voice soft and whispering. Practiced, and carefully
said. Harry, against his attempts, felt a sharp reflex shiver down his spine. His hand twitched,
scribbling more ink onto the poor parchment.

Tom Riddle was handsome, a delicate nearly feminine bone structure that only seemed more
obvious with the hollows of his cheeks. They were filling out some, but not nearly as quickly
as the dark bags under his eyes had vanished. Nearly overnight, they were gone. The difficult
shade of Tom Riddle’s eyes- a blue or green or some weirdly named colour in between, was
darkened slightly from the poor lamp light. An illusion, because the thin skin under Tom’s
eyes certainly looked almost silvery from this close.

“I’m not lying.” Harry blurted, instantly ashamed and deeply uncomfortable with how close
the other boy had gotten so quickly. “Honestly, I’ve got no ruddy clue why you’re obsessed
with me.”

Tom’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, his bottom lip stuck out in a honest to Merlin pout. “I
am not obsessed with you.”

Harry had a gut feeling, a strange sixth sense that told him that Tom was still keenly
interested. “Yeah? Then get out of my ruddy space.”

Tom barely blinked, but did seem somehow a bit disappointed. “Your essay is wrong. Next
time you’re writing about antidotes, at least spell the word correctly.”

Harry cursed and scribbled out the title of his essay, where sure enough he had misplaced the
‘i’. “Yeah? Well next time you want to get up in my personal bubble, consider a breath mint.”

Tom settled himself back on the couch, his posture more stiff and proper in contrast to before.
His eyes flickered to the mess of ink stains and font- towards the right side of the parchment
the words became scrunched together and started to tilt downwards the page.

Harry kept writing, trying his best to ignore the eyes on him, it was almost as bad as having
Snape in the room himself.

Harry was almost wishing that Ron was there to keep him company, or even Hermione. The
former had brutally shot down any such opportunities to be around Tom, the latter was half
concerned and half offended that Harry hadn’t completed his homework already. Harry was
pretty sure Ron hadn’t even touched his stack of assignments, but then again he doubted he
would until the train ride back.

Until then, Harry was trapped in a cloud of cheap smelling parchment and the slippery aroma
of ink. He didn’t think ink even had a smell at first, but four hours of writing proved him
wrong.

“Don’t you have something better to be doing?” Harry asked, trying to keep how ticked he
was out of his voice. He knew he failed, but maybe letting Tom know just how annoyed he
was would help out.

“I don’t.” Tom said, far too calmly. Harry chanced glancing up, scowling as Tom clearly
hadn’t looked away from him once.

“Can’t you just…” Harry waved his quill, trying to shoo him away with the feather, “... go?
Begone? Uh...the power of Christ compels you?”

Tom frowned, very unimpressed. “Do you expect me to burst into flame? To hiss? Oh dear,
are my eyes turning black?”

“‘I can throw some ink in your eyes.” Harry offered.

“Why is Crina interested in you?” Tom said, unblinking.

“Merlin, you’re still on about that?” Harry groaned, resisting the urge to really throw ink at
the boy’s face. “I’ve never even met the bloody woman!”

Tom’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Yet she’s quite taken with you. She doesn’t spare time
for imbeciles-.”

“Wow, you’re more pretentious when you’re cranky.” Harry retorted.

Tom ignored him, “which means somehow, you’re special. Tell me why you’re special.”

Harry huffed and scribbled out the word ‘Magik’ the moment he realized he spelled it with a
‘k’. “

“Tell me, now.”

“ Now .” Harry responded, pitching his voice a bit deeper to poorly imitate Tom.

“That was atrocious.” Tom said. “You misspelled chartreuse, which is irrelevant given that
you’re discussing the wrong antidote.”

Harry looked at his paper. Apparently, chartreuse did not start with an ‘s’.

“It baffles me that someone so...mediocre, could have drawn such attention.” Tom confessed
with what seemed like disdain. “I’ve barely seen any redeeming qualities in you, yet you’re
handled with such preciously careful touch.”
Harry didn’t look up. “If you’re going to keep using fancy words, you may as well write my
bloody paper for me.”

“I wouldn’t, because I’m curious when you’re going to recognize you’ve been writing about
the poison, and not the antidote this entire time.” Tom confessed with almost a soft shyness.
Fake, of course. “I must say, I do love the triple negatives in the fourth sentence down. Truly
conveys the full span of your intellect.”

Harry stared at his paper, partially in acceptance. Good thing he would have failed it
anyways.

“Tell me why Crina likes you, now.” Tom demanded sharply. A crackling pressure of
something weighing heavy on him, gravity crashing on his skull.

Harry grimaced, placing his quill down and inking his inkwell. The relentless pressure did
not cease, even as his ears popped loudly.

“Can you bloody quit!” Harry snapped foully, “just because you have your wand doesn’t
mean you can be a goddamn arse about it!”

Harry’s nostrils flared. Tom didn’t have his wand anywhere near him.

Tom Riddle’s eyes were wide, larger than normal. Something about the crease near the
corners gave away his surprise, or maybe Harry was just spectacularly in-tune with knowing
Voldemort’s emotions after all this time. The pressure on his skull removed itself, a heavy
burden finally sliding free.

Harry was annoyed, no- he was just shy of pissed. The outright nerve that Riddle had ever
since he arrived, his posh attitude and his shite manners. All of it was piling up to one good
fist and a nice shiner under Riddle’s eye. Of course, Harry wasn’t going to do that, but the
mental image was pretty nice.

“You’re a prick.” Harry informed him harshly. “An outright, entitled, prick. I don’t give a
shite about your sob story, you can at least stop acting better than others!”

Tom flinched, his head recoiling in something reptilian. His lip curled, his nose shifted, and
Harry was faced with a mirroring snarl.

Harry’s hands itched to throw a punch, or at least a few.

“I-.” Tom’s voice cracked, changing from a restrained vibrating into a surprising octave
crack. Tom blinked, recoiling once again before he stared at his hands in something glazed.
“You’re...loud, aren’t you?”

Harry huffed and grabbed his parchment and inkwell, not bothering with a response. He
stormed off, through the doorway and down the hallway towards the kitchen.

He spotted Sirius first, exchanging a joke of some sort with the twins. The moment his dark
eyes rested on Harry his smile faltered and his large palms held his shoulders gently.
“Easy there,” Sirius whistled, “you look a little ticked, Harry.”

“I hate him!” Harry blurted, exploding in a single loud hoarse shout. “I bloody hate Riddle’s
guts! He’s- he’s- he’s such a goddamn prick!”

Sirius nodded slowly, eyes searching from Harry’s back and forth. “Why don’t you take a
break here. I’ll go watch him, see if I can figure what got you so riled. Even tamed animals
can snap once in a while, yeah? Go, take a breather.”

Harry nodded slowly, unable to ever express the relief he felt. It was a balm to the stinging
wounds he was too angry to lick himself. “Thank’s Padfoot.”

“No worries.” Sirius smiled, clapping his shoulder once more before he brushed past.

Tom stared at the coffee table, eyes set on the small ink splash already staining into the old
wood. Walburga would have made a fuss of her ancient lineage being tarnished, even if it was
just a table.

Harry Potter, the grandchild of the Potter who Tom knew in school. Some Gryffindor brute he
never cared to remember, other than his lordship and placement in the world of blood purity.

Harry Potter, likely a pureblood, and yet without the courtesy that he had forced himself to
learn. Like the lack of tact in the Weasley line, yet something…else. An inherent absence of
knowledge, a gap over what should be known and recognized and what was there at all.

Not only that, but the other had been fuming with anger. A frustration so tangible, it had
somehow infected Tom and coaxed flames to burn and in turn, his own irritation rising forth.
He hadn’t remembered such unhampered irritation before, or rather, Tom actively tried to
forget it.

Tom controlled his emotions with a leash and a woven whip. He made them heel or forced
them to behind clenched teeth. He should not have been so...inexplicably furious. The only
factor was the boy, Harry Potter, who somehow caused his temper to rise.

Was he an...an empath? Empaths generally received as well as generated output, he would
have long since realized Tom’s method of self restraint and control and drawn attention to it.
Perhaps he was a...legilimens of some exotic variety?

Even that fell short, and no further ideas came to mind. Tom stared at the ink stain and
pondered things that should not be.

Why was Harry Potter the one to greet him after he was stolen away and taken prisoner?
Why was he there instead of the girl, or the red headed bastard family? Why was Harry Potter
being treated with such tender care and yet no appearance of blood kin came forth?

“Oi,” a deeper voice grumbled from the doorway. A rough hoarse voice that Tom knew as
Black. Sirius Black, Crina had said he was an escaped convict. Convicted of what, he
wondered.

Tom said nothing, and Sirius helped himself into the room, taking a seat on a chair that Crina
tended to use for her own sessions. Tom still stared at the ink stain, wondered if perhaps it
would shift and transform before his eyes into one of those ink blot tests he had taken. They
never were happy with what Tom said.

“Harry Potter.” Tom spoke, softly although he knew he had drawn the man’s attention. “He is
related to you.”

Sirius didn’t say anything, a confirmation in the silence. Maybe Black realized it was stupid
to try and play lies now, or perhaps he figured the information was as worthless as Tom was
dangerous. “He’s my godson.”

“Godson.” Tom said, a low musing whisper. The ink blot twisted, into the contorted shape of
a rearing horse, of a chair missing its legs. “His family, murdered then I take it?”

Sirius adjusted his seat on the chair, and said nothing more. That’s how things were in life,
war and murder and death all above. Either by gun, or broken bottle to the neck, or a noose
fashioned out of bed sheets. It all ended the same, the finality of a sound cut off.

Harry Potter, orphan of a pureblood line. Associating with mudbloods and blood traitors,
locked in a house as a war waged beyond its walls. Somehow, Harry Potter made Tom very,
very angry.

“I’m out of books to read.” Tom murmured softly, gently as loathsome as he was to admit it.
“Supplies, given the new arrangements.”

“Yeah,” Sirius grunted, annoyed over the precious emotional state of his poor godson. “I
heard about that. You’re going to be a bloody handful.”

Tom’s arm prickled, the outer bicep on his left side. A soft change in temperature, like a
breeze wafting over his skin. The ward was in place, a tracker like a collar around his neck.
Worse came to worse, he could sever it with his knife. A broken ward had no placement, but
the alarm it would ring would be enough to shorten his lead for an unmentionable amount of
time.

“Everyone treats your godson very carefully.” Tom said out loud. “Did he watch them die?”

Sirius stared at him, an expression Tom knew all too well and one he hated to see. Tom stared
at the ink blot, and waited for the doctors to tell him that something whispered him
temptations.

“No.” Sirius said after a while, coughing out words. “Bad circumstances, around him.”

“I gather,” Tom’s fingers twitched and his throat burned for a cigarette. “With his godfather
being an escaped convict- oh don’t look at me like that. I’m as much a prisoner here as you
are.”
Sirius’ eyes were dark, like Walburga's. So dark the iris was shaded and hidden in the shade
of his brow. “At least I’m innocent. I know that.”

Tom didn’t allow his face to change. He didn’t allow anything to betray his intentions. “I
need books to read.”

Sirius snorted in disbelief, “what, you can’t find anything in this godforsaken bloody house?”

Tom tapped his arm twice, not bothering to look in Black’s direction. “I’m not trusted with
such available information. I’ve run out of things to read.”

Sirius twitched a bit. “Summer still is pretty long isn’t it. Damn, you’d likely burn this house
down before you went shopping for school.”

Tom wondered if he threw ink on the walls, if they’d arrange themselves like constellations.
He wondered if he could steal a bottle from somewhere and paint the underside of his bed in
rune marks to nullify magic, and practice the spells he itched to do.

“I’ll see if Tonks wants to go shopping.” Sirius conceded with a small frown, “you know
you’d have a half dozen tracers on you.”

Tom shrugged one shoulder, trying to seem like it didn’t bother him. It did, but sacrifices
were always to be made.

“Alright,” Tonks clipped at him sharply, her eyes sharp for her age. “You’ve got two tracers
on. Along with the ward. If you leave Diagon at all, the tracers will alert me and knock you
unconscious. If you’re running when you leave Diagon, they will knock you unconscious
painfully. I will know the moment you try to go into Knockturn. I will know every building
you are inside at every moment. If the timer on your wrist beeps, you are to meet back here
with me instantly, do you understand me?”

Tom’s jaw slowly relaxed with a creek. He painted a smile across his face, one that left
Tonk’s nostrils flaring with barely withheld fury. Curious, how her anger only amused him
while Potter’s left him infected.

“Get out of here.” Tonks snapped with a scowl, going so far as to clap the side of his ear
painfully. Tom didn’t allow it to phase him. He watched her leave into a nearby store- one
that sold an assortment of alcoholic beverages. Some things never changed.

Tom walked and ducked his head, mingling into the crowd of people in the fading light of
mid afternoon. The summers lasted long, but always lingered in the hazy shades of orange
and reds that painted dusk. The buildings were pretty and whole, unmarked by bombs that
always ignored the hidden world. For some reason, it angered Tom.

A business card in his pocket, starting to go soft from the many times his fingers traced its
creases, felt warm. He plucked it out, reading the word and font with regretful hesitancy. So
the man was here after all, with a pocket full of coin compared to Tom’s measly few.

At most he’d browse the stores, testing the wares of second-hand shops in hopes that some
books with faded covers had some content long since forbidden.

Tom smiled a welcoming face, carved from clay by scarred hands and broken fingernails.

Doge, in his exotic fabric and polished shoes, smiled genuinely.

“Oh hello!” Doge enthused, tipping his hat like some charming man. “Oh Tom, how
wonderful to see you so soon! My, you’re looking much ah, in fine health.”

Tom let his eyes trail over the worn covers, made from card-stock and cloth with gnawed
ends and dog eared corners. “Thank you, I’ve been feeling much better.”

Tom pulled a book, listening to the soft sounds of fabric on fabric, the gently hiss of an old
bookstore with history stacked like little boxes. Tom opened the cover and scanned the
contents, philosophy or something else intangible.

“You’re quite a reader, then?” Doge asked, circling around him to lean against the wood of
the shelf. Sweat stained mahogany, the reek of expensive cologne.

Tom bit his tongue and looked at Doge’s expensive shoes. “When I can manage it.”

‘I can manage it,’ he wanted to spit, ‘I don’t need you,’

Doge’s eyes were darkened, “oh, I don’t think that’ll be a problem now, will it? Go ahead,
browse to your delight.”

Tom didn’t shiver, he didn’t look up from polished Italian leather and the smell of polished
mahogany. “Go ahead, Tom. My treat.”

The faintest brush of fingers on his neck, as soft as turning a page. Tom let his eyes flutter
closed, and strung himself together.

“Thank you,” Tom murmured, forcing sour reverence in his voice. It was a tone he had
practiced since infancy, the look of fake adoration. “How many would be okay?”

White teeth, straightened and bleached with chemicals. “All of them.” You.
“You’re much too thin.” Doge clicked his tongue softly, one of his hands wrapping around
the bone of Tom’s wrist. Pale, fluttering blue with spiderweb veins. “Look at your wrist, so
small and feeble.”

Tom exhaled quietly, ignoring the man at the register who saw nothing of concern. The man
placed books and books within the back, stacks and stories Tom wondered for their worth.
The trade off, of parchment and cloth for mahogany and leather.

“Much too small.” Doge repeated, quieter in an afterthought, “there’s quite a bakery nearby,
such lovely pastries they offer. Allow me to indulge.”

Tom smiled, his lips tight to hide the yellowing of his enamel and the slight twist of his
canines. There was a scar across his shoulders, where the skin had healed too tight. It felt
odd, warm and tugging across his back.

“This way, my dear.” Doge murmured, one hand across his back with fingertips hooking
under the curve of his shoulder blades.

Honey filled pastries, sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg. Oranges, sweet and sour on his
lips.

The bakery was a bed and breakfast, catered for the French who visited with thick accents
and even thicker wallets.

‘There’s something about frogs,’ Tom thought to himself, gazing at bright cheery walls.
Painted by hand for the subtle touches magic couldn’t make. ‘Heavy handed, strokes of red-
orange-ruby all over.’

Tom’s scars itched, where they tingled and sparked under rough flesh. Where shrapnel burned
his calves and he had not yet dug with needles to pull it free. The ripened smell of vanilla
candles, memories of the previous occupants. Tom wished he had his diary, where he could
scrawl his mind over the roar of gunfire.

‘Sweaty mahogany, automaton legs fold over,’ he would write.

‘Murky cider-scented Van-Gogh,’ he thought, ignoring the unwanted whispers of ‘lovely

lovely love.’

Tom felt wrong in his skin, drawn too tightly. Rattling, like the bombs that ached to be
released. Unobtainable, never contained and waiting to spill over and ruin everything.

Whispered ‘you?’ and Tom ignored the rattling that originated from his own chest.

Tom’s flaking peeling lips, from the dry muggy heat; salivating, swallowing, suffocating.

Tom realized he had fucked up, when he remembered he was no poet at all.
Tonks frowned, looking over her ward. She double checked the ward, spotted the tracking
location from where he had visited. A bookstore, a bakery, a general store for clothing that
explained the new thin cloak thrown over his shoulders. He was quite thin, perhaps the heat
was still something cold.

“You done?” Tonks asked, arching one eyebrow in surprise. Sirius had said the boy seemed
restless, Tonks imagined he’d reap the occasion and stay as long as he could. The alley was
nice, cute shops and decorative displays. She had already grabbed a few bottles for Remus
and Moody, the one brandy that Dumbledore had confessed his adoration for.

Tom shrugged, pale in the light. Maybe they should let him get out more, he was like a
bloody marble statue. Quiet like one too.

“Fine, come here.” Tonks reached out, snatching his shoulder in a white knuckle grip. He
inhaled sharply, a quiet soft noise she was almost surprised to hear. A jumpy little bastard,
wasn’t he.

The public floo was fine to get them the proper distance away, then a short jaunt to portkey
away.

Tom followed her, always a step out of place, half hauled behind her with a lame gait. Tonks
reckoned he did it half on purpose, half uncoordinated.

The house was a welcome relief, and yet Tom still said nothing. Silent on his journey home,
like he was a humble traveler passing through.

“Remember to take your goddamn shoes off!” Tonks hollered at him, unable to shake the
uneasy feeling that something had shaken the boy quite sharply. Had he tested the boundary
of the wards? Had someone recognized him? It was impossible, only the Order knew of his
existence and even with that only a handful knew of his identity. The boy was a strange one,
perhaps Tonks had to call that shrink of his again.

“Tonks!” Mrs. Weasley called, popping her head into the foyer again. “Oh hello dear! You’re
back so soon?”

“Yeah, kid didn’t take long. Reckon the bustle was too much for him.” Tonks jerked her head
towards the staircase Tom had ascended out of site.

Mrs. Weasley shifted uncomfortably, “ah, you know how boys are. Could you help me with
supper? I had thought you’d be gone longer, it would be wonderful to have another pair of
hands!”

“Sure thing!” Tonks popped to her feet, stumbling over the shoes she just rid herself of. It
was a miracle that her balance hadn’t given her a busted leg already.
Tom sat in the clawfoot tub, skin flinching away from the icy porcelain. Water turned so hot
thin wafts of steam danced over the surface, obscured with darkened water.

The baths always were quite marvelous, much better than the livestock trough Tom
remembered crouching in, doused over and over with icy water drawn from pump or fetched
from the Thames. Then, Tom always stank of sewage long after.

The water here was a luxury, hot to the touch. It brought a warm rosy flush to Tom’s skin, a
red hue that did nothing to stop the blackened bruises from forming. Broken patches of
blood, congealing like jelly below his skin.

He hurt, he throbbed in certain spots like those white and black dogs that chased the wagons
towards the burning buildings. The sharp sting of torn skin under some hungry cause.

“Shit.” Tom hissed, quiet under his breath like the thousands of times he’d done it before.
The soap was soft and buttery, nothing like the lump of rockish slime and the demanding
harsh ‘scrub.’

Tom scrubbed anyways, over and over across his skin, across his lungs. Until the water
darkened, and blood oozed free. Tom hated when he bled.

‘Scrub.’ he ordered himself, and so he did.

Harry frowned down at dinner, poking the bits of potatoes. It really was good food, but he
didn’t have much of an appetite.

Tom was looking different, oddly guarded. Distant but not vacant. He looked almost ill, if
one could be ill without any injury to body or mind. Something was haunting him, bothering
him, or maybe he was so lost in thought their very presence meant nothing to him.

“You going to eat, you daft murderer?” Ron grunted, chewing with his mouth open.

Tom turned his eyes upon Ron, very slowly. Maybe it was the slight glaze, or the way his iris’
seemed too bright for his thin skin. Flushed red from his bath, like he decided suddenly he
wanted to relax royally as everyone waited before eating.

“I would love,” Tom began, softly and in thought, “to bash a brick over your skull.”

Ron scowled at him ugly, his cheeks bulging with foot. “Yeah well, me too mate. Except, you
know, your bloody noggin.”

Tom stared at him, then looked aside at the wall. He hadn’t touched anything despite the food
placed before him.

“I heard you got books.” Hermione offered for conversation, slightly clipped about it.
“Anything interesting.”
“No.” Tom said. He didn’t say anything after.

“Oh come on, don’t be grouchy.” Sirius grumbled, grouchily. If he saw the irony, he didn’t
mention anything.

Tom’s jaw tensed, and Harry winced as he felt the heavy oppressive weight smack into him
again like being clobbered with a cast iron skillet.

It annoyed him a fair bit, although the others seemed blissfully unaware. Harry grimaced as
the pressure made something buzz high pitched, a headache in the making.

“Stop that!” Harry snapped, locking eyes with the distant acting Tom.

“You shouldn’t be able to do that.” Tom said casually, lost in thought. Harry didn’t think he
had been there with them the entire dinner. “You shouldn’t be able to influence either.”

“Influence?” Ron asked, the world garbled around his half dozen baby carrots crammed into
his mouth all at once.

Influence, that was...that would be weird. Harry hadn’t really influenced anything, it was just
Tom with his goddamn annoying ass aura, trying to force them into submission via headache.

“I’m not the one trying to give me an earache.” Harry argued, Tom snorted softly and gazed
at the wall once again.

Harry’s nose wrinkled, his hands curling into fists. What he would do to bloody knock some
sense into-

Harry paused in thought, and stared at Tom’s clenched fist. White knuckled, but he seemed so
distant and unaware of it. It could only be coincidence. Complete bloody coincidence.

Despite that, Harry was slightly intrigued, slightly curious by it all. He had some sort of
influence? Like how Voldemort made his scar hurt every time he was close? Those strange
flashes of thoughts and the disjointed dreams that had been bothering him for months? Did he
have some sort of….backwards effect on Tom?

Wouldn’t that be ironic, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Give-Headaches.

Something was...still interesting. Maybe he could somehow reverse it?

Harry stared at Tom, and thought sharply, ‘get up and dance around the table.’

Tom didn’t so much as twitch.

Harry huffed slightly under his breath, piercing one of his baby carrots to bite into. Merlin,
sometimes Riddle really pissed him off. If he was going to sit at the table with them, at least
he could bloody eat.

“What kind of books did you get?” Sirius tried, uninterested and slightly cautious. Tom didn’t
look away. He did offer an abrupt, rude, “piss off.”
 Harry’s hand curled into fists as he forced himself not to stand up sharply. Tom may have
been an ungrateful prick but still.

“Rude much?” Ron muttered sourly. Tom then, gave Ron an absolutely foul look.

Harry felt that same prickle of annoyance, “fuck off, Riddle.”

(Like a positive feedback loop; fangs were bared and hackles lifted.)

“I don’t concern myself with inbreds.” Tom responded sharply.

Harry didn’t normally get pissed, but something about Tom just- just bloody-

(Harry didn’t know what it was, but maybe something in Tom’s distant eyes looked a bit like
Cedrics.)

The two surged at each other, or clashed without words. Tom grabbed his steak knife, blunt
little cutlery. Harry spotted it and-.

Harry imagined with the impulsive nature of intrusive thoughts, how savagely delightful it
would be to view Tom with a knife in his forearm-.

“The bloody fuck!” Sirius shrieked, throwing out his arm to knock Hermione and Ron out of
harm’s way. Harry leapt back himself, careful to be out of dangers way-.

Tom Riddle stared at him, face paling into something a shade away from the ivory tablecloth.
A small spot of blood was growing, like spilled wine on the surface.

“Oh my-.” Hermione covered her mouth skittering back as Ron quickly shoved her even
further. Sirius stared, unsure exactly what to do or what even happened.

Harry couldn’t help the nausea the bubbled in his throat, disgustingly bitter and citrus and-
and the oddly specific smell of mahogany wood.

Tom steadied his breathing. He did not look at his arm where a shiny butter knife lodged
itself in his forearm- his hand still clutching the handle.

Chapter End Notes

Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!

 Pari passu
Chapter Summary

Where Crina has questionable wardrobe tastes, Tom is as dickish as usual, and Harry
wonders how he gets roped into things.

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay everyone!

I went on a vacation and hadn't the time to write. This is a personal birthday gift from
me to all of you! Have a wonderful day, and stay warm! This winter is fairly crazy in
North America, but I hear it's really hot in Australia. Stay safe!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry didn't imagine that he'd be spending his Friday morning sitting on the couch in the
living room, awkwardly holding a saucer of tea. On the table next to him, a tiny platter of
biscuits was out on display on the dainty white porcelain. The tarts were admittedly, quite
good.

Sirius sat next to him, an awkward ball of tension that vibrates slightly from his legs into the
worn-down flooring. Any longer, and his leg would start to shake so severely it would knock
the precariously balanced cup of tea off his lap. Sirius looked like he hadn't realized what his
restless leg was tempting.

Harry felt even more out of place, not entirely sure what was going on in the room, but the
nervous anxiety was contagious. If Harry wasn't carefully, his leg would start tapping away
on the floor boards as well.

"So," Crina spoke, this time wearing clothing that seemed very...unusual for her normal style.
Harry didn't know her well, but everything about her objected to the current uniform. Hair
pulled back into twin strands which somehow worked like a hairband. Harry couldn't say
how it was doing that, but on the best of days he could manage brushing only half of his hair.
He didn't have much ground to stand on.

She was wearing a... thick, sort of coat. Not a robe, but certainly not a cloak either. Dark
shiny leather that fastened on shiny brass buttons, latching into place just around her
collarbones. From there it was a stiff triangle flaring out, enough dark fur propping her
strange coat into its perfect triangle, that Harry could easily imagine Hagrid wearing such a
thing. Obviously, it would be too short for him- maybe a decorative fur scarf. From what
Harry could see under the fur pine tree outfit, Crina was wearing some sort of dark trousers,
equally shiny as the leather bits on the top of her shoulders. She looked ridiculous, official in
some strange occupancy but nearly outrageous in the living room. Harry pondered how she
hadn't fainted from the heat of it.

"I understand that there is an event we are to discuss." Crina said, voice smooth and slow. It
was difficult to take her seriously, with the horrendous fur nightmare spanning off her
shoulders. It was impossible to even see her arms through it all- how could she sit?

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore nodded, taking his time to sip from his own cup of tea. He didn't
seem to think that Crina's wardrobe was unusual, however the old man himself was wearing
an outer robe the shade of ripe cantaloupe. "Harry, if you will?"

Harry blinked quickly, trying to grab his scattered thoughts. It took some effort to repress the
urge to blurt out what sort of animal was glued to Crina's side, or what all she had hidden
under all that fur. She could maybe fit a half dozen house elves, maybe a goblin if they
squeezed.

"Uh," Harry stuttered over his focus, "so err...Tom stabbed himself."

Tom Riddle, who was looking much more normal and not-insane compared to Crina, glared.

Harry tilted his head and tried not to imagine her cloak on anyone besides Professor
Lockhart. "Err, so uh. We were...a bit uh, mad at one another. And we...uh, we were fighting,
and he stabbed himself."

For dramatic emphasis, Harry mimed stabbing his arm with an imaginary knife. He clicked
his tongue, sound effects and all.

Crina's face didn't shift. If she was surprised by the unexpected random bout of self-injury,
she didn't show it. Instead, she gazed out at Harry, 70 percent fur and cloak, 30 percent
person, and blinked slowly.

"That's the story." Sirius grunted low, his voice soothing from Harry's side. "That's all there is
to it."

"Tom...stabbed himself." Crina repeated. When she said it out loud, it did sound stupid.

"Well when you say it like that." Sirius muttered lowly, shifting more into Harry's side. Harry
couldn't describe how comforting it was to have the warm weight next to him; Dumbledore
was reassuring in his own way but up against Crina, it was nice to have some close friends.

"That seems quite an argument." Crina mused thoughtfully, glancing off to stare at a wall.
"Tom? Were you intending to stab Harry Potter?"

Tom's jaw shifted ever so slightly, his eyes locked on Harry in an icy glare. They seemed
duller, sharper than he remembered.

"Well," Crina smiled, even though Tom had said nothing, "I see why you called me away so
quickly, Albus. This does seem quite interesting, doesn't it? Uncontrollable rage, mutilation
with a butter knife. Wonderful, limiting the wound."

Sirius jerked. "You aren't going to scold that bloody monster!"

The welcome warming embrace of Crina slipped away into something frosty. "If my client
wished to legitimately cause harm, I have little doubt in his abilities. The question at hand,
is why this occurred. I understand that emotional situations may...influence actions but
resorting to stabbing oneself is incredibly out of character."

"You think I was cursed." Tom said.

Crina tilted her head slightly, glancing at Tom from the side of her eyes. "You've suspected as
much already. This asks the question, who cursed you?"

Tom glared at Harry, and Harry began to have a very cold uncomfortable feeling in his
stomach.

"Now, Crina." Albus interjected smoothly. "Let's not jump to assumptions. I understand that
this situation is quite stressful, but I don't believe anyone would go so far as to curse the boy."

"No, you don't think anyone could curse him under your watch." Crina mused softly, looking
at Albus with a far too observant gaze. Her head tilted, ever so slightly. "You have him
warded, don't you? No, you wouldn't be so...lax in your obsession."

Dumbledore said nothing. Harry spotted Tom's lip twitched into something close to a smile.

"Regardless, we've deviated from the topic at hand." Crina alerted the room. "Unless you
would care to accompany me to my work, I suggest we discuss the reason why I'm here."

Albus twitched ever so slightly under her tone. Harry remembered, that Crina worked at a
prison. Apparently, a prison with a horrible uniform.

"Tom stabbed himself." Crina said, voice firm. "I am confident, that his actions were not his
own. This leads me to assume, that some sort of influence led to this decision. Of course, no
magic was observed, which forces me to ask this question. I understand that a member of
your order is a practiced Legilimens."

Albus' face turned rocky. He shook his head slightly, serious despite the casualness of his
movements "I'm afraid that avenue is not available. Tom has not interacted with any of our
mind arts."

"Is that so." Crina said. Her fingers tapped along the couch, hidden under all the fur. "Harry
Potter, is it?"

Sirius stiffened on Harry's side, a low nearly impossible to hear growl in his throat.

"Uh, yes." Harry nodded, clearing his throat softly, "uh, nice to meet you."

He didn't like Crina's gaze on him. He didn't know why Riddle could stand it.
"I've heard such standard things about you, Mr. Potter." Crina spoke, voice smooth and low
although rhetoric in nature. "In every sense, you are completely unextraordinary, and yet, you
defy the odds."

Harry's arm burned, the thick rope-like scar that wove between the bones of his forearm. It
throbbed and itched, like the strange anxious lump in the back of his throat.

"I don't know much about you," Crina admitted, a surprising admittance of her own
weakness, "but your involvement with everything seems too...uncanny, to be anything of
coincidence."

Sirius shifted slightly, a steady warmth and reassurance against Harry's side. Harry
swallowed thickly, managing to summon whatever bravery he had to spit out a quick, "yeah?
If you wanna be famous instead, go right ahead."

"I already am." Crina barely blinked, unresponsive to his snap. "Tom, are you close with Mr.
Potter?"

Tom smiled something plastic and fake, wrong and twisted across his face. "I would love to
see him struck with a blasting curse."

Harry felt annoyance prickle. He jutted his chin at the bait, ready to throw back his own
insult.

"Interesting." Crina broke the tension. "Mr. Potter, would you give me consent to evaluate
your magical resonance?"

Harry began to open his mouth to protest, since he had no idea what exactly that meant. Was
it some sort of medical spell? He had received plenty of those in the Hospital wing, but those
normally didn't have as fancy a term as resonance. No, this sounded much more severe, or
maybe more obscure.

Sirius nudged him slightly, clearly unhappy with the situation.

"Will it hurt?"

"Not more than other spells you know of." Crina answered, reaching up to unclasp the brass
buttons that held her cloak together. It crumpled around her hips, revealing a much more
maneuverable leather outfit that looked a fair bit more snug than other things. Maybe
something Tonks would wear, but Hermione or Ginny wouldn't be caught dead in the dark
leather.

"Harry," Dumbledore spoke carefully, "if you don't want to partake in this, then it is
unnecessary. Crina believes that...somehow, the ritual in which Mr. Riddle was pulled
through somehow linked you, to Mr. Riddle. The incident with the knife was a... moment, of
instability."

Harry's heart thudded loud in his ears. "Riddle's in my head?"

"No." Crina abruptly spoke. "There is no creature or being ever capable of entering your
mind without you knowing. Even spells have weakness in the action of how they operate. I
wish to perform a magical resonance spell, it is a... fire, that burns the things your magic has
touched."

Harry shifted unsure, Tom glared at him with wild eyes and a bloodied bandage around his
arm.

"Okay," Harry agreed, standing on two feet. Sirius stayed close, patting his shoulder
reassuringly. Crina stepped closer- clicking boots that looked to be the same material as the
tight fitted leather shirt. On closer scrutiny, it almost looked like some sort of...armor.

Crina pulled her wand from a spot on her hip, holding it carefully pointed away from both of
them. Harry couldn't help but feel appreciative for it; he didn't know how he'd feel with a
wand pointing between his eyes so spontaneously.

"I'm going to incant the spell and tap your chest." Crina said, her free hand prodding her own
chest to represent where. Center, near his sternum. "From there, it will sting. This is
temporary, you may sit down during this without affecting the results."

Harry nodded slowly, trying not to twitch as Crina's wand tapped his chest twice quickly. She
spoke something, accented and thick and muffled in Harry's ears. He wondered if that was
how the spell was supposed to be, or if she had changed language to keep it out of the ears of
the sharp eyes across the room, watching everything far too carefully.

The stinging hurt, but it was nothing worse than a decent quidditch fall. Harry grimaced,
shuffling himself back on the couch as he waited for the bright throbbing pain to fade. It was
like having Ron fall asleep on his legs or waking up with one arm stuck under him all night.

Colours faded into existence, thin hazy shapes and swirls like the purplish fog that wafted
down from the divination tower. The only thing it was missing was the perfume in the air, the
one that always made Harry sneeze a little.

Harry's eyes were trained to spot a flicker of gold, or colours out of alignment. It was because
of this, that he spotted the thin flickering rope no thicker than his pinky finger. It was drawn
tight, clear white or maybe somewhat grey, fading off in a single straight direction.

Harry lifted his arm, watching with fascination as the cloud of smoky blue followed him- like
the colour of a soul a Dementor kissed.

Crina's eyes flickered downward, spotting the thin rope after a few moments of patiently
weaving. She watched for a moment, before she stretched out one hand to gently waft her
hand through the cloud. It dispersed and rebuilt itself, a thin translucent sheen.

"It appears," Crina mused softly, "that you two have a... magical linkage. Onset from the
passage you traveled, Tom. This would explain the intrusive rise of your emotions."

Tom stared at the small cloud, drifting around like a visual representation of something
smelly. Tom said nothing when he spotted the line trailing off in his direction- impossible to
miss.

Dumbledore stroked his chin. "Well, this is no more a hindrance than the case of the
hiccups!"

Crina hummed tonelessly, tapping Harry's chest once more. Slowly, the fog began to dispel.
"Perhaps so. Now that we've concluded the discussion of cutlery weaponry, perhaps we shall
move to our next topic of discussion."

"Hogwarts." Albus finished for her.

Sirius, vehemently, objection. "No way. Look, the kid stabbed himself. You don't want that
monster around other students-."

Crina spun on her heels sharply. "Mr. Black, are you aware of the basic requirements to be
considered a monster even by psychological aspects? No? Then I kindly request you cease
talking at this moment. Perhaps you may have interacted with mediwitches or low-level
examiners, but you cannot lie and smile to one experienced in the mind arts and falsify a
scoring. The labels of monster are slurs directed at individuals with personality disorders,
however such disorders are present from birth. You cannot falsify biological lacking of
specific compositions; unless you intend to undermine or challenge my authority, I humbly
ask of you to shut up."

The room was quiet, Sirius looking thoroughly scandalized by the event. Harry couldn't help
the small surge of guilt that welled in his throat.

Tom Riddle looked down at his arm, face expressionless yet his eyes were shifting with
something Harry couldn't describe.

"I don't like him." Sirius muttered, hip brushing against the doorframe as he scowled in the
general location of the stairwell. "I don't like the look in his eyes."

Harry couldn't argue. There was something...he couldn't describe in Tom Riddle's eyes. The
sharpness, the cruelty.

"It doesn't mean we can't make him stay here." Harry muttered back, leaning back against the
wallpaper stiffly. "It's...nobody should be locked up like that."

Sirius' face faltered, sinking into something understanding no matter how much he hated that.
"Damnit, I know...It's just…"

"He isn't going to hurt me." Harry defended with a weak smile, "If anything, I'm the one who
could take him on."

Sirius chuckled weakly, "you're both beanpoles. Scrawny little guys. I reckon I could take
you with one arm."

Harry couldn't argue that, but he did duck down and try to escape the large hand that grabbed
his hair and ruffled the mess. Sirius took it as a personal challenge to make the birds nest
worse- at least fluffed up and gnarled enough Harry could hide a few snitches in its tangled
mess.

The atmosphere sobered with the knowledge that time passed regardless of their denial. The
clocks were ticking faster now, a challenge magic could not halt. Well, except for Tom, but
even that wasn't understood.

"I'm going to miss you." Harry confessed quietly, all too aware of the mirror Sirius had given
him before. "I'll send Hedwig, when I can."

Sirius chuckled, a low rumbling noise that Harry felt through his chest and into his heart.
"Don't worry, it'll be over before you know it. Cause some chaos for me, eh?"

There was something humbling and comforting about the tall peaks of Hogwarts, the
silhouette in the morning fog that made Harry's heart twinge. He loved Sirius and his house,
but the musty smell of it didn't quite feel as welcome as the old parchment and cold stone air.
If Harry had an option, he would live his entire life inside the soothing walls of his first real
home.

Tom Riddle on the other hand, he could live contently without.

"This is a waste." Tom said calmly, looking pleasantly irritable with the ornate window of the
carriage approaching the castle across the dirt road. The carriage rattled as it rolled over a
thick root- Harry had been trying to ignore the horrific looking monster pulling the carriage.
Something told him that Hagrid had petitioned for a new assortment of questionably
dangerous beasts.

"It's a nice view." Harry muttered, trying not to rise to the obvious barb. Tom didn't respond,
but his eyes were watching the castle's towers emerge from the distance. Even his usual coat
of petty could not remain in the rush of instinctual joy that Hogwarts offered them, her gates
open with a quiet 'welcome home.'

The carriage came to a stop and Harry quickly clambered out, taking care to veer away from
the large equine looking creature.

Tom came out, a bit more graceful although on closer examination the movement looked
more instinctual than anything. Harry dismissed it as the other having been shuffled around in
carriages quite often.

Tom did take care to veer away from Harry, leaving an outrageously large gap between them.
Harry had walked closer to Malfoy even.

Tom did reach up absentmindedly to pat against the thick cordlike muscle of the monster. Its
dark pelt twitched under his curious fingers, pulling tense over the ridges of its protruding
vertebra. Harry couldn't help but stare at the sight- wasn't Tom the one who had leapt away
nearly screaming bloody murder at the sight of Luna, but here he was casually petting one of
Hagrid's beasts?
Then again, Luna would likely have liked this strange creature as well, so maybe Luna wasn't
a good comparison for someone normal. For all Harry knew, Luna could be part…Sphinx or
something equally wacky. With all the strange things Hermione had a guilty pleasure reading
in those Witch Weekly gossip magazines, Luna could be the next greatest seer of all time, or
part Elvish or something equally ridiculous.

"What are you doing?" Harry found himself blurting, watching almost curious with how
chaotic the action was. It had a level of habit to it, an uncaring soothing of a timid animal.
Harry found himself wondering if Tom treated humans with that same level of uncaring
action.

Tom didn't offer an answer, instead choosing to be as prick-ish as normal. Harry really should
have been used to the silent treatment at this point, but it never failed to annoy him how Tom
could dismiss him so quickly and casually.

"You know, the castle may be different now." Harry chased after Tom.

"Doubtful." Tom shot him down almost as quickly.

Harry felt a small surge of annoyance that always seemed to bubble up in the presence of
Tom's unique ever so loving compassion for others. "You'd be surprised. Two years ago, a car
flew into the Whomping Willow."

Tom shifted ever so slightly- nowhere near a trip but enough of an unplanned movement that
Harry could recognize he caught him off guard. The Whomping Willow had been planted,
according to Sirius, to guard the tunnel for Remus to escape through. Tom would have no
knowledge of the tree, or the current abilities of Muggle technology; for all he knew, flying
cars were muggle inventions.

"I see." Tom said. Internally, Harry cheered at having caught Tom so off guard that the other
boy even responded. That was one step in the right direction.

They managed to ascend the bumpy polished path stomped into existence under the many
boots of thousands of students. In all honesty, at this point it was so sleek and slippery,
someone was going to slip on the near shining rocks. They had all this magic, and not a
single person had thought of putting up a guard rail? Or investing in some thick bags of salt
from then it got icy around Yule?

The castle was a comforting sight but still uncomfortable without the constant thrum and
noise of students. It was odd to see the staircases silent and locked in place- unmoving
without passengers. Tom, even with his prickly exterior, was a comforting warmth walking
alongside him.

They walked through the halls, a few portraits throwing questions in their direction. Tom
responded to a few with pleasant smiles, going so far to even greet an odd number of them by
name. The portraits always had difficulty with grasping the movement and gap in time; a few
responded to Tom with equal greetings, ignorant of what had ever passed outside their
wooden frames.
The large doors of the Hospital Wing were familiar to Harry- even the small scratch marks
from the time Fred and George tried to bust him out second year with the use of exploding
decorative fruit. The pear had somehow gotten half fused to the door and detonated, leaving a
nice lumpy sear mark near the left hinge. For months it smelled like burnt sugar and fennel.

The doors slid open with a small creak, although Harry assumed it was more for aesthetics
instead of poor maintenance of the hinges. Dumbledore always was someone fond of
dramatics. Tom's face didn't twitch at the piercing noise, so Harry assumed it had been the
same even in his time.

The hospital beds were empty, even the one on the far left that Harry had declared his own.
The wooden headboard still had his transfigured starling trophy on the top, like an obscure
decorative feathered gargoyle. Hermione had teased in a huff that his hair already looked like
a bird's nest- may as well offer him a bird for a get-well present after he had nearly been
kissed by a Dementor last year. It was flattering, or insulting, that the monument to Harry-
being-hurt was still there.

A small shuffle and from one of the back rooms Madam Pomfrey emerged, hair pinned back
professionally under her ever-present headgear. It was admirable how prim and proper she
always seemed to be, even when removing an inkwell from a Hufflepuff's throat after his
friends dared him to eat it.

"Mr. Potter!" She huffed, a small playful scowl tilting on her lips. "You better not be in here
as my patient! Term hasn't even begun!"

Harry took half a step backwards without thinking, already lifting his hands in a defensive
gesture. "Erm, not me, ma'am."

"Pardon my interruption," Tom smoothly slid into the conversation, like the oily bastard he
was. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. I believe I am the origin of our presence here. I was
under the assumption that word had already been given, my greatest apologies if this was an
inconvenience to your work."

Madam Pomfrey paused, blinking twice before the small smile on her face shifted into a
more neutral professional expression.

She folded her hands in front of her, the white and soft pastel blue of her robes only
emphasized the crease lines and wrinkles across her older face. Harry wouldn't call her
motherly, but there was something distinctly maternal about her actions.

"Oh, none of that." The mediwitch assured. "I am staff here at Hogwarts, and everyone is
welcome regardless of what injury of ailment worries you."

Tom's face was perfect as it shifted through the movements into an open cheerful expression.
If Harry hadn't known the boy, he would have believed it. Tom was like a boggart, somehow
able to transform before your very eyes into something that twisted your innards and made
the small animal brain part of your head scream.
"Oh, thank you, ma'am." Tom bowed, one hand over his chest in a loose relaxed gesture that
meant nothing to Harry.

It evidently meant something to Madam Pomfrey, who was falling for his fake weasel act by
the minute.

"Oh, none of that," Madam Pomfrey said. "I have your room already set up. I heard from
Albus that you have a condition it seems? That may require constant medical intervention
upon spikes?"

Tom barely batted an eye, "so it appears. I believe all pertinent documentation has been
owled in advance, ma'am?"

Madam Pomfrey licked one finger before she shuffled to a nearby cabinet, thumbing through
various cream and yellowish folders before she plucked out a stack of parchment, connected
by what looked like a hair clip. "Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Riddle. I see that you
require…oh my, quite a collection of vaccinations."

Tom's smile didn't waver, he managed to shift his shoulder slightly into a halfhearted shrug-
something that Harry instantly interpreted as being sheepish. Harry knew better, but his body
reading skills and brain very stupidly told him opposite.

"Ah," Madam Pomfrey nodded knowingly, "one of those families. No worries, dear. We'll
have all of this sorted out in the next few days. Your room is one of the longer care rooms I
have available, normally only used as isolation I'm afraid. It isn't much, but I have attempted
to connect it to the facilities I have here."

Harry poked his head in as the Mediwitch showed them into one nondescript door sitting next
to a decorative rubbery looking plant. Harry would have presumed it was a closet, except
Hermione had been housed in one of these isolation rooms for a few days after the Polyjuice
mishap.

The room was small, clearly it had been renovated to seem homier, but it was impossible to
scrape away all the medical qualities. The random sink by the door, the small crevices in the
wall for some sort of apparatus, the small bed mounted into the floor itself, and the sheer
overwhelming amount of lights.

It was better, with the small rugs and wall hangings. A small painting even of a soothing
bubbling brook hung near a window- which Harry knew couldn't be opened.

"I have you connected to the Infirmary Wing's washroom." Madam Pomfrey looked
apologetic, "it's a public loo, of course. I wouldn't keep any toiletries within, but the door
does connect from the back of your closet."

"Many thanks, Madam." Tom tucked his chin in, another more casual bow of some
antiquated respect. Harry didn't quite understand, but Madam Pomfrey looked at Tom quite
fondly afterwards.
Harry was afraid, that by the time school started, she'd be completely wrapped around his
finger.

"You don't have access to my medical files or other tools I use, I'm afraid." Her expression
turned stony and firm. Maybe she wouldn't be wrapped around his finger.

Tom managed to look shocked, as if such a concept was obvious. "I would never. I
completely understand and value your work, I would hate to abuse the trust and compassion
you have already provided so selflessly."

What a prick, Harry thought to himself.

"I do have to do a mandatory evaluation of you, I'm afraid." Poppy grimaced slightly, "due to
the nature of your residency here, I'm mandated by law to perform an evaluation monthly for
changes in your physical and mental states."

Tom didn't look alarmed. "Why, of course Madam. I believe that baseline records have
already been established, but if you would prefer, I am comfortable being under your wing
and at your mercy."

Madam Pomfrey flushed, eyes shining in relief. "You're a breath of fresh air. I've forgotten
what It's like to have a competent patient for once."

"Hey." Harry couldn't help but defend himself. "I'm a wonderful patient!"

Pomfrey scowled at him, trying not to smile fondly. "Of course, you are, Mr. Potter. Hop
along now, I believe your head of house may be waiting for you in your tower!"

"Oh," Harry blinked in sudden realization, "wait, what house is Tom going to be in?"

Tom twitched ever so slightly, eyes a sharp venomous stare behind Poppy's back. Poppy
shifted a bit into a more professional stance, her arms interlocking at the palms in front of
her. "Tom here is a medical patient, which under Hogwarts criteria, is a neutral space for
houses. Tom will be in no house, and divided across various courses as the Headmaster has
constructed his schedule personally. This of course, exempts him from playing on any
Quidditch teams, or aiding in the House Cup."

Tom, in Harry's opinion, didn't look too upset with this information.

"However," Poppy continued, "Tom has no head of house."

Harry blinked twice. "Err, so…"

Poppy rolled her eyes and walked off, snatching a bottle of disinfectant and a few clean rags.
She seemed to be on a mission, and Harry was not danger-friendly enough to bother her now.
He could take on a three-headed dog any day, but interrupting Madam Pomfrey? No-
Harry still remembered how that Skele-grow tasted.

"You don't seem too upset with this all." Harry said to Tom.
Tom managed another venomous side-eye. "I have nothing to be worried over. The
arrangement works and allows me to operate independent of Hogwarts's curriculum."

"Does that mean you don't have to take potions with Snape?" Harry asked, eyebrows
shooting up. Harry would have paid money to see Tom resisting Snape's barbed tongue, or
Malfoy's git face. "Lucky bastard."

Tom's eye twitched slightly, although it was impossible to determine why exactly. "Friend of
yours, I take it?"

Harry shivered, flinching back near violently. The small gleam of satisfaction in Tom's eye let
Harry know he had done so on purpose. "Slimy git."

"So, you say, dame." Tom's eyes were near burning with the amount of rude delight in the
exchange, "or shall I name you something else? Twist and twirl? Fanny?"

Harry spluttered, not quite sure how to respond, especially with the sudden lyrical near
rhyming jolt of Tom's voice at the presence of that dreaded cockney once more.

"Oh, button up, mare." Tom drawled, almost a croon that felt very old and strange to hear. It
reminded Harry of when Dudley had gone through that phase of thinking it was fancy to be
into classical idea; when he bought a designer bomber jacket and greased his hair and made
Harry's uncle buy him a vintage record player to play gravely albums.

Harry felt himself trying to kick his brain into gear- like the busted-up car lost in the
Forbidden forest. Somewhere in the back of his skull, his conscience was slamming on the
clutch, trying to force the gears into alignment with a horrible grinding noise.

"What?" Harry croaked out, and Tom grinned like a snapping turtle.

"Don't hurt yourself." Tom nearly purred, entire body and tone shifting into something even
more scary to Harry. Not sharp and predatory- like when he had a butter knife puncturing
through his arm. Back then, Tom had been all teeth and exposed whites of his eyes.

This was in contrast, the exact opposite. The antithesis of then. His mouth was all lips,
quirked and pulled back thinly, his eyes half lidded but still sharp and dark.

Harry didn't like this Tom, the way he donned a new layer and presence like a cloak.
Wrapping himself up, like an onion. Or a rose if Harry wanted to get metaphorical, at least
Roses had thorns and were- in the greater schemes of things- absolutely useless.

"Don't miss me too much," Tom crooned, twirling and sauntering away into his decorated
isolation room. Harry hoped that maybe Tom would catch the flu from living in there. Or the
plague.

On the other side of the door, Tom's face faltered and pulled back with the same level of
disgust as removing a particularly itchy sunburn. He shuddered once, trying to get the acidic
taste out of his mouth.
 The room was nice enough, it would serve his purpose. Larger than the rooms he was used to,
more isolated yet it had more privacy. A constant warden to his cell, but a warden who, for
now, was oblivious.

Tom's trunk and things were already there, tucked neatly under the small cot. Less
comfortable than his old bed in the Slytherin dungeons, yet kilometers more comfortable than
a wool sleeping bag on broken cobblestone.

He yanked out books, sliding them onto the mediocre flimsy bookshelf offered for his
convenience. It obviously used to hold medical supplies; soap and gloves and the sort. If Tom
was lucky, he may find a chunk of the lye yellow block somewhere under the exposed piping.
The type of soap that bruised over his knuckles and left his skin yellow and smelling.

The books were stacked, spines exposed and set in order from topic instead of last name.
Various concepts, as well as two journals he had managed to purchase for his thoughts to fill.
Let them read those books and pour through his notes when they inevitably scoured his room
for suspicious things. He'd need to find a hiding place soon.

Until then, the Hospital Wing was the best possible place for Tom to hide illegal dreamless
sleep potions. A heavy stock for incoming students was nothing to be alarmed by; flu season
was approaching anyways. From what Tom had gathered, the war was especially vicious,
nightmares would be common.

The thick beakers he had were fairly suspicious he'd admit, but Tom was nothing if not clever
and quick at hand. Snatching empty vials and bottles was easier than snatching coin purses or
food tickets. Cleaning them was even easier with a sink in his room.

Tom had found himself in worse situations before; ridden with disease or lancing infected
blisters with red-hot needles.

He could survive easily; a school year was nothing to him. The lack of allies was
disconcerting, as well as a line of new teachers he had to investigate and charm all in only a
series of months. He could do it, but already the stress and anxiety of his work was weighing
on him. It made his head throb dully, a distant headache brewing on the horizon.

Not to mention his joints still ached with growing pains from the prescribed nutrition potions,
combating his malnutrition and anemia in a single fell swoop. Tom wouldn't be surprised if
his hair stopped falling out and his cheeks filled by October. Maybe then, the small painless
black zits along his hips would fade as well. Long after the green-yellow bruises in the
shapes of fingers did.

Chapter End Notes

Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!
 ab absurdo
Chapter Summary

Tom is at school, and somehow, saves the day.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The term started with the usual bumble and hustle that drove Harry into the warmth of
Hogwart’s walls. It was a bit odd to be in her hallways before the other students arrived, to
see the portraits quiet and snoozing as he walked down the threadbare carpets.

It all changed of course when the large red train blew smoke, calling out a greeting from
many mountains away. Harry ran, sprinting in mismatched socks and untied shoes all the way
down to the station, laughing and welcoming friends and family alike.

Hermione and Ron instantly found him, although Hedwig’s large white plumage certainly
helped. The great bird chattered out her own greetings, chewing on Ginny’s hair teasingly as
the younger girl gave Harry a hug.

“We were worried for you!” Hermione said, beaming wide in the comfort of her second
come. “Did everything go alright?”

“Absolutely perfect.” Harry couldn’t help but smile, the wonderful atmosphere contagious to
everyone.

The younger wide eyed students were shuffled off towards the boats. The rest of the platform
began a slow lumbering crawl down the station, waiting in groups for the big horseless
carriages. At least, they had been horseless in Harry’s memory, but the mental image of
Tom’s absentminded pat along the creature’s neck was still too vivid.

He glanced at the beasts with a small grimace. Pressing his luck to be exempt by the large
warm animals. They still unnerved him; related to the Muggle notion of horror and grotesque
imagery to ever be something calming. They were hairless, black coats slinging to each bone
like when Aunt Petunia microwaved something with plastic wrap. It always came out weirdly
sealed, vacuumed tight and radiating heat near visible.

Hermione didn’t glance at them, neither did Ron. The closest reptilian head tilted slightly,
eying Hedwig on Harry’s head with its milky white eye.

“So, uh.” Harry paused, knowing the creatures weren’t imaginary since Tom had so kindly
pointed out before. “Do you see the big horses or is that just me?”
Hermione threw him a look, climbing into the carriage. If she had been speculating he had
lost his sanity, his question did little to defend his case.

“Mate, there’s nothing there.” Ron pointed out, patting Harry’s shoulder sympathetically in a
large heavy clap.

“Don’t tease him too much,” Ginny stuck out her tongue, “Merlin knows what spending a
week with him does to a person. Oh! Luna! Over here!”

From the gloom in the direction of the train station, a smaller blonde girl bounced over. She
had Pig’s cage in her hands, the little owl looked to be getting motion sickness with her
happy skipping.

“Here you are, Ginny.” Her eyes looked slightly cloudy and her voice was calm in wake of
the green looking bird. “What are you all talking about?”

“The horses!” Harry pointed, trying to find some sort of neutral ground. The last thing he
wanted was to have another strange hidden bond with Tom, this one manifesting in the sight
of emaciated pony rides. “They can’t see them!”

Luna blinked curiously and looked at the front of the carriage. It was hard to tell if she was
perplexed, or if that was just her resting expression. “You mean the thestrals? Is there
something different about this one?”

“Thestrals,” Harry repeated, before turning to look at Hermione in petty triumph, “

thestrals.”

Hermione gaped before closing her mouth with a huff. Luna, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice
the amused atmosphere in the carriage that slowly rolled along towards the castle.

The Entrance Hall burned a glimmering display of torches, bouncing off the starless black
ceiling in silvery trails of imaginary moonlight. Candles floated instead, operating as
makeshift constellations that the Hogwarts’ ghosts seemed to find great pleasure in mapping.
Harry noticed other students ducked their heads low as he passed, whispering to one another.
He ignored them, and wished distantly that he could forget it as easily as Tom could.

Luna drifted away from them, finding her own seat at the Ravenclaw table. Ginny similarly
broke away to be engulfed by her yearmates.

Harry took his seat, somewhere near Neville and Ron, but through the shape of many bodies
he could distinctly hear Lavender’s recognizable laughter. It was comforting to know the girl
was already back into gossip. It felt like no time had passed at all.

Hagrid wasn’t at the staff table, his large form difficult to miss. It was obvious, no matter
how many times Harry scanned his eyes up and down the length. The Half-giant wasn’t
present, and instead, it looked like someone's aunt was sitting next to Dumbledore.
Well, perhaps someone's aunt. She had a smile pressed so firmly onto her face, it looked
ironed on like those magazines Aunt Petunia always scoffed at. Her cheeks rosy and plump,
but a colour Harry doubted anyone could achieve naturally. Squat, short curly brown hair.
She reminded Harry slightly of a rather pleased mouse, except draped in such a nauseatingly
bright pink robe.

Harry didn’t recognize her, but when she took a sip from her goblet he quickly corrected his
assumption that she resembled a mouse, to that of a toad.

“Who is that woman?” Harry asked, smart enough not to point. Hermione leant over,
squinting at her with a frown.

“I don’t know, likely the new Defense professor.”

“Nice cardigan.” Ron said.

The first years joined, and despite knowing ahead of time, Harry was almost expecting Tom
to come marching in with them. His height would dwarf the terrified children, although his
deep scowl and large pointy hat may have made up for it. Looking at the staff table,
Dumbledore looked nearly ready to laugh; Harry wondered if the man was thinking along the
same line.

Harry craned his neck, peering around to see where the boy was. Dumbledore wasn’t likely to
make an announcement and draw attention to Tom’s position, but it wasn’t exactly a secret.
The Heads of House would likely mention it after the feast- but even then, Tom should be
somewhere in the hall.

“I already looked,” Hermione muttered quietly, eyes flickering around. “He’s not here.”

Ron didn’t notice their trepidation, instead, he was caught in a vicious battle between a
chicken leg and his teeth.

The students dug in, and slowly, began to fill themselves. Once the noise level of the hall
slowly started to creep upwards, more talking mouths than chewing, Dumbledore stepped
forward. Talking instantly ceased into a low hush.

The start of term notices, the casual things Harry had learned to ignore halfheartedly. He
should really compile a list of rules and regulations, cross through them for everything he had
broken so far. Trespassing the corridor, attacking a teacher, going into the forbidden forest,
kicking a werewolf although that one didn’t accomplish much.

Harry did notice, when the new woman stood, and interrupted the headmaster.

“Oh dear.” Hermione said.

Her voice was high-pitched, breathy and a little girlish. It was an odd juxtaposition to
consider her a toad with such a high strained noise. A bullfrog maybe, wearing bad lipstick
and clothing that made Dumbledore’s silvery robes look normal.

She cleared her throat with a little ‘hem hem’, and Harry nodded. Definitely a toad.
Harry noticed that she had finished talking only when Hermione gasped audibly. His
attentiveness ebbed, like his ears were shifting to the wrong telly channel and never managed
to come back. A few students had already ignored her- Lavender had returned to gossiping.

“That was horrible.” Hermione said in a low voice. “It explained a lot.”

“You managed to listen?” Ron asked, his eyes as glazed over as Luna’s on a normal day.

“That woman, is a ministry official.” Hermione gritted out, “it means that the Ministry’s
interfering at Hogwarts. They’re starting to overstep, or maybe they’re afraid and grabbing
power.”

Harry looked at her, and traced the woman- Umbridge’s face with his eyes. Across the
carefully pinned hair and painted cheeks. The way her expression never fell. Plastic, and
rehearsed. She reminded him of Aunt Marge, but not like her at all. Something told Harry
that this woman wouldn’t own a dog, but that she was the dog. An innate sense of wrongness
about her that made Harry want to duck his head low and stay out of sight. He hadn’t felt that
way at Hogwarts ever before. Not in his home.

There was a great clatter and banging around them; Dumbledore had dismissed the school.
Everyone leaped up, even Hermione who looked a bit flustered by it all.

They departed, bolting really to fetch the confused first-years and guide them to the tower.
Harry couldn’t help the small fond smile at the sight of the tiny children, running around
frantically with large hats. They reminded Harry of traffic cones.

He knew he should be irritated with Ron and Hermione’s new duties, but he had since come
to terms with it. They may be prefects, but Harry had been assigned his own unofficial job.
He didn’t have a fancy badge or privileges, but he did have a single individual who he had to
somehow convince to not go on a murder spree.

‘If he did,’ Harry thought tiredly, ‘I could borrow some first-years. Use them to reroute
traffic.’

Harry, in his blessed daydreams, yelped like Hedwig when someone snatched his arm and
yanked him out of the flow of movement.

It wasn’t far out of the way, just to the landing of the first staircases. It felt secluded, even
though they were in plain sight of nearly the entire school. The sound and voices were aimed
one way, leaving the landing muted and quiet.

Tom stared at him, as quiet as could be.

“Where were you?” Harry blurted instantly, “In the hall?”

Tom’s face didn’t shift, not a hair out of place on his precious little head. “The back room.”

Harry knew that room, the same area the champions had gathered after they were selected. It
was a small thing, but supplied tables and little chairs for staff that didn’t want to sit at the
staff table. More a supply or gathering area really, but still vivid enough in Harry’s memory
he didn’t challenge it.

“You hear the speech then?” Harry asked, a bit curious. Hermione was a bit ticked by the new
woman, it would be interesting to see Tom’s own personal opinions on the matter.

Then, Harry started to actually look at Tom.

There was something about Tom’s clipped tone which felt odd to Harry. The small subtle
movements of body language that contrasted with his mental image. Harry knew body
language- he wasn’t nearly as good at reading people like Ron impossibly seemed to be, but
he could tell the most basic things. The small inflections or twitching of fingers that almost
always came with an answering slap. The low way one would divert their eyes and speak
quieter to skirt under the attention of someone else. Harry hadn’t seen it in a long time, he
had only spotted a mutated form in the way Neville stuttered with both anxiety and adoration
for his sharp grandmother. He had felt it, just earlier. Under the beady eyed woman who now
apparently was testing Hogwarts.

This was different, because Harry had no misunderstandings about Tom’s blatant distaste for
them all, but here he was acting so eerily submissive and natural Harry wondered if this was
his natural state. Tiptoeing through a minefield with a barely withheld grin, knowing that
although others would be blown apart he would be just fine.

It wasn’t quite something that was wrong either. That was the worst bit, the thing Harry
couldn’t quite force himself to forget. There was a lewd casualness to it, a civility to one
another based on the acceptance that some people apparently deserved to be a little bit more
flinching than another.

Sometimes when Snape spoke to Harry, in that sharp dry tone with those lazy summer insults,
Harry had to bite his tongue to not mumble back ‘Yes Aunt Petunia.’

Harry didn’t know how to explain to Ron or Hermione how that could be. How sometimes a
look someone gave you made you taste the bitterness of soap or the stinging crack of a hand
on skin. Tom though, Tom said absolutely nothing but every twitch and every blank look
screamed to Harry like Aunt Marge shouting at Ripper to get down, boy!

Harry wasn’t fond of Umbridge before, even if most of her political jargon had passed over
his head. It wasn’t her appearance or the smug look on her face, but it was the way a couple
hours across the entire Great Hall had reduced Harry to those buried moments. The way, even
indirectly, the both of them were waiting for the sting of ruler across their knuckles, or a palm
against their face.

Harry wondered if Neville could feel it too, or if his mutated mixture of genuine love and
stern backhands had rendered his own perception stunted.

Tom’s body twisted slightly, tilting them so that their backs were to the crowds of students
ascending the stairs. The sound muffled just a tad further, another layer to this weirdly private
moment between them.
Harry didn’t like it, that something about a ministry worker could worry Tom (that’s all this
could be) to this degree.

Harry had a bad experience with the Ministry before; both through Sirius and Cedric. It
wasn’t an organization he was particularly fond of, or trusted as it clearly wanted its citizens
to. With the propaganda twist that Rita Skeeter threw into the Daily Prophet, Harry was far to
skeptic to take any words at face value. He wondered if that was his own paranoia speaking,
or if his self preservation had finally reared its head to combat his own reckless tendencies.

(Clearly, his reputation had spoken for him in advance.)

“Don’t trust her.” Tom spoke to him, voice low and inexplicably hoarse. The hand on Harry’s
arm tightened ever so, Tom’s fractured splintered nails digging into Harry’s sleeve and
leaving the smallest pinpricks of moon on his skin. “The Ministry woman.”

Harry hadn’t even realized that Tom hadn’t let go. Instead, his grip only tightened.

“Umbridge?” Harry asked stupidly, because there was nobody else that itched and rubbed
him so wrongly. The vague sense of predatory glee, of confidence that she could and would
tear them all apart. Plus, she was the only odd thing in the entire speech.

“She’s the Minister’s assistant.” Tom kept speaking, voice low but quick. Some syllables
chopping together in a unique cadence Harry knew he couldn’t replicate. Historians would
likely weep at the sound of it. “You don’t obtain that position through bruised knees alone.”

Harry felt his face flush at the dismissive implication Tom provided. Tom ignored him and
kept talking, face blank and staring forward. Harry realized, that it was unlikely anyone else
even noticed their conversation. “The political beast isn’t one you can... outfly on a
broomstick. That woman appears simple and obnoxious, yet in her current position and
power there is very little who can interfere, and very few she can’t touch. She can ruin your
life if you allow her.”

“How do you know this?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. His brain felt a bit melted with how
quickly everything had escalated. “That she’s trouble?”

“They always are.” Tom said, vague and cryptid. “If you’re going through hell, keep going.
The ministry- this woman is not supposed to be here. She will put you through hell, and
expect your cooperation. Do not give it to her, do not turn into sheep.”

Harry tried to think of where he had heard the saying before, and why Tom so vehemently
spat it like it was revolting on his tongue. “Do you know her?”

“No.” Tom dismissed bluntly. “I know her kind.”

He let go of his arm, took a few steps to smoothly incorporate himself into the flow of
students, and vanished.

“Prat.” Harry said.

History of Magic was the most painful subject taught at Hogwarts. And that was including
Potions. Potions at least, if you were lucky, would knock you out before torturing you. Goblin
Wars had no mercy.

Only Hermione managed to take notes, which readily were a hot commodity and could likely
end such Goblin Wars. Harry wondered if the Goblins had such a system of communication,
or if all the wars were results of poor information management over the conversion rate of a
tulip bulb to gold.

Today, the Gryffindors suggested for an hour and half, surviving in the alluring haze of sleep
and Hermione’s quill scratching. Hermione shot them all filthy looks, but in the end sheer
numbers won and left her frantically taking notes.

Spirits plummeted further as the Gryffindors descended into the dungeons, surviving the first
two hours of the year in Snape’s wonderful company. He didn’t seem any more chipper or
cheerful, although that would be more surprising than seeing the greasy haired man taking
care of a unicorn. Harry was nearly gleeful at the prospect of not needing to take Potions ever
again after this year.

Lunch was a casual affair, shepherds pie and thick gravy. At this rate, Harry wasn’t sure he’d
leave for Christmas break without needing a new pair of trousers.

Despite that, Harry couldn’t help but wonder distantly how Tom was getting along. Harry
didn’t know everything about the boy’s situation, but what he gathered was that he’d be
studying independently of any house affiliated classes. Hermione likely understood it better,
but Harry was stuck in Divination with Ron instead.

Professor Trelawney finished her explanation of something, flinging her hand dramatically in
a reenactment of turning pages. Harry tiredly flipped open the assigned material to browse
through the introduction of The Dream Oracle.

“This makes no sense, mate.” Ron shuddered, squinting at the pictures in the book which
were only marginally more clear than piles of tea leaves. “I know I dreamt about flying the
other night. Does that mean I’m running away from my problems?”

Harry shrugged, flipping the pages further. “Maybe a Hungarian Horntail is going to chase
you. Destiny and all that.”

“I bloody hope not,” Ron shuddered, scribbling it down anyways on the worksheet. “What
about you, mate? Any weird dreams recently?”

Harry’s brows scrunched. He wasn’t going to share his dreams with anyone- not the ones that
reflected back the graveyard. He already knew well enough what that meant; he didn’t need
an old book telling him that a great evil was chasing him.

Inspiration struck and Harry nodded ever so slowly in thought. “Yeah actually. A few weeks
ago I had a really weird dream.
“Firecrackers I think.” Harry said. “Or something like that. Maybe exploding snap, you and
the twins weren’t playing it when I was sleeping, right?”

Ron looked a bit baffled. “No, mum got rid of our deck. Don’t reckon there are any
firecrackers where we were...uh, staying.”

“Huh.” Harry shrugged, and of course, Trelawney heard.

“Oh!” She wheezed, sounding in need of some clean air rather than a message, “what are
your dreams telling you, my boy!”

Ron quickly skittered backwards, leaving Trelawney’s large bug eyes blinking at him instead.

“Uh,” Harry’s mind scattered, “uh...b-blasting curses? Or uh...fireworks?”

Trelawney nodded so quickly, her earrings rattled like little a cat toy. “ And? And what else,
my child!”

Harry shrugged one shoulder helplessly.

“The atmosphere! The smell!” Trelawney continued, flinging her arms with the risk of
actually punching Harry in the nose. “The smell! What did it smell like!”

“I don’t know!” Harry blurted in alarm, “smoke! Dust! You know, broken building!”

Trelawney hummed a noise like a broken cat purring, “and the feeling! The feeling, boy!”

Cold. Empty. Isolating and chilling- enough that Harry jerked so hard when he woke up he
fell from the bed. That was how he remembered the dream- the strange yet unsafe dream. It
had terrified him, left him sweating and chilled to the bone despite the summer heat.

Trelawney scoffed, offended as Harry stopped talking. She danced off, intruding on Neville
who was in the middle of some large tale about his grandmother and large quilting scissors.

“What a mess.” Ron complained, packing up before they started down the steps. “Reckon
she’s going to ever leave you alone?”

“Not in my lifetime.” Harry said, hoping that the strange eerie sensation he had been
reminded of would leave him alone.

It didn’t, even as they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. They found
Professor Umbridge already seated at the teacher's desk, wearing the same pink eyesore as
the night before.

The class filed in, Hermione patting their shoulders as they all managed to find desks near
one another. The class was quiet, unsure of how to act in the presence of an unknown teacher.

The class escalated in boredom, and a strange heavy oppression that had Hermione’s rarely
seen, petty grudge, rearing its curly hair.
Harry found it fascinating, Hermione had never neglected reading before- especially when
instructed. She sat stiff backed, arm straight in the air unwavering. She was staring straight at
Professor Umbridge, face composed and flat.

Professor Umbridge looked just as determinedly anywhere else in the class.

After a few more minutes, the majority of the class was now watching Hermione. The
introduction they had all been assigned to read was so painful, they were finding near
perverse glee in staring at Hermione’s unwavering determination. Truly, an inspiration.

Slightly more than half the class was staring at Hermione rather than at the book, then, the
door to the room opened.

If they had been doing anything exciting, such as watching grass grow, they may have missed
it. The doors gave a low click, a gentle slide of hinges. In desperation for any sort of stimuli,
half of the class twisted their neck eagerly. Harry wondered if their guest would put them out
of their misery.

Oh, oh. Maybe Tom would.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Tom said, voice smooth and flat. Nearly monotone except somehow-
it wasn’t. Harry wouldn’t normally marvel at Tom’s unique voice and cadence, but at this
point Harry would nearly cry in happiness at the opportunity to sift cat litter.

Umbridge’s face didn’t sour, a testament to Hermione’s irritating inquiry.

“Not at all.” Professor Umbridge’s voice was sickly sweet. “I do ask that you arrive to class
at the proper time, lest you make me very displeased.”

Tom didn’t pause a second, managing to slide himself into an unoccupied desk near the back
of the class calmly. Lavender, sitting next to him now, looked ready to swoon.

“A reasonable request.” Tom continued. “However, I am not part of this class. At this time,
I’m investigating potential coursework to determine if attending such would be a benefit of
my time. I thank you for your hospitality, madam. It also appears, that a student of yours has
a question.”

Hermione pointedly, wiggled her fingers in the air.

‘Wow,’ Harry thought in distant amusement. Now he really, really wanted Tom to join their
class long term.

Umbridge looked taken aback- although even Hermione looked vindicate amused by their
unlikely avenging angel.

“I see.” Professor Umbridge clipped out, voice ever so sharp now that her fake politeness was
gone. “I’m sure you will find this course more than beneficial by your standards, Mr…”

“Riddle.” Tom responded instantly, rehearsed nearly. “I thank you for such a warm welcome.
Would you entertain a query of mine about your course aims- simply a curious student to our
new esteemed Professor. If not, I of course entirely understand.”

Oh, Tom was good.

“Well, Mr. Riddle, I think the course aims are perfectly clear.” said Professor Umbridge in a
voice of determined sweetness.

“Pardon my cretinous company, madam. I am wondering at what point the British Ministry
curriculum permitted a coursework aimed towards defensive magic to not contain any
defensive magic within its instruction. Forgive me, for witless minds, but at what point did
the Ministry of Magic’s OWL requirements for Auror certification no longer need practical
magic?”

Professor Umbridge stared. Tom stared a moment longer, then he nodded slowly as if in
confirmation.

He stood, polite as ever and offered a charming smile. “I understand. I thank you for your
patience, and beg forgiveness for absurdity. I see your curriculum is not one I should partake
in-.”

Professor Umbridge flushed, a small thing that Ron watched with a look of pure glee.

“You cannot graduate without OWLS in Defense Against Dark Arts!” She snapped, giving a
tiny dramatic stomp.

Tom gathered his things, unbothered. “I already have taken my OWLS, madam. I’m in the
first percentile. Have a pleasant evening.”

Tom slipped out, and Harry felt like applauding.

Tom made his way very calmly towards the nearest loo, confident that his display would
force the woman to maintain her classroom with an iron grip. Nobody would be slipping out
until the hour was done.

The loo was quiet and empty, barren here unlike the others would be. A tap dripped quietly,
some younger student having not closed the faucet all the way. The various stalls were open,
informing Tom of their vacancy.

Tom closed the heavy door to the loo, pulling his wand to mutter a few selective locking
charms. Nothing suspicious, but enough he’d have moments of warning before someone
barged in.

Tom didn’t have privacy in his own washroom, even though it was intended for such. The
only moments he could steel for himself were those taken in the daylight hours.

He had little time, but more time than he needed. He needed to simply document and dot
along the line, a temporary tattoo. He was so used to the needle poking his skin, the
 sharpened nib of a quill was nothing to him.

Yanking his trousers down slightly, he bunched and shifted fabric to observe the small lesions
he had spotted not long ago. Originally small, he had dismissed them as minor skin infections
or perhaps a hex he hadn’t noticed until later. He wouldn’t put it past the younger Weasley to
try and target him.

The lesions were small and painless, a strange deep blue with a black center. A bit of his skin
had worn off; instead of yellow pus instead dripped discharge like watered down ink. Black
and thin, staining over the few conjured bandages he had pressed against the tiny spots,
wrapping around his upper thighs. No larger than a knut, little specks of ink around the
perimeter from where Tom had been attentively tracking the size. They weren’t getting larger,
but they weren’t shrinking either.

The only thing that came to mind was that the small sores were related to his….ill advised
consumption of a specific potion. An ache he knew now, a dependency he hated like the itch
on his bones.

He’d keep monitoring the small spots, and search for something else if they ever turned
worse.

Chapter End Notes

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 Ad locum
Chapter Summary

Where Tom investigates and finds the name.

Chapter Notes

I hope you all enjoy! Here's our first glimpse of Grindelwald and Crina once more!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The castle was distant and foreign in a way unlike anything Tom could imagine.

He knew the walls, he knew the stone pathways. They greeted him, as if no time had passed
at all. Despite that, there were differences. New paintings on the corners, different trophies
and names. Tom was no fool, he had paused outside the showcases and found his own name
listed on the gilded plaques. Tom M. Riddle, Head Boy. Service to the School.

It wasn’t him, but at the same time it was. A legacy he didn’t know, a face he hadn’t seen in a
mirror.

Tom Riddle was no fool, he knew things were wrong and different. Tainted foully. The other
students didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps the secret spoken blatantly was something
unknown only to the majority. It wouldn’t be the first time.

It felt like the war, and yet nobody seemed concerned. The new Defense teacher only assured
him of that- a political figurehead with little to no expertise in teaching. He had seen this
before, the purge and surge of propaganda and public information. Tom wouldn’t be surprised
if slowly throughout the year the books in the library were removed one by one.

He would have to search them quickly- find his way into the restricted section as soon as he
could. He wasn’t naive enough to assume that Dumbledore hadn’t already filtered the
selection. Anything that could help him would already be hidden behind locked doors.

A week into term and the whispers started. The thick low mutter of rumors that hadn’t ever
faded in social norm. Whispers Tom couldn’t help but notice, but names and gasps he
couldn’t identify. He didn’t understand the reason for it- the hidden panic.

“He says he saw Cedric Diggory murdered…”

“He reckons he dueled with You-Know-Who…”

“Come off it…”

“Who does he think he’s kidding?”

Tom bit his cheek and kept walking. The suspiciously absent tie evident, the plain black scarf
around his throat that belonged to no house in particular.

No, Tom didn’t know who. That was the problem. An entire war was evolving and bubbling-
or something scarily like it. Tom knew little to nothing, and it bothered him more than he’d
admit.

Apparently Potter had gotten into a shouting match. Already stirring trouble and spitting
venom at the ministry worker. The unqualified teacher who fancied herself something better.
It was sickening, painfully familiar.

He knew this castle like old faded photographs. He knew his face like it wasn’t his own.

He was thankful at least that Potter had apparently stirred chaos within the castle. The rumors
were focused on his apparent imploding, it seemed poor Potter was a few moments away
from lashing out. The world fancied him a dark wizard, apparently a murdered to a select
group. Potter didn’t have a bone in his body capable of injustice.

“Excuse me,” Tom smiled, pulling his lips back into something kind and open, “I was
wondering if perhaps you could help me?”

The girl glanced up, her eyes widened in surprise at the question. He had approached her
from out of the blue, intimidatingly so. She had her face crammed in a decently thick book,
squinting at the small font in what looked like herbology. Likely for materials to write an
essay on, or studying intensely for the quizzes common at the start of the term.

“Uh, hello.” She greeted, blinking in bafflement. She glanced at the page number, sliding the
book closed and to her side. Her bag was thin, distinctly wizard in structure and material.
She’d do.

“I appreciate it,” Tom said. He kept his face smooth and unimposing. “I’m new here- a
transfer. I’m a bit at a loss of everything going on here.”

Her eyebrows furrowed and she chewed her lower lip. Perhaps his age, maybe the year
above. Wonderful, she already was staring a bit too long on the sharp cut of his jaw and his
hair. He knew those lingering glances, and how to use them.

“It’s a bit overwhelming.” Tom said, taking steps forward to settle into the small impression
of the window. The girl wiggled to the side, offering him more space.

“Oh, It’s a confusing castle.” She assured him. Glancing down at her hands shyly, “the
teachers are all nice here- oh, well, except Professor Snape. He’s...a bit scary.”

Professor Snape, the potions professor if he recalled correctly. He used the same room as
Professor Slughorn, the same deep classroom with fumes sunken into the walls.
“Sounds like that Potter folk is too.” Tom said, shrugging one shoulder. His body rolled with
the movement, her eyes stared a second at his neck. “A murderer?”

“Oh, well.”

Tom started to lean away, a small shift of his body. The girl latched on, Tom felt almost
disgusted by her generosity.

“He isn’t bad!” She blurted, shuffling her fingers again. “Well, he’s...last year he came back
with the cup- the Twiwizard Cup, we had the tournament here. And Cedric- Cedric Diggory,
was dead! He said that You-Know-Who did it, but...but You-Know-Who is gone, so…”

Tom’s mind scrambled, jolting far too quickly. His temples twinged as quickly he tried to
process everything he could. You-Know-Who? Had Grindelwald survived? Had his
supporters managed to catch hold and retain it over the years?

“That’s horrible.” Tom said. “I had no idea. How is this school running if there was a
murder?”

“Well…” the girl paused. Tom should have known her name, but he cared too little to ask for
it now. “...Truth be told, Hogwarts has rotten luck. Last year there was the Triwizard
Tournament nonsense, and two years before that the Chamber of Secrets opened and then
vanished!”

Tom froze. His blood curdled. “The Chamber of Secrets?”

“Oh yes! It’s a famous myth- well, more infamous now. There was a monster or a dark
wizard petrifying students! It took a girl down there, and then closed. Nobody was hurt and
our teacher vanished- Professor Lockhart! He was quite wonderful, not too bright though…”

The Chamber of Secrets. Tom had been looking for that for...for years. The link, the secret
words spoken and implied to be parseltongue. The Chamber had opened, which meant that
the school had witnesses detailing how to get inside. Someone in the castle knew where the
Chamber was, and someone had...had released the basilisk.

Who? How? Had the bloodline somehow survived? Was there another parselmouth?

“So uh…” The girl glanced down at her book. “What year are you? Do you have that essay
on Nettle for Professor Sprout too?”

“No.” Tom’s eyes flickered down at the book. It was an older model, the same collection
from a book he knew but many many years a different edition. The content would be similar,
unlikely to have changed over time. Worst come worst, he could express his concerns with
Ms. Dimitriu and she would likely send him resources. “Thank you for your aid. I’ve been
quite worried over that Potter fellow, you’ve made me feel much better.”

The girl bit her lip and nodded. She looked a little guilty, a little pleased with herself. “He’s
not all bad! I mean...he’s a bit mean sometimes, snaps a bit too. But he’s kind too! Seems he’s
just got a horrid life…”
Tom mentally summoned his restraint, and forced his shoulders to lean inwards. He shifted
his body language, diverting his focus on the startled and slightly flushed girl.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know much about him. I’ve been gone a long time, you see.”

“Oh.” She said. “He, uh, he’s...his parents died! When he was young! But ah, you probably
knew that!”

Tom didn’t but she didn’t know that. “Oh? Thank you so much for this by the way. We...I
traveled a lot- South Africa for a while. I haven’t heard much about this...You-Know-Who…”

“Oh.” She squeaked. “I uh, what do you want to know?”

Crina leant back in her chair, the wood creaking slightly. One high laced boot crossed over
the other, resting gently on her knee.

The folder and parchment under her fingers crinkled slightly as she poured over the picture,
the subtle shades of ink splattered and folded- creased in a mirror image. She despised the
useless tests, but they were fascinating tools for subconscious processing even when the
individual was aware of them.

“Rorschach.” Crina said, her voice echoing slightly in that way stone seemed to make.
“Outdated, although I shouldn’t say such things when they’re still used in wizarding
medicine.”

The ink blot, large and spanning across the paper stared at her. Mocking her in its blatant
unimportant splatter.

“I never think of you to use something outdated.”

“None of that,” Crina said, not looking up from her papers. “I appreciate the attempt, but
flattery has long since been wasted on me. Especially given that I already know it’s merely
words.”

Crina’s face didn’t twist in a smile. Her patient chuckled deeply, low and tired. The room was
cold- it was why Crina took to wearing her thick fur to insulate. It was comfortable, perhaps a
bit obnoxious, but it disguised her figure and had protected her time and time again.

“You haven’t been around much,” a small pause. “Have you found someone more
interesting?”

“I have.” Crina said, unrolling the sheaf of parchment attached to squint at the handwriting.
Small and precise, a bit loose and scribble in that rhythm that suggested fountain pens rather
than quills. Crina knew that feeling well, it was interesting to see the difference between
writing. She could mark the point he alternated between using his left hand and his right to
scribble down his assignment.
“Oh dear, I hope he isn’t a stubborn one.”

“That title is held by you alone,” Crina finally smiled, an upwards quirk of her lips. “Don’t be
jealous now. You’re still the king of this castle.”

“A king behind bars and shackled to an iron ball.”

Crina’s smile was a tad bit sharper. She looked down at her notes, tracing them carefully to
document them to memory. She’d transfer the more important ones over to her files, the
books where she compiled data and evidence. These results were particularly intriguing.

“Is he younger than me?”

“Everyone is.” Crina said. “It’s ink blots. It’s always death and disaster with your type.”

“And cannibalism with Julius.”

Crina nearly snorted. “Ah yes, poor Julius. The Italians took him away far too soon, I’d have
loved to see his thoughts on other documents, but you know how international wizarding
organizations are.”

Crina mouthed the words quietly to herself, quick enough that her patient couldn’t read her
lips. ‘Severed limbs and a blood splash. Old and dried up; several days.’ That was
interesting, not too many people had analyzed the pattern of ‘blood’ in the splash. Crina
herself thought it looked like a rather happy looking badger personally.

“They’re giving you trouble then, the British?”

Crina sighed through her nose, a slight high whine in it. “Gellert, I understand that you may
believe yourself to know my business, but you must remember, you’re my prisoner.”

Gellert Grindelwald’s eyes were dark, half hidden in the lighting. Nurmengard didn’t offer
much in the option for lighting- no windows without thick iron barriers. No doorways
without locks. Lanterns were bewitched to burn on oil, extinguishing the moment they
spilled. There was no fire in Nurmengard, there was no escape in Nurmengard.

“Oh?” Gellert asked, his accent thick but still retained. One last morsel of his pride, scraped
off the stone floor and cradled in his lap. “I couldn’t ever forget.”

Crina didn’t look up from her notes. She didn’t bother the man with a moment of her
thoughts. Yes, he sat across from her, but he was still her prisoner. Shackled to an iron
weight- archaic, but effective. Even the werewolf they had was unable to tear the ball from its
leg.

“You flatter me.” Crina said. Her eyes skimmed over Tom’s handwriting, reading his
interpretation to a splotch of red ink. Vultures flying, a cat between them.

Gellert’s eyes dropped, sliding off her thick fur coat to glance at the wood of her chair. The
lantern burned between them. “I would be a fool, to ever doubt you, Frau Overseer Dimitriu.”
Crina’s eyes were equally dark as she briefly glanced up. Her pen pausing in its scribbling.
The shadows thrown across her face emphasized the lines near the corners of her eyes. Crows
feet, the slight wrinkles from concentration.

“You’re awfully chatty.” Crina said.

“Perhaps I’m concerned for your new interest.”

“You’re not.” Crina said. Her frown dipped lower, her eyes cold and calculating. “You care
little for the fate of others. You care only for yourself.”

Grindelwald smiled, a thin expression obscured by his beard. White, coarse. His eyes were
still sharp, still cruel. Crina was no fool.

“You care only because I’ve seemingly been distracted.” Crina said. She knew her patients
well. “I haven’t been. I have eyes in my castle, and you are still a prisoner. One of your own
making.”

Grindelwald nodded ever so slightly, calmly. This was simply a conversation between old
friends. “Have my wölfe been well?”

Crina set her pen down. “Lupescu. I gave them a name. Not your crude definition.”

Gellert’s eyes sharpened ever so slightly. “You bastardized them.”

“You bred them.” Crina said. “From animagi if I recall correctly. Quite an intelligent group,
wolves with animagi blood. Quite loyal, and very vicious.”

“The loyal guard dogs of Nurmengard.” Gellert’s lip curled slightly, his cheeks pulled back
into a wordless snarl. “They are mine.”

“The Lupescu,” Crina said pointedly, “are mine. I am the Overseer of Nurmengard. They are
my guards. Do we have a misunderstanding, inmate?”

Grindelwald snarled wordlessly. His torso arched slightly, shadows under his eyes more
pronounced. The man was intelligent, still sharp in mind. Crina took no risks, and held no
bargains.

Grindelwald’s nostrils flared as he breathed in and out quickly. Crina casually picked up her
pen, writing her notes. Basking in the delight that she could do what he could not.

“No…” Gellert ground out, adjusting himself from his seated position on the chair. His
amputated arms- ending just above the elbows, shifted in the knotted ends of his robe sleeves.
“...we don’t have a misunderstanding.”

The international registry for magical testing was advanced, and confusing. A headache for
paperwork, skimming through the multitude of forms held together with thick white thread.
Crina often wondered why the magical world hadn’t accepted stables and incorporated them
into the culture. It seemed exhausting, to sew pages together line compiling a new book.

If section 1A(c) is not applicable, move to section 2F

Crina sighed, and turned the page skimming for 2F. Honestly, she should have gone to a
Goblin consultant for taxes with how elaborately annoying these forms were.

Her pen scratched, filling out simple things. Crina was the leader of Nurmengard- she often
had registry into national databases for informational purposes. Highly illegal, but then again,
many purebloods tended to have children in the preference of their home. The majority of
reported births were just sent via documentation, not eye witness accounts. Archaic,
unreliable, and very convenient.

Tom had his own information deeply sunken in the British database. It was impossible to
access and remove the ministry forms, but the original forms of the British Muggle World
were easy to steal from the registry of orphans. Along with it, documentation and faded
pictures. The pictures of Tom in his youth was the documentation Crina needed to assure
nobody would ever look an eye at her forged file.

His fake identity number was scrawled into the necessary spot, his legal name filled out in
Crina’s font.

Already Tom’s file was thick, the scores from rudimentary test and her own careful
statements of exemptions from various courses. History, astronomy, the areas of study that
Tom had already proved he knew more information than the international standards. It
wouldn’t be long until she’d be forced to meet with one of the representatives of the
international educational standards. She wasn’t sure how the meeting would go, especially
since Crina had tentatively placed Tom as her ward.

“Oh Tom,” Crina sighed, tapping her lip as she looked through the evaluations and reports
sent to her from Hogwarts. Required of course, small updates from teachers and from
Dumbledore himself. It wasn’t anything major, and Albus was being remarkably polite about
it all. They’d need to work on Tom’s sharp tongue, it wasn’t good to have already infuriated a
few teachers.

Actually, Crina didn’t recognize the name of the one teacher he had apparently infuriated.
No, the wording was off. The teacher he had displayed exaggerated impudent behaviour.

“Who are you?” Crina asked. Placing the file to the side as she fetched a different piece of
parchment, scribbling down the name of the teacher who had placed the request. D. L.
Umbridge. She didn’t recognize that name.

“Mika.” Crina said, elevating her voice to be heard in the hallway. A moment before the door
opened, the heavy oak creaking slightly as a younger woman poked her head in.

“Yes Frau Dimitriu?”

Crina folded her fingers in her lap. The name was unsettling to her, for reasons she couldn’t
quite describe. “Mika, could you fetch me the registry of aurors from Britain? And the
International registry for education degrees- the most recent model.”

Mika nodded, slipping out of the room. The records room was under more heavy security,
each inmate having a thick sheaf of parchment detailing their every recorded document until
the day they died. Only Crina and her staff could enter- the few Mediwitches and Wizards she
hired, the secretaries that managed the intake and output of finances from the government to
handle the cost of living. Mika was a wonderful secretary, able to sort and diverge mail and
requests into piles. She was useful too, and was paid admirably for working in such a
haunting place.

The door opened after a soft knock. Mika walked in, the two books stacked in her arms. The
thick scar across her face looked ghastly in the lantern lighting. A shame, she would have
been an attractive woman if not for it; certainly able to find employment outside of a prison.

“Thank you,” Crina accepted the books, setting them to the side. Mika slipped out of the
room, and Crina opened the book to the directory with a small oof. They were stupidly thick,
annoying and crinkly.

Magical Britain Auror Registry and Employment. She turned to the last name selection,
filtering down the U’s to where Umbridge should have been. Crina traced the letters with her
finger, finding Ulura, and Unaru, but no Umbridge.

She closed the book, nearly choking on the cloud of dust that wafted up. The other book
revealed similar results- the last Umbridge who managed an education degree was
generations prior- at least it affirmed that this mysterious teacher was a pureblood in England.
If only Crina could access that database.

Despite it all, something about the name bothered her deeply.

There were many new books in the Hogwarts Library, ignored in favour of another.

Tom knew how to look normal, how to find what he needed.

You-Know-Who, listed under an assortment of various books. On the back page of Great
Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. Listed in careful writing “A compendium of
important wWzarding events from the twentieth century, including the story of the Boy Who
Lived.”

One of the highlights in Modern Magical History. The third section of The Rise and Fall of
the Dark Arts.

Each book, listed the reoccurring name. Over and over, written again and again and again.

The Boy Who Lived!

The Death Eaters!

He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named!

Tom closed the book with a snap. Staring at the shelves blankly.

It wasn’t a coincidence. The hostility, the hate and scorn. Only a few people seemed to
recognize him, to falter at his smile. If everyone had known of...of this great secret, then
digging for information would be much more difficult.

Something unsaid, sitting in broad daylight. Written in history books and passed around in
afterthought. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

This...This threat. The murder apparently last year- right before Tom arrived. The extra
security, the hushed whispers and glares in Harry Potter’s direction. The Slytherin students
seemed more vengeful, vindictive under a heavy weight. A social stigma, one he felt on street
corners and under military issued uniforms.

A student had died before he arrived, and now there was a ministry employee keeping an eye
on the castle. This was...it was a political move, a careful slide to obtain power. Something
about the castle was threatening the society and political stability of the country as a whole-
which tended to mean that they were right.

Harry Potter was...impossible. A child able to survive a killing curse and somehow defeat a
Dark Lord as a baby. That…

“Magic doesn’t work like that.” Tom whispered. His mind was a mess, running circles around
and around. Things didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t tell if it was the lack of information or
his own lack of education. Was it possible to survive the killing curse? Had it...was it
something achievable now?

No, if it was then Harry Potter wouldn’t be so famous. It was still odd, unexplained. There
was no such thing as coincidence or luck, things always failed due to flaws. Harry Potter was
no such holy being, he was not blessed or spared in the fate of the devil. He existed due to the
flaws of this Dark Lord, an oversight he hadn’t known.

Harry Potter existed due to...to some..divine effort. Some sort of unexplained miracle that
everyone wrote off. Tom didn’t believe in that- he prayed but he did not believe in mercy and
salvation of the Lord. There was something wrong about Harry Potter, that the ministry
feared and marked him as a target.

Tom slid the thick book back on the shelf, fingers trailing over its old spine.

The book had been specific, listing the hearings and results of ministry hearings. Death
Eaters, caught and convicted after the end of the war.

(And entire war passed in Tom’s absence. An entire war. )

A few names he recognized, knew their ancestors. Lestrange, Black, Crabbe, Nott. He knew
their faces, from his classmates and upper years, Parkinson’s thick jawline as he ate unripe
pears at breakfast.

They were all dead, or gone. Mysteriously so, leaving behind children he didn’t know but
recognized in names. Abraxas Malfoy. Cygnus Black. They left behind a legacy- one of
which frequented the corridors near the covered bridge.

Malfoy, Tom recognized. Harry Potter had ranted about him, seething the name. Legacy or
not, it seemed that the connotation of dark magic had seeped into Pureblood names
themselves.

Tom turned and walked out of the library, careful to not draw attention. He took no books
with him, left no prints for what he knew and what he didn’t.

Malfoy was easy to recognize. Platinum blonde hair- shorter than his grandfather. His jawline
was sharper too, a curve to his nose that reminded Tom of the rounded shift of Cygnus.
Purebloods interbred, made offspring noble in everything but intelligence.

Tom watched him with darkened eyes, and judged him for what he knew.

Malfoy was listed as the Death Eaters- or at least his father had been tried and found to be
under the Imperius curse. Simple, foolproof, stupid. More likely he had been caught, and
scrambled to remain clear in name.

Tom tapped his wand, running his fingers over the smooth wood. It rested against his
forearms, warm and comforting. He wished he had a knife, able to slip between ribs if he
needed it.

One of the lackeys noticed him, the more gluttonous one. Thick face, no distinction between
jaw and neck. He could carve away the fat and lard, feed the birds suet ground from his bones
and still have enough for dinner. Tom hated him by definition.

“Oi!” The one shouted, squinting at him. The taller one had features Tom couldn’t remember
outside of maybe dinner in the Great Hall. “Who’re you?’

Tom didn’t respond. The two approached. Malfoy swaggered, cloak flapping around his thick
boots. Brand new, expensive, unnecessary.

A long time ago, Tom would have made himself humble. He would have smiled and seduced
Malfoy until the poor sod was craving his own praise. Weak mind, weak willed. Tom had
little care for things now.

“Malfoy.” Tom deadpanned. Voice dull, strong. Malfoy jerked slightly, the smile wavering
ever so slightly.

“Oi! Who’re you?” Malfoy asked, one hand through his hair as the other tapped on his wand.
“Eh? You mute?”

Tom didn’t blink. “He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. What is his name.”

Malfoy flinched, looking offended before he drew his wand dramatically. “What! Grab a
book yourself! I’m not your bloody paper boy! You hear me, eh? You thick or something?”

‘What a disgrace.’ Tom thought to himself, mourning the loss of Abraxas to the years.

“What is his name.” Tom stated, calm and uncaring.

Something must have unsettled Malfoy, either Tom’s deposition or his flat affect. It bothered
him, a hint of animal fear tainting the corner of his light eyes.

One of Malfoy’s lackeys cracked his knuckles menacingly. Tom had murdered a man twice
his size with a brick.

“I don’t have time for this,” Tom said. “If you don’t know, it’s unbecoming to pretend.”

Malfoy flushed, easy to rile.

“It’s Lord Voldemort, you filthy mudblood.” Malfoy sneered, although he too flinched as he
said the words. “‘You too daft to learn basic history? You need someone to tie your boots
too?”

Lord Voldemort. French. Flight from Death.

Why, would a British wizard claim a french title?

(Tom knew, why he would use French. There’s no such thing as good and evil. )

Tom turned, eerily leaving without acknowledging Malfoy’s slurs.

Tom walked, forcing his breathing to stay steady. His hands itched, his eyes felt raw and
burned. Eerily, the skin below his nostrils felt hot, feverish although the rest of his skin felt
more akin to chilled.

It was perhaps a bit past noon, but the joys of self-education mandated that Tom constructed
his own schedule.

He couldn’t possibly think- let alone- let alone learn when-

“ Vol de mort.” Tom spoke, tongue rolling around in foreign tongue. Frogs always said things
so romantically, a caress on his tongue.

Tom slipped into the hospital wing. He locked his bedroom. He pulled out his potions and
turned a blind eye to his clock. It was the afternoon and Tom couldn’t think.

Who would choose french for a title, when they were distinctly British?

“There is no such thing as good and evil, only power and those too weak to seek it.” Tom
said, tongue lolling. Loving in that gentle tone that French man told to him at death’s doors.
Tom tipped back the Dreamless Sleep Potion, settled himself on his bed, and tried to keep
himself together a bit longer.

(Tom knew why one would choose French.)

He had always planned to.

Before

When Dennis had been comforted, and taken away to get ice cream with the aid, Ms. Wool
had taken Tom aside.

He knew he was in trouble from the start, from the strict unhappy look on her face. Tom
knew that she would be upset with him, but Tom had never really liked Dennis. It was worth
it, to string up that rabbit from the rafters. Dennis didn’t even notice as his things went
missing.

“Come with me.” Ms Wool snapped, her grip on his arm was too tight. He let himself be
dragged along, shoes scraping on the ground as she hauled him down the street. Past the
fence and out to the road- down the river. Were they going to the Thames?

“Where are we going?” He asked her. Her lip curled back angrily.

“I am so sick of you.”

Tom thought that was fair.

St. Mary-le-Bow Church was tall and pretty. Her large bells always rang out at noon. On
Sundays they all filtered into her hall, sticking to the back and off the pews so the other city
people could sit and worship. It was a Friday, so Tom was confused why Mrs. Wool was
dragging him into her doors. He had never been inside St. Mary-le-Bow when not shoved in
wool. When not squeezed into clothing too tight for him, with little ribbons strangling his
throat.

Her ceilings were painted a soft blue, like the sky when they visited the countryside. Tom
always found the colour interesting.

“Madam Wool, my child.” The old man said from the back. His clothing old and stiff
looking. Tom had never seen the clergy out of it before, even on the picnics they sometimes
had in the summer. “What has brought you to me?”

“I can’t take it,” Ms. Wool said, yanking Tom’s wrist to make him stumble forward, shoes
tapping on the clean floor. “He- this- Father, he strung a rabbit from my ceiling.”

The man’s face furrowed, looking worried and unsure. “A rabbit, you say?”
“From my ceiling!” Ms. Wool said, pointing towards the roof of the cathedral. “Twelve feet,
father! He snapped its neck!”

The priest’s brow furrowed more. “Do not worry, my child. You are in the house of God, and
I see your suffering. We have heard your prayers, and we offer you safety.”

Ms. Wool dropped to her knees, hands covering her face. She was crying, thick shaking sobs.
Tom stared in surprise and awe. He had never seen Ms. Wool cry before.

“I will send word to our local bishop, that his services are needed to redeem this child.” the
priest smiled. He offered one hand kindly, gesturing for Tom to approach from the narrow
walkway between the pews. “You are Tom? I have heard so much about you- will you aid me
in our journey?”

Tom swallowed uncomfortably and nodded. He felt under-dressed, dirty in his normal
clothes. The church was loud, it echoed weird without the dozens of people. He felt small.

Tom walked quietly, his steps echoing. Ms. Wool was still crying, her wails of relief sounded
distorted and funny off the stained glass and old wooden benches.

“Don’t be afraid,” the priest said, he seemed much more friendly now instead of when he
stood up at the altar on Sundays. “I keep my things below, would you come with me, my
child?”

Tom didn’t want to. He nodded.

“Can you tell me, Tom? Do you hear whispers of temptation?”

Tom shifted, unsure. The new man looked less friendly. Older, scary. His eyes were sharp and
in the lantern light he seemed to stare at Tom intently.

“I don’t know.” Tom said, struggling slightly.

The priest nodded, looking calm as he took Tom’s hands in his. “It’s okay now. We will help
you now. Do you know, when you see the nurses how they tie your arm to prick your arm?”

Tom nodded once again, his tongue limp and unresponsive in his mouth.

“We will do the same, to keep you safe.” The priest smiled. “It’s okay now, my child. You
can rest, and we will work.”

“When can I go back?” Tom asked.

“When the day of our Lord has ended.”

 Tom waited, and waited.

Candles burned and he sneezed and gagged. His skin tickled and burned, searing hot where
wax dripped.

“Can I go?” Tom asked, a soft whisper in the quiet room. “Please?”

Wax hurt, his skin itched. The lines along his shoulders were throbbing quite painfully.

“Just a bit longer, my child.”

“Most cunning serpent, you shall no more dare to deceive the human race, persecute the
Church, torment God’s elect and sift them as wheat.”

Tom stared, counting the grooves in the rocks of the cellar ceiling. It smelled like brimstone
and paint, wet stinging acid and the salty burn of his tears.

They had cut open small spots along his arms- thin little nicks. They stuffed it with flowers
and herbs like tea. It clotted like seed cakes and his blood turned it rancid black.

Tom lay there, all Saturday. All Sunday, until the Lord's Day came from the end.

Tom went home, limping and quiet. Ms. Wool seemed relieved, delighted to see him once
more.

The snakes in the garden were still whispering to him.

Chapter End Notes

Join the discord server to scream at me and I'll scream back!

 Barba crescit caput nescit
Chapter Summary

Where Tom goes through his reasoning, decides what to do, and meets a man who once
held the world and lost it.

Chapter Notes

Hello everyone, I hope you enjoy.

Parts of this chapter were written when I was on vacation- I just now got back.
I hope you all enjoy, this story is really starting to emphasize some of the greater
thematic movements I've been itching to write.
I hope you all read and weep because it will only evolve from here.

Homework for the school term began to pile up at an alarming rate. Books and scrolls- page
numbers and written assignments practically flooded the Fifth years. The upcoming OWLS
were all anyone had to talk about, and the imminent stress that arose with it.

Transfiguration Class didn’t help, even with their head of house teaching them. They were
learning the Vanishing Spell, one of the more trickier bits of magic they would all be tested
on during the OWL certification. Even though Professor McGonagall reassured them
numerous times, as the clock went on Harry found his stress only increasing.

By the end of a double period, only a select handful of students had any success. Hermione
managed to vanish her snail but only a half dozen attempts later.

Both Harry and Ron still had their snails, fat yellow things that seemed determined to fight
over eating Ron’s spare quill.

“This is bloody impossible.” Ron said, poking the snail shell with the tip of his wand. Harry’s
snail at least was a few shades lighter. “Reckon that Hermione cheated?”

Harry knew better than to poke that sleeping dragon. “You snail died I think.”

“Huh.” Ron said, poking it again. “Think I’ll get excused then?”

The topics and classes were hard. All of them, each ranging from a wide assortment of
assignments that seemed to have no relevance to the next. In their earlier years, each class
would resemble another- linking subjects across different areas of academia. Now, with so
much on the line for the OWL exams, it seemed that every teacher had a mind of their own.

Snape leapt instantly into the production of various toxins, perhaps hoping that Neville would
be the smallest bit more careful when a single touch would cause pain. Professor Sprout
jumped into invasive vines to southern Wales. Professor Flitwick started summoning charms
(which Harry felt relieved to be learning considering he already knew it), and now
McGonogall was assigning them to learn an entirely new spell on their own.

“This is bonkers!” Ron shouted, his red hair barely able to be seen from under the stack of
bags and books he was barely carrying. “Nobody can do this amount of rubbish!”

Harry bit his tongue, when his mind filtered that apparently, ‘ Tom Riddle did.’

“Yeah well,” Harry grunted, his own books tiring his arms, “we still have other classes to get
to.”

Ron moaned, already spitting out insults that Harry couldn’t help but smile at. It was the first
time either of them felt relief at the crap that was Defence Against The Dark Arts, at least
they wouldn’t have to learn new material on top of it.

The day had become cool with a subtle breeze between the treetops. Their next class was
conducted outside, although Hagrid’s tall body was absent from the silhouettes of massive
pines. Harry felt an occasional drop of rain against his face, smudging on his glasses. The
clouds were cottony-soft and looked less intimidating than a downpour would warrant.

The old flagstones that made the ancient path to the forest were slippery from dew. Even as
the sun peered down from the sky, the slight lichen and moss that clung to each stone
remained undeterred. Professor Grubbly-Plank awaited them, standing proudly before a long
wooden table. Harry could imagine a dozen house elves hauling the solid chunk of wood
down the courtyard down the same stairs for her class.

“Oh no,” Ron muttered quietly, “Malfoy, right behind us.”

Harry didn’t look, but he could recognize the shrieking laughter of Pansy Parkinson
anywhere. Whatever she heard must have been quite the hoot, because Rop and Harry could
hear her barking sniggers all the way down the steps.

Ron bristled the moment Draco approached them, swaggering slightly side to side. His tie
was unfastened slightly and his hair windswept in a way that suggested he tried to arrange it
artfully but instead it resembled the rear end of a chicken.

“Got something on your face, Potter?” Draco asked, his gaggle of goons laughing once more.
It didn’t take Hermione to know what the brunt of their joke was about.

Harry inhaled through his nose, feeling his ribs creak slightly from the stretch. Draco
continued to sneer, lip curled unpleasantly until he looked past Harry to the forest line where
the class was meeting.
Almost at once, the boy faltered. He paled rapidly, taking on a sick shade as he took three
steps back in quick succession.

Harry could feel the eyes on the back of his head. The temperamental buzz near his nape like
a dozen mosquitoes too furious to bite. His head hurt too- precisely behind his right eye.

Harry turned, looking in the direction behind him to meet Tom Riddle’s board disinterested
eyes.

Sometimes there were no words to convey emotion or time; that nameless static that stretched
between two points like curdling cream. Tom Riddle’s eyes met Harry’s and held them
tenderly with an underlying burn of outright fury. A level of frustration, pain and anger so
wicked sharp it could carve meat from the butcher’s hook.

Tom Riddle blinked and looked away uncaring. He had such bright beautiful eyes.

“Oh no, what’s he doing here?” Ron asked, voice a bit too sharp. Harry realized with an
unsettling chill down his back, that for Draco to flinch away so sharply before implied that he
had run across Riddle before. It likely ended as Harry imagined it would.

“Well, looks like we have a class with him.” Harry said.

Almost on cue, Tom Riddle crossed his arms and leaned back against the pine tree he stood
by., Professor Grubbly-Plank ignored him, going on wrangling the little green magical sticks
which were hopping around chaotically.

“I don’t know, he’s looking pretty chummy to be a student.” Ron said, scowling pointedly at
Tom Riddle’s lax figure.

The class formally gathered, standing before the table filled with- bowtruckles, each of them
attempting to offer the little green hands blueberries from the kitchens.

Tom didn’t take part. He watched them with that blank face and a hidden burning fire of hate
and frustration. Something was deeply troubling the other; it was not in Tom’s nature to ask
for help or speak of it, but Harry could feel it like a splinter under his fingernails.

Ron didn’t stop talking, mentioning over and over how shady Tom looked, leaning so
comfortably against the trees. How better-than-us-he-thinks-he-is!

Harry felt like arguing that Tom had already taken his OWLS, so he didn’t really need all the
extra work and effort considering he had already finished. Harry didn’t think that would go
over well with Ron.

Class wrapped up quickly when Malfoy and his gang weren’t causing trouble. It seemed that
having Tom there, even for an undetermined reason, demanded respect and peace within the
class. Crabbe managed to only squeeze his bowtruckle too tightly once, but it bit him hard
enough his thumb swelled to the size of a small apple.

Tom watched them, eyes shaded in the shadow from the trees. When Harry spotted his eerie
presence from the corner of his eye, it looked like he was glaring at them all.
“What a bastard.” Ron growled, stomping angrily back towards the castle. “Didn’t even join
our bloody class! If he’s so excited about bowtruckles-.”

Harry zoned out, turning his head at the barest trace of another voice. An accented blur of
something audible that tickled the back of his ears like a cotton swab.

Harry spotted the snake, a simple grass species that frequented the Forbidden Forest. IT
slithered across the ground, pointed in its direction as it whispered nothings to itself and the
world around it. Blind, dumb, and stupid, it was nothing compared to that thick heaven
corrupted voice of the basilisk. It didn’t bring back any fond memories.

Why was a snake so far out here? Harry didn’t believe that it was a coincidence, snakes were
mostly quiet unless they had an audience at the time.

The only conclusion, was one Tom Riddle that burned his gaze into Harry’s back the entire
walk up to the castle.

He was cranky, and it was odd.

Tom normally seemed composed and well put. A bit unhinged at times, but to the normal
person Tom was just another student that perhaps ignored everyone else.

Twice now, Harry had seen Tom snapping and snarling wordlessly at someone else. The first
time, Tom’s anger had been directed at a group of Slytherins- perhaps the year above or
below. Harry couldn’t hear what was said, but from body language and bird posturing, he
gathered it wasn’t good.

The second time Harry saw Tom snarling, it was significantly worse.

Tom was tall, thin and wiry in a way which spoke of potential height but a fragility to his
bones. The thinness of his wrists, and the thick rope muscle of his throat. Unnatural structure
of muscle and strength on a skeleton too frail to support him.

Tom’s hand was curled in a younger student’s collar, tight around a tie from a poor
Hufflepuff. One thin skinned hand curled upwards, clawed and bent like a white bone claw
from a raptor. Tom’s lips were drawn, his teeth on display as the poor Hufflepuff looked
ready to wet himself.

“Tom!” Harry shouted, rushing before his mind caught up. His feet slapping the ground, loud
and obnoxious as his breathing puffed through his cheeks. The Hufflepuff whimpered, eyes
so wide the whites were well on display. Harry’s nose wrinkled at a sour sharp smell- he
wasn’t fast enough to stop the poor boy.

“Harry.” Tom said, spitting the name between clenched teeth in a ragged noise. “Leave.”

“If you think I’m walking away now, you’re bloody bonkers.”
“Oh, always the hero.” Tom hissed, his hand relaxing and sending the boy plummeting to the
ground. The Hufflepuff landed damply, skittering off with hitching sobs.

Harry felt his throat squeeze, the icy tone in which Tom spoke froze the air with his loathing.
A temperamental beast, itching to draw blood.

“Oh not that shite.” Harry said, “not from you.”

Tom’s hand stretched and clenched. Each finger long and thin- skin tight and pale to each
bone. Harry knew that if he traced the ridges, he would be able to feel each knob and
protrusion from each bone in his palm.

Tom exhaled slowly through his nose. A raging fire of absolute revulsion.

Harry swallowed thickly, and tried to resist the urge to tremble.

“Not from me.” Tom said flatly. His voice a deadpan that somehow sounded more utterly
loathing then any form of shouting. “Of course. Never from me- not a fan of emonomancy?”

“I don’t know what that word means, but you can’t just bully other people. That’s not how
life works.”

Tom’s upper lip twitched as he shifted his body. Changing his posture and the axis of his ribs
and hips to face Harry fully. “You think I don’t know how life works? I know better than
you.”

“I’m not some naive innocent child,” Harry said coldly, “so stop being a goddamn twat.”

“Oh I’m the twat? Me? Not the- the great Harry Potter. Able to take down the Dark Lord
with a single word! Able to banish him as a baby!”

Harry froze. His heart thundered on, oblivious, uncaring.

“Where did you hear that?” Harry said.

There was a sort of febrecity to Tom’s eyes, almost jagged edge to his gestures. Harry
watched them, unnerved and frightened. He had faced Lord Voldemort before, but that man
was deranged and beyond the plight of bullying Hufflepuffs.

‘He bullied Cedric.’ Harry’s brain betrayed him. ‘He killed Cedric.’

Tom closed his mouth, having never said anything at all. He watched Harry with fascination,
feverish curiosity that ultimately fell victim to savage loathing.

“Tell me Harry,” Tom said, “what does it feel like to meet the eyes of the person who killed
you?”

It hung, Tom’s smile turning cruel as he waited for no reply. The burning in Harry’s throat,
the raw exposed feeling that his heart thrummed with every bu-dum, bu-dum.
Tom stormed off like lightning; electric, lethal, and leaving Harry suspended in darkness once
more.

“We have a problem,” Harry said the moment he spotted Ron and Hermione. “Tom is
bullying students.”

Ron jerked his head up, “if it’s Slytherins, mate, it isn’t a problem.”

Hermione made a noise of protest, grabbing a nearby object to fling at Ron’s face. It
happened to be a slug, given that Ron still hadn’t mastered vanishing. The slug adhered like
melting bubblegum, slowly advancing to investigate the gap between Ron’s eyebrows.

“Oh Ron! I’m sorry!” Hermione cried, hastily flicking her wand to vanish the snail. “Harry!
What happened? Is the student okay? Oh we should have gone to a teacher or…”

“It’s fine!” Harry interjected, lifting both hands to show that he was alright. “Honestly, I think
he was just...in a bad mood.”

Ron huffed. “Mate, ‘in a bad mood’ is like, eating puppies. Wouldn’t put it past him either.”

Harry frowned, reaching with one hand to scratch just above his right eye. “Is it that hard to
imagine he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Hermione chewed her lip. “You sound like you’re defending him. Was the student cursed
badly?”

Harry blinked. “He wasn’t even cursed. He just...sprung a leak. And ran off once I chewed
into Riddle a bit.”

Ron rolled his eyes, already shifting back to studying. It wasn’t so much studying, as his
attempt to stack snails on top of one another until they fell off.

Hermione twisted back, rapidly vanishing to try and keep the slimy tower from ruining her
notes. Harry found the conversation already broken, and felt almost offended with how quick
they were to dismiss it.

Something was bothering Riddle. Based on how he was lashing out, it likely was touching
him more foully than anything else. Harry had no idea what- Tom didn’t seem like someone
so simple as to get stressed over assignments. Maybe his...evil villains club had a scheduling
conflict?

Harry knew one person- two really, who could find out anything if properly incentivised.
Considering that both Twins were experimenting with products from the recent financial
boom of the Triwizard Tournament…

“Afraid we can help.” Fred said solemnly, tapping his head twice as George kept up the sad
facade. “Poor bastard gets up at the arse crack of dawn. Manages to avoid most our nasties
too.”

“Got him once with a sleepwalker serum,” George noted, “supposed to give some exercise
when you snooze. Didn’t work though, reckon he slept like a bloody baby.”

“He’s got to do it somehow, or he’d be a bad baby dark lord.” Fred clicked his tongue. “He
gets to the Breakfast right as it opens, sometimes waits for it in the hall.” George said. “Set an
alarm, he’s weirdly mellow in the morning. Thaws out by seven.”

Harry gawked. “ Seven? What time does he get up?”

“Five,” both twins said in unison, “he’s in his room by nine.”

“Nine?” Harry blinked quickly as he couldn’t fathom the idea. “He’s in bed by bloody
nine?”

“Reckon it’s sunset.” Fred conspired, “follows the sun like the goddamn loon he is.”

Apparently, Tom was a morning bird.

Tom was in the Great Hall at six in the morning. Ten minutes past six, Harry was stumbling
into the morning light with a mad cowlick and a foggy brain.

Harry slid into the bench seat next to Tom, feeling slightly mad with how exhausted he was.
The morning was soft and gentle, clean and nearly absent of everyone else. Owls hopped
around, stretching their wings as they plucked at stale pastries from the day before.

A house elf appeared, squinting at Harry in equal confusion and delight. It asked him eagerly
what he would like; Harry managed to croak out toast and juice before it squealed and
vanished away.

Tom turned then, squinting at Harry like he hadn’t noticed the boy’s approach. Tom’s entire
body was relaxed, near boneless in the morning. His eyes slightly glazed from sleep, his skin
pale and fingertips rosy where he clutched his mug tightly.

“Morning.” Harry grunted, fishing for his toast. He over stretched too far, missing the crust to
stab his finger in the middle of the melting butter. Cursing, he stuck his finger in his mouth to
lick off the melting butter.

“You’re so blind.” Tom muttered, affectionately and nearly crooning. He swayed ever so
slightly, looking equally exhausted. “ So blind. You’d die so fast.”

“Tried it, doesn’t work.” Harry muttered, managing to find the crust.

Tom laughed into his mug, the sound muted and distorted with bubbles. The sunlight filtered
itself slightly through the stained glass windows; Tom’s eyes looked like mercury instead of
the normal icy blue.
“So you’ve been cranky.” Harry said careless of his own mortality. “Bite any first year’s
heads yet?”

Tom made a low humming noise, sipping from his constantly refilling mug. “N-no?”

Tom stuttered, barely aware of it. Harry felt suddenly much more awake.

“Are you going to punch me?” Harry asked randomly.

“Are you going to stab me?” Tom retorted, eyes glazed and tired as he went so far as to drag
Harry’s cooling toast over to mow down on it. Crumbs sprinkled over his lap, spilling onto
his empty plate.

“You’re weirdly chatty in the morning.” Harry noted. He took a sip himself; swishing orange
juice around and chewing pulp between his molars.

“In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice,” Tom said, tilting his head slightly as he stared at
two owls fighting over a half eaten baguette, “in the morning I lay my requests before you
and wait expectantly.”

“What,” said Harry wisely.

Tom turned his neck, his body stationary. The bags under his eyes were slightly violet-
silvery also like his eyes. “You want something from me, don’t you?”

Harry balked. He hadn’t actually, he just wanted to know why Tom was attacking everyone
like a very angry porcupine. Equally prickly as well.

“I want to just wake up and drink my juice.” Harry lifted his glass of orange juice, watching
as it refilled before his eyes.

Tom blinked slowly and tiredly. “I had methamphetamine before you sent me into ‘fis ‘ell.”
Tom swayed slightly again, his tongue thick in his mouth as once more that graceless
Cockney began to emerge. “I ‘magin that Daft’dore wouldn’t let me ‘ave ‘em, or that
Mediwitch, do wot. Likely turned ter dust any roads wot. Do yet know where cop any?”

Harry leaned back, wishing that an owl would slam into his skull and rattle the sense into
what the bloody nonsense Tom just said.

“Wait- meth?” Harry fished from the garbled nonsense. “Isn’t that like- Meth? Cocaine? I-
those are very illegal now.”

“Oh.” Tom blinked slowly and sleepily, “pity. More smokes then.”

Why was this a good idea at all? Why was this a good idea at all?

“You don’t look like someone who smokes,” Tom said, this time in a perfect accent that to
Harry’s ears, had no accent at all. “You did kill me, so maybe you do.”
“I didn’t kill you!” Harry argued, flinching so heavily orange juice sloshed over the edge of
his cup. “I- you’re you.”

Tom stared at the birds on the far side of the hall, now raking one another with large hooked
talons. Tufts of downy feathers fluffed in the air, sticking in warmed cream and turning it
useless.

“There’s so much food here.” Tom mused, ignoring Harry completely, “more than I dreamed
of. Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are…”

Tom trailed off, now murmuring low under his breath as his fingers twitched, pressing against
his sternum and forehead and the bony protrusion of each shoulder.

“Are you bloody high?” Harry asked, curious and fascinated.

Tom snorted ugly, pausing to rub both eyes but slowly coming out of whatever odd behaviour
he had before. “No, I’m certainly not. What are you doing here Potter?”

Harry was honest. “You’ve been aggressive and I’m worried why.”

Tom’s neck snapped quietly as a vertebra popped near his jaw. His eyes were smoldering, a
crucible filled with metal that slowly hardened into aquamarine. “How strange of you to say
worried, boy hero.”

“Don’t call me that.” Harry said. “I’m not a hero.”

Tom looked at him, transforming into someone foreign and new and someone Harry
recognized to pin young boys against walls.

“No,” Tom said, “you aren’t.”

Tom was getting letters in the mail.

Boring dull brown owls. Barn Owls with feathered feet depositing parchment secured with
standard fabric thong. A small pull and the letter unraveled, lower quality than a wax seal.
Able to purchase in a half million different stores. Unremarkable, untraceable.

The first letter, only a few days into term, Tom opened the letter uncaring. Everything was
scanned for possible illegal merchandise or cursed letters. The students that attempted to owl
order alcohol or dark artifacts in his day were suitably stopped. The few students so bold as
to try to join Grindelwald through letters were cursed out and hung from the rafters by their
cloaks. Tom watched them, hanging there like chickens in a butcher shop, and imagined that
they hung by scarves instead.

The letters kept coming, every other day for a while before they were once a week. October
was sweet in her grand entry, painting the leaves the colours of sunrise and plucking them
from trees. With her entry, the letters began to frequent much more.
They were small things, sweet like a lover with nightshade.

‘Hello Tom! I miss you…’ the first one read.

‘Tom, won’t you talk back to me?’ the fourteenth read.

Tom exhaled calmly and pulled the cloth strip. The letter unraveled in the same handwriting.
Insignificant and ominous in its statement.

‘When is your Hogsmeade? I want to see you.’

Tom would avoid Doge as much as he could.

“You won’t be seeing me at all.” Tom said quietly, tapping his wand and whispering a charm
to turn the letter to ash. The situation had escalated, finances be damned.

His head throbbed, sore and aching at the back. It was his constant companion, sinking in at
noon and only increasing in its screaming. He managed to tame it, quiet it's loud screams at
dusk only to repeat the cycle. He hadn’t the time to concern himself with the obsessive
desires of an old foul man. He had priorities, he had goals, he had to figure out how to deal
with Potter.

Potter, who was supposed to kill him, who had killed him. Potter, who in fractured memories
arose at the first rays of dawn to interrogate him over...toast?

Tom couldn’t remember; his head pounded and his thighs throbbed with black pustules he’d
have to confront soon. Once he resolved his...reliance on Dreamless Sleep potions, he could
bring up the issue. It was likely nothing more than scabies, something uncomfortable but
ultimately easy to fix.

The problem with Potter was much worse. Even the Malfoy boy- not Abraxas- couldn’t help
him with the finer details. The textbooks, both old and new didn’t cover extensive
information as to his- Lord Voldemort’s, fall. Tom had watched Harry Potter, seen his piss
poor performance in classes and couldn’t fathom how this... dunce could possibly best him.

Tom didn’t have all of the information and the only one that did was bloody Dumbledore.
The man who failed him over and over again until it became an expectation.

Dumbledore had the information he wanted, but for some misunderstood reason the Potter
boy had... pity, for Tom. A source of sympathy that both worked in Tom’s flavour and
stabbed him in the...hand. It was inconvenient, rude, disgusting but possible to wield. Tom
may as well bend over and grit his teeth, because offering himself as such a victim was
essentially the same to his pride.

Tom didn’t need to write anything down. He knew enough about Dumbledore and people
with too large hearts, he knew how to make them bleed.

Tom walked, leaving the ash behind him. He had a Gryffindor lion to string up by his throat.
Harry jumped, flinching so hard he nearly fell from his chair. Ron made a noise that sounded
similar to an alarmed pigeon, falling from his chair completely. Hermione gave a small yeep!

Tom Riddle stood there, his eyes slightly narrowed as he stared pointedly at Harry and
nobody else.

“I want you to take me to Dumbledore.” Tom said.

“Uh, no.” Harry said.

“ What!” Ron contributed from the ground, scrambling back onto his chair, “oh you want to
talk to Dumbledore, eh? Go ahead, get locked up in Azkaban-.”

“Silencio.” Tom said, flicking his wand without taking his eyes off Harry once. Ron’s mouth
moved in the movement of a fish gasping for sweet watermelon cubes. “Take me to
Dumbledore. You all have a lot to explain.”

“Harry doesn’t have to explain anything!” Hermione squeaked out, swallowing nervously as
Tom very slowly slid his eyes over to the frizzy hair girl. “He- this is Hogwarts-.”

“Go right ahead.” Tom said flatly. “I’ll ask someone else. Like my alternative self.”

Hermione stiffened and froze. Ron began to pound his fist on the table-top, that sound too,
was silent.

“Fine, I’ll take you to Professor Dumbledore.” Harry said, undeniably impulsivity spurring
himself into action. “I’ve got class today with Umbridge-.”

“Ignore her.”

“I- Harry no! She is our Professo-.”

“Fine.” Harry said, jerking his chin upright as he stared with a glare at Tom who glared back.
“Why though? I want them to know so if you kill me, I have an alibi.”

Tom shifted his jaw, a slight change of the muscle of his neck. “I have questions I don’t trust
you to answer. I want to speak to Crina Dimitriu, which is within my right. I’m asking that
Dumbledore be there as well, so I can hear what excuses he has to offer.”

Harry felt half tempted to say that he didn’t need to do anything. He didn’t need to answer to
Tom- to spill secrets he kept close to his heart. Harry didn’t know why he survived. Harry
didn’t know why Voldemort liked him so much. He didn’t know why-

Cedric died for him, and Tom Riddle had no right prying into information like that.

If Harry didn’t take him to Dumbledore, then he would...what, try to meet with-.

The-Boy-Who-Lived, come to die-

“Fine.” Harry said. “But Professor Dumbledore has nothing to explain to you.”

Tom lifted his chin ever so slightly, the warmth in Harry’s chest that gave an impression of
mute contentment, thrummed. Tom wasn’t happy with the arrangement, but he wasn’t
outright disappointed. It was an exchange, a deal being struck with neither winning or losing.

Which meant that Tom didn’t want to meet with Dumbledore, he actually did want to meet
with Crina; it wasn’t a threat or blackmail. Tom wanted to meet with his...therapist.

‘Well,’ Harry thought, ‘maybe he’ll be less cranky.’

The castle of Nurmengard was unlike anything else. Progressive, archaic, a mixture of
ingredients and ideas that created a violent elixir of unknown potential. It was something
terrifying, that even the Dementor guarded prison of Azkaban could not stop.

It was pretty outside. The trees were lush, growing well. A squirrel chewed attentively on an
acorn, sitting back on thin haunches. Harry couldn’t help but look around, to admire the tiny
wildflowers that would fade when winter struck.

“Stay on the path,” Dumbledore spoke, voice firm and serious. The path was little more than
a dirt trail, packed down and showing stone in a few spots. There was gravel sprinkled about,
filling the deeper pits where water would gather.

“Why?” Harry asked, being sure to remain in the middle of the dirt path. The lush grass
wouldn’t tempt him off. “Will it hurt me?”

Dumbledore’s expression remained stony. Calm, but with a very intent expression of
withheld frustration. Something about the castle and this place displeased him, something
about it battled with what he stood for. Harry found himself more unsettled, either by the
unusual passionate expression of disdain and aggression towards such a peaceful place, or by
the fact that straying from a small path deserved such a warning. Tom seemed uncaring,
ignoring them both as he began swiftly down the path towards the old stone castle in the
clearing.

“Nurmengard Castle is not unlike our Azkaban, Harry.” Dumbledore said. “Instead of
Dementors, there are different guards. Those which seem natural, but have little care for the
fate of their prisoners.”

Harry squinted around, peering between the trees for any sort of large black cloaked figure.
He couldn’t see anything, he couldn’t feel the chill in the air. A different chill from the
overwhelming surge of emotional tides that pulled Tom in their riptide. A different feeling in
the wind.

“What is it, sir?”

Dumbledore turned his eyes skywards, where a bird was leisurely riding the thermals. It was
a nice day out, gentle with the warning breath of a cold front approaching. It would be a good
day to fly. “The buzzards, are the watchful eyes of Nurmengard.”

Harry felt his mind stutter as he looked at the unassuming bird enjoying itself above. “That
thing, sir? Isn’t it just an animal?”

“I would have thought you’d think more of animals, what with Professor McGonagall, and
your godfather.”

Harry nearly twitched in realization. “That’s an animagus? The guards of Nurmengard are
animagi?”

“Unfortunately not.” Dumbledore said, “we best keep walking. The walls of Nurmengard
will shelter us from so many watchful eyes.”

Harry looked around, and flinched. From the trees, greenish yellow eyes were reflecting back
at him. Dark figures low to the ground, impossible to see in the shade of low hanging healthy
brambles. He count three, four different pairs. Scattered through the trees, luminescent in
animal reflection. Harry hadn’t heard them approach.

“Come, Harry.” Dumbledore said. “We should move on.”

They walked, nearing the large castle. It looked beautiful, reclusive and elaborate. The
weathered limestone spoke of age, yet the careful detailing along the stonework spoke of a
time before even the Scottish castles. The steps up into the main entry hall were large- easily
able to accommodate a crowd of people. It felt haunting, lonely and quiet for the two of them
to enter through thick oak doors. Tom hadn’t waited for them, already slipping inside out of
sight with little hesitation. Harry wished he held similar courage.

Harry held the door open, making sure it didn’t hit Dumbledore as the man made his way in
slowly. Taking his time and remaining comfortable as they prepared to face a collection of
monsters in human form.

Harry glanced out into the sunshine, stilling as he saw their new visitor. A creature he didn’t
recognize at first- certainly nothing that Hagrid had taught them. It was large, even standing
its shoulders would likely reach the lowest bone of Harry’s ribcage. It was dark, soft looking
with a plush coat of fur. Wide eyes, a pointed muzzle with undoubtedly sharp teeth.

“The Lupescu.” Dumbledore said, startling Harry out of his observation. “They are
Nurmengard executioners.”

“What are they?” Harry asked, eyes looking down at the thick paws. Almost like a lion paw,
but pointed. The eyes looked at him, its body frozen like a statue where they had just walked.

“Wolves, my boy.” Dumbledore said. He sounded pained, hurt somewhat by the sight of
them. “They are Grey wolves, but more.”
“Animagi?” Harry squinted at them, able to pick out the faintest trace of russet patterning
along it’s dark fur. Its face was white, like it dipped the front of its head into an open paint
can.

“No.” Dumbledore said simply. “They are intelligent creatures, but do not make the mistake
of treating them like a wizard. Treat them with more caution, for they do not have the
concerns and mercy that even the darkest of souls still possess.”

The Lupescu shifted, slowly turning its thick head away to look into the trees. Now that
Harry could see its body, it did look like a dog. The only dog Harry knew well, besides
Ripper, was his godfather in his animagus form. Even then, this...creature, would dwarf Sirius
by leaps and bounds. The size of this thing would likely be on par with Moony, maybe even
bigger with the thick fur and tall pointed ears.

“Are they normally that big?” Harry asked. The animal looked disproportionately large- big
enough to ride. Even Hagrid would have likely paused at the sight of it, but still small enough
to fit through a doorway unhindered.

“Lupescu are all quite large,” Dumbledore said, “they are...the consequence, of man’s
greatest flaw.”

The wolf tilted its head, its fur ruffled in a slight breeze. Thick and soft, eyes cruel and
curious.

“You see Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, “when we turn our minds towards a goal with our
heart, nothing- not even nature and magic herself, can prevent our error.”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. He was suddenly very thankful for the thick stone walls
and the heavy oak doorway they stood in. It suddenly seemed much more reasonable, that the
castle functioned to keep them safe from the outdoors.

Harry’s breathing hitched, when he realized quite chillingly, that there were now five large
wolfish beasts hugging the treeline. Watching them with curious eyes and silent feet. Each
with different fur and minds, each with equal danger.

“I can’t think of anyone who would do this, sir.” Harry confessed, the words choking in his
throat temporarily.

Dumbledore sighed. Heavy, weary. Harry couldn’t figure why the man would seem so tired at
the face of such animals.

“In youth….” Dumbledore paused, speaking quietly and ashamed. “We believe many things,
and make many mistakes. We are not damaged, but oh Harry, we are so flawed.”

The Lupescu, standing in the middle of the road they had come from, pulled its thick gums
back in a wordless snarl.

Tom didn’t wait for them, and he gave no glance towards both Dumbledore and Harry’s quiet
steps. Tom reclined back against the stone support pillars, the edge of the room as both Harry
and Dumbledore took attention. They could both nearly see their breath in the air.

“Oh, hello there.” A young lady said. She seemed oddly out of place in the gloomy castle.
Bright eyes and a thick wool cloak. It was a nice shade of dark red, although she had a thick
knitted scarf and fur mittens she quickly removed at their sight. “I saw the entry light, did
you have an appointment?”

Tom hung back, steps quiet and face pensive. Harry shifted uncomfortably under the bright
curious eyes of the young woman. She couldn’t be much older than Bill was.

“I’m afraid we arrived abruptly.” Dumbledore said, sounding as regretful as Harry felt for
imposing. “If you pass along word to Madame, we would be grateful.”

The young woman blinked owlishly, the lantern light making her look more like a trolley aid
then the receptionist at one of the most feared prisons in the world.

“Oh, her schedule is open for a little.” The woman chewed her lower lip. On the other side of
her desk she had great big oil lanterns, like those on old whaling boats. She had a thin register
book on her desk, perhaps two dozen pages sewn into its old cracked spine. Harry notes that
only a few pages had been filled, and the earliest date was a near century ago.

“The Madame,” the woman tested the word to her delight, foreign and new to her obviously,
“will have the day’s report in an hour or so. I’ll need you to sign the guest registry, and the
basic search for not permitted magical items. We also store wands, Floo powder, portkeys and
other such transportation devices in our secured wardroom. Blood locked of course! Can I
have your names please?”

“Of course,” Dumbledore smiled. “Would you prefer full names, or simplified?”

“Simplified, not too much space here for the next four decades!” The woman said, tapping
the book casually.

“Very well, Albus Dumbledore. Harry Potter, and Tom Riddle are here with me.”

The woman hummed and nodded, working on something behind her desk. Harry noticed that
she had two braids, curled up and over the top of her head like ram horns. They looked
terribly difficult.

“You’ve been playing hard to get for a while now, Mr. Dumbledore.” The woman teased,
passing over a small box the size Hedwig could carry. “The Madame has been cursing your
name for years! Did the lupescu treat you alright? I believe Aegis is patrolling the halls right
now but I could be wrong.” The woman tittered away, passing out two more identical boxes
to both Harry and Tom.

“They were fine.” Tom clipped out abruptly. The woman’s cheer didn’t fade.

“That’s good, they sometimes get a bit snippy to guests ever since that committee from
Italy...” she trailed off, “ah well, don’t we all get a bit mean to rude people? Anyways, follow
me, don’t get lost or you may lose a leg or two!”
With that warning, she hoisted up one of the large oil lanterns and began down the leftmost
path. They walked after, each holding their boxes until they slipped into a tall open roofed
building. It resembles an owlery above them, with deep slots carved into the stone and the
open day sky.

“Here’s our storage room,” The woman announced cheerfully. “We’re a no magic facility, so
please remove all objects and possessions. There’s a slot inside the top for your wand, don’t
worry we take good care of everything.”

Tom was the first to move. Drawing his wand and sliding it into the wand case inside his box.
Without pausing, he shucked off his cloak and emptied his pockets, leaving him in fairly
average clothing.

Harry watched as from the sky, a large dark bird descended from the open skylight. It flipped
rapidly, landing in a hopping flop on the ground between them and the doorway. It snatched
the rope handle on the box awkwardly, clicking its beak before flying up to deposit it on a
shelf.

Tom didn’t look alarmed. He looked withdrawn and quiet and watched as the bird returned to
carry both Albus’ and Harry’s box away out of grabbing distance.

“It’s to prevent any jailbreaks or loss of personal artifacts.” Their guide said. “I know, but we
did have one attempt! Animagus didn’t last long here, that poor terrier against Aegis...”

Harry shivered and hurried, making sure to stay within the light of the lantern.

Through the stone walls, he could hear a muffled sort of shouting. Moans and screams that
likely belonged to the prisoners below. The worst of the worst, only rock walls and large
wolves between them and freedom.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the long path, watch your step!”

Tom followed quickly, and they walked.

The castle would have been pretty if not for the darkness of it. Another preventative measure,
Harry was sure. It was claustrophobic inducing, muggy with small passages. The lanterns
only lit so far but this woman didn’t seem too uncomfortable with the castle. A strange
woman no doubt.

“Here we are!” She announced, pausing before a massive wood door with thick metal bolting
all along the top and bottom. She didn’t knock so much as slam the edge of the lantern
against the wood, thumping loudly through the thick door.

After three knocks, she stepped back and waited politely.

The door opened dramatically on silent hinges. Sliding on an old metal mechanism that
looked a little like magic. Crina Dimitriu appeared, her face illuminated by two smaller, but
stationary lanterns just inside the thick door.
“You don’t tend to Inter-“ Crina paused, eyes skimming over the entourage quickly. “Albus
Dumbledore.”

Albus didn’t smile. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.

Crina breathed through her nose, it whistled slightly. “All these years, and you finally cave.
Who am I to thank for this visit?”

“They’re offering me answers.” Tom said flatly. Coldly from right next to their tour guide.
The light from her larger lantern turned his face in half shadow. “I insisted you be present.”

Crina surveyed him, then the group once more. “You requested Harry Potter as well.”

Tom inclined his chin slightly. “I have the suspicion he is involved.”

Harry swallowed, he had the paranoid thought that somehow they could hear it.

“Come in,” Crina permitted, stepping to the side. Her coat was enormous and fur along the
top, and looked silly. Her shoes clicked but her half step was silent. The antiquated style of
the castle suited her well.

“Have a seat, permit me a moment.” Crina spoke in a murmur, breezing past to the desk that
faced the doorway. Albus settled heavily on a stool, Harry and Tom on matching ones. There
was one chair with a unique back, arching and specific where the others were not. They
avoided it, in fear it had importance they did not know.

Crina closed books and marked pages. She had been in the middle of something that looked
like herbology books. She slid the books onto a bookshelf near her, the attached shelving on
the study desk was occupied by nameless leather books instead.

“I would ask more but given the look Albus is wearing, I dread to think of the headache this
will cause me.” Crina sighed to herself, settling properly on her chair. “I have my...assigned
warden arriving in forty minutes. You would not enjoy that discussion.”

It was an invitation as much as any, so with that Tom’s eyes flickered ever so quickly to
Dumbledore.

The man sagged in his seat, looking tired and resigned. Crina looked impatient.

“The war.” Tom said simply, not a question but enough.

“There were...” Albus paused, “many losses. The muggles reverted to extraordinary violence.
Of muggle Germany, Adolf Hitler was declared dead and Gellert Grindelwald arrested and
tried for his crimes.”

Tom very pointedly looked at Crina. Harry noticed the flicker of pain and hurt over the
blatant distrust of Albus’ information.

“Nazi Germany fell, Japan was bombed by two nuclear bombs. Agreements were instated
over the cruel and unusual treatment of prisoners of war. The largest camp, Auschwitz is now
a museum. Adolf Hitler is said to have committed suicide however it’s a delightful
conspiracy. Gellert Grindelwald was returned to this very prison, and is my inmate.” Crina
summarized sharply.

Tom inhaled and exhaled steadily. “The London Bombing?”

“Known as the London Blitz. Horrible, but a memory of war and nothing more.” Crina said,
like a machine. “What else has he lied to you about?”

Harry wanted to argue, but there were times where even he had questions Dumbledore
refused to answer.

“I’m alive.” Tom said flatly, staring at Albus like a statue. “I thought your men called me
Dark Lord as an insult. I’m not. Grindelwald is in chains, and I’m alive.”

Albus nodded and said “yes.”

Tom nodded very slowly. “I’m this...Lord Voldemort.”

Crina spoke this time. “You are.”

Tom chewed on the thought, but something did not seem right with it. Harry felt cold, away
from it all. Numb and empty like the day he heard the truth of how his parents died. It didn’t
sit right, but the buzzing whisper behind his eyes told him that everything was okay.

“Why is everything about him?” Tom asked Crina, his eyes flickering to Harry.

Before Dumbledore could speak, Crina told him freely. “There’s a rumor that Harry Potter
vanquished the Dark Lord as a baby. That he killed the Dark Lord Voldemort and has nothing
more than a scar.”

Tom’s hand curled instantly into a fist on his thigh. His face, it did not change.

“Tom, you must understand. You were long since trapped by the-.”

“What makes you special?” Tom asked Harry, cold empty eyes stared into Harry’s soul.
“How could you, an innocent powerless baby, stop a Dark Lord?”

Harry shivered, hearing the overlay of a memory and nothing more. On autopilot, he
responded the same, “I guess I’m just lucky.”

Tom smiled like it hurt him, and said flatly “You kill me. I’m alive here now, are you going to
kill me again?”

“No,” Harry shuddered, “it- it wouldn’t be right.”

“Okay.” Tom said, and he looked back at Crina. “Are you interested in me only because I
grow up to be Lord Voldemort?”
“No, actually.” Crina confessed, “I care little for Voldemort, in truth your mind and magic is
a sight to behold and I enjoy what you offer me. Albus Dumbledore contacted me, because I
am the...mind healer, of Gellert Grindelwald.”

A thud, along the wall outside the room. Crina very subtly shifted a small paperweight to the
side. “I would warn you that you’re in for a surprise, but please keep your outburst to a
minimum.”

Tom smiled, it did not look friendly.

The door to the room opened slowly, flanked by what appeared to be a large wolf lupescu
that shimmered copper in the lantern light. It held a small torch in its jaws, hanging so low it
near scraped the floor. The fur was coarse and light, maybe yellow or gold outdoors but
inside the confined space of Crina’s office all Harry could think of was how it’s teeth and
glowing eyes made Fluffy look like a puppy.

“Hello Aegis, thank you so much for your aid.” Crina smiled to the lupescu, nodding
respectfully at the behemoth of a creature. “I have visitors, but I do not wish to occupy
unneeded time of yours.”

The wolf rumbled like one of Dudley’s loud rock bands. The kind where the vibrations
slipped into your skin, and lived in the rattling of your bone marrow. The wolf turned,
managing to fit through the doorway once more to leave, drawing attention to their new
guest.

“Well well,” an accented near laughing wheeze of an old man standing before something
quite remarkable, “it’s been a while, Albus.”

Albus Dumbledore turned white like chalk, one hand lifting to cover his mouth in dismay.
“Gellert, your...”

Gellert Grindelwald laughed, a high pitched noise that left Harry shivering in his seat. The
sort of terror that shot down his spine like a rod and left him exposed and on display like a
stuffed parrot. The kind of terror, where he would chew off his own leg to escape.

“A change of pace,” Gellert hissed, wiggling the amputated remnants of both arms, ending
well above his elbow. “A precaution, you see. Accidental magic is so...finicky.”

Albus, horrified beyond words, could not speak.

Tom exhaled quietly, like a breeze through a window.Harry could feel it, that hollow bird
cage that made up his lungs and ribs. It rattled, catching in his throat and causing his chest to
squeeze. He felt out of body as Tom Riddle said, “The Dark Lord Grindelwald. King of a
castle where he is a prisoner.”

Grindelwald looked at Tom, and looked beyond that. He smiled sharply, exposing yellow
teeth and what looked like early tooth decay. “The warden’s pet. Here in the flesh, and a
bastard nonetheless.”
Tom tensed, and turned his head to pointedly look at the stumps of his arms. “I wish I could
have done that myself.”

“As if you the power to.”

Tom inclined his head slightly. “A hungry man, has the power to kill someone with a brick.
War makes us all beasts. I hope you screamed until your voice ran out as they chewed your
bloody hands off.”

The man laughed, abrupt and sharp. “Know these wounds, you Cretan?”

“I’ve seen people cut off their legs for less,” Tom’s lip curled cruel, “and remain more
dignified than your sorry arse.”

Gellert spat something in German. Albus, much to Harry’s surprise, stood swiftly and with
one hand grabbed the scruff of Grindelwald’s shirt. The German laughed, amused in the
sudden aggression and tension in the small room.

“So this is what you’ve ignored me for, Albus?” Gellert mocked as he was manhandled into
the high back chair, “this boy-beast that shouldn’t have survived.”

“You have no value to talk,” Albus said sharply. “You are not to touch this-.”

“No, let him speak.” Tom interrupted calmly. “I want to hear this bloody cunt beg. ”

The air chilled, Albus let Grindelwald’s scruff go sharply.

“You’ve got a tongue on you,” Grindelwald mocked, “lapping up your bitch mother’s potions
and Crina Dimitriu’s boots?”

Tom tensed so suddenly, Harry was worried he had somehow been cursed. It was for only a
moment, but Harry couldn’t breathe through the crippling terror that pierced his lungs. He
couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe-

“What does he mean?” Tom said flatly. “Explain.”

A pause, then Crina exhaled through her nose slowly.

“Do you know why we don’t give potions to children, Tom?” Crina asked him.

The room was cold, the small space heater with its orange glow did little to permeate the air.
Frost decorated the thick stone, Tom’s air clouded into mist with each breath. He understood
now why Crina wore such an outrageous coat. What looked gaudy in one environment
proved advantageous in another. Thick, warm, it obscured her movements and blanketed her
body with dense fabric. No knife or tooth or claw would touch her skin under it.

“Overdosing.” Tom said flatly. Ignoring the slight flutter along his fingertips at the word. The
word was just a word. It’s meaning a definition as unremarkable as the next. “Poisoning.
Irreversible organ damage, just as with anything else.”
Crina’s face remained stony. Illuminated, but the shadows of her crows feet looked darker.
The oil lamp looked archaic and familiar, fitting for someone who drank vintage wine and
lived in a castle at her leisure.

“Do you know, Harry?”

Harry looked a bit startled to be addressed so suddenly. Perhaps the boy assumed that Crina
would ask Dumbledore, who had taken position behind the thick oak chair where
Grindelwald sprawl relaxed. He was no threat to them, Crina assured, but Tom had been hurt
before by harmless things.

“Uh, when I had the bones in my arm vanished I had to take Skele-gro.” Harry said, “Madam
Pomfrey was careful because she said if I had too much I would grow too much bone?”

Crina shifted some objects on her desk, moving papers and fountain pens to the side. The
small shelf with leather spine journals, each unremarkable from one another, displayed her
focus. She selected one, seemingly at random.

“Would you care to educate your students, Albus?” Crina asked flatly.

Albus didn’t shift from his silent vigil, but he did begin to speak in a low voice fitting for
Nurmengard.

“In the muggle world, many medications are not given to expecting mothers.” Dumbledore
said, “it is understood that medicines and drink are passed from mother to young, prior to
birth. A medicine that may...aid, with troubled sleep, could prevent the child from growing
properly. Children could be born without limbs, with hearts too small, fresh from the womb
and helpless to live.”

Harry swallowed thickly, vaguely disturbed by the idea. Tom however, did not look too
troubled.

“I know them.” Tom said flatly. “The ambled, the paper boned. The fags, the slow, the
lunatics and those born mad.”

Crina blinked, her only expression to the modern slurs and insensitive comments. Back then,
they were appropriate and accepted. It was not Tom’s fault.

Tom instead let his eyes flicker to the side, to the chair where Grindelwald day with his eyes
closed and body relaxed. Tom’s voice didn’t shift, didn’t alter in cadence or tone. “You
rounded them up and cut them open then slit their necks like cattle.”

The room chilled ever so slightly more. Tom turned his neck slowly, robotically with sharp
bright eyes and a thin smile like a barber's razor. “They were going to send me south. To Italy
and wipe their hands clean of their demon child.”

Grindelwald smiled with no fondness.

Crina tapped her leather book with her nail softly, staring at Albus with a hawk eye look.
“Albus, you’re not done talking.”
Albus’ lines and wrinkled were thick, carved into his face like a saddle maker carved leather.
He spoke, through sunspots and the moles along his chin. “Magical potions are not given to
children, because they operate similar to...muggle recreational drugs. They cause a
codependency, an addiction to something which ultimately leads to unstable control of
magic.”

“The field is not studied extensively due to the high level legalities of providing expectant
mothers with magical potions.”

Grindelwald chuckled, a low hoarse sound that had Albus’s knuckles creaking in strain.

“Is it now?” Grindelwald asked rhetorically, not bothering to open his eyes.

Harry adjusted his seat although it failed to provide more distance. “Is that a...recurring
problem now-.”

“No,” Crina said, “it was. Uncontrollable magic, and repression techniques are one of the
highly speculated tools for the artificial construction of obscuri. A weapon Gellert here was
quite fond of, notably the incident in America.”

Grindelwald’s teeth were yellow, like a vicious badger or a wolverine. His smile looked
more like a snarl.

“Obscuri, Harry, are cruelty to nature. They should never be brought to exist.” Albus said,
and for once, Gellert did not laugh.

“He- are there more than? Are- is he weaponizing people?” Harry babbled, not understanding
but recognizing the tension in the room.

“No,” Crina said. “The methodology of the artificial Obscuri involved dosing mothers with
powerful potions to force their child to accommodate high magical strain. The theory is, that
high magical strain during development forces the magical core and capacity to increase in
size and reserves to metabolize the mother’s toxins in the womb. When born, the
uncontrollable reserves result in...catastrophic degrees of uncontrollable magic.”

“That’s sick.” Harry blurted. He jerked upright, spine taught and straight. “You- you can't do
that! That’s experimenting on children and, did the mothers even know! What is happening?
And-.”

“Harry.” Dumbledore said, and Harry quieted.

“The majority of cases are individuals born to wizarding families.” Crina said, voice a tad
quieter as if preparing for something foul. “They were aware of the risks, or perhaps they
didn’t care. Instances where producing a child was not...the focus at hand. An accident, a
symptom of whatever goal they had in mind.”

Tom stood suddenly. There was no hesitation in his movements, he had been sitting and the
next split second he was standing and walking towards the door to the hallways with sole
intentions of leaving.
“Tom-.” Harry started, swiveling his neck in bafflement and concern. “What...”

Grindelwald began to laugh, a sharp hacking noise that faded off wetly towards the end.
Repeatedly, it sounded like the laugh of the elderly and once more Grindelwald’s age became
apparent.

“Oh you boy,” Grindelwald laughed, “unable to face what you were so desperate to know?”

Harry looked helplessly lost, but he knew enough that everything Grindelwald said was shite.

“Shut up,” Harry spat, standing abruptly with his hands curled into tight fists. “You’re a
monster! You don’t even know him so shut up!”

Grindelwald’s crooked tooth smile and arching wire eyebrows spoke differently. He threw his
head back, silvery white beard reflecting the lantern light. His teeth, yellow and retracted
gums, glistened at the right angle.

“I don’t know him?” Grindelwald sneered, not moving his slumped body on his stool. His
arms flexed, shoulders rolling to suggest he’d gesture dramatically if he could. “I know all
about his kind!”

“Gellert.” Dumbledore said unkindly, “watch the words in which you speak. You will do well
to remember your place here.”

“My place here?” Gellert asked astonished, voice elevating to a shout. “My place here!
Where you amble in after how many decades of silence? After you bring me this- this Harry
Potter, and this bastard child who be better off dead!”

Tom didn’t turn, but his neck tensed and his shoulders tightened. Crina frowned and turned
her head ever so slightly to the side. “Gellert. I have said nothing of his bloodline-.”

“You have said enough!” He shouted. “You have spent far too long with this useless brat!
Going on and on about this pet of yours! You have taken my work and twisted it into a
mockery of everything I stand for! Hours and days, huddled over that pathetic book of yours,
looking to cure my greatest work- as if it is some sort of disease!”

“Gellert!” Crina shouted, her hands slapping on her thick desk as she stood abruptly. Her coat
swished, fur collar larger and making her shoulders an imposing obstacle. “You will be
silent!”

“I have been silent for years! As you have wasted time tending to this- this potion created
monster of my invention! This bastard- I dare guess you don’t even know of your blood!
How your mother loved you so little-.”

“I am sick,” Tom Riddle said slowly, facing away from the group, “of you talking.”

He turned slowly. His face had lost all the blood in it, leaving him a ghostly shade that looked
ill. His lips were white, pressed tight against his mouth as his nostrils flared widely.
Everything about him was controlled and calm, his pupils dilated so wide in the dark that
there was no blue left to see.
“You hate it, that you were born from nothing, and all your life, all your fears are true. You
were born pathetic, a tool, and you know it too.” Grindelwald laughed, wet and wild and free,
“if I had found you before, I would have used you like the mistake you are-.”

Harry shivered, the hair on his arms standing up. It was almost like a Dementor came over
him, chilling the air and leaving him breathless. He heard no screaming beyond the muffled
shouts of the prison itself. He felt no happiness.

“Gellert!” Dumbledore raised his voice, loud and echoing slightly off the rock. Crina stood
tall, fingertips white from how hard she pressed against the table.

They had no wands, no true threat. Only words but oh how cruel and painful words could be.
The lupescu made sure they were safe, but the lupescu could not speak human tongue and
had no weapon against it.

“You’re wrong,” Tom spoke flatly. No emotion in his face. His hands, Harry noticed, were
trembling slightly.

“Crina.” Dumbledore pleaded, his voice tired and with a low twist that Harry could feel pluck
the pulse of his throat and thrum it harder. It felt like Fawkes crying, sad and wounded and
desperate to help. “Crina don’t...”

Crina exhaled through her nose slowly, her lips relaxing and returning colour. She lifted one
hand, silencing Dumbledore and Harry and poured her attention on Tom.

“Tell me why you’re letting him wound you.” Crina said.

Tom didn’t look at her, the bottomless black of his eyes were focused on one wide grinning
elderly man. “I’m not.”

“You are.” Crina corrected him unkindly. “He’s a crippled man with no more power than a
squib.”

Gellert laughed, he kept laughing and Tom’s lip curled into an expression Harry couldn’t
recognize.

“Stop laughing at me.” Tom said, small but not weak.

Grindelwald, lifted the grizzled stumps of his arms, cut off and fed to the lupescu of his own
making, and grinned. “What have you to fear? Would you kill men like me? Would you be
my judge and executioner and say that we are different?”

“I’m not weak!” Tom hissed, voicing rising slightly shrill.

“You are the bastard child to a bitch! A woman who condemned her unwanted child because
you know as well as I- you are not wanted! You are not loved!”

“I’m not a cripple living at the mercy of pigs feeding him slop!” Tom hissed, voice shifting
an octave ever so high and Harry flinched against his will. It felt as if the air had left the
room, a static and low scent of ozone like the oil lamp had turned to lightning. Dumbledore
reached with one wrinkled hand to pull Harry back, flush against the wall where he may be
protected from fists. Harry’s jaw moved wordlessly, unable to make a sound. His eyes burned
like acid.

“Tom, he speaks as a chained barking dog.” Crina soothed quietly, her eyes sharp although
one hand was still raised. Perhaps a signal in the making, for aid or help or for the lupescu to
finish eating what they once started.

“He speaks about things he knows nothing about.” Tom bristled, the whites of his eyes
visible.

“Oh, believe me boy.” Grindelwald said, “I know everything about you. I made you- I know
your orphaned life, your stolen name that stands for something you don’t know. Your bastard
father, your drugged bitch mother. Did she hold you before she abandoned you? Or did she
throw you aside as I’ve thrown aside the first failed child the same as I’ve thrown away the
hundredth ! You are nothing special! You all claim good and evil in this world, but all that
exists is rot that attempts to choke us.”

The air crackled, or it felt similar to. The softest hiss of fingertips on stone, the caress of nails
on bedrock. Crina breathed exhilarated. Harry felt his heart in this throat, twisting against his
neck so violently he breathed slowly to hold back the vomit. It hurt so much, so deeply and
unfiltered.

Dumbledore’s hand on his shoulder clenched tight, hard enough to squeeze the hollow of his
clavicle and his scapula. Harry wasn’t sure he’d be able to ever speak again. His head
throbbed in pain and loud and his skin prickled akin to a horrible rash sunburn.

“You preach a lot,” Tom said, slowly controlling his words to such a degree the high nasal
shriek from before was a distant memory. Still, he sounded strained, over enunciating in
efforts to restrain himself. “And I have seen many holy men.”

Tom closed his eyes, breathing so tightly his entire chest moved with his efforts to inhale and
exhale slowly. Crina relaxed ever so slightly, her lifted hand faltering. Dumbledore’s grip too,
waned. Harry’s skin burned raw and prickling, and he felt helpless to quell the low whimper
through his mouth. It broke like a bubble, a desperate keen that felt fitting for the air.
Cracking and exposed and hurting.

“ Harry !” Dumbledore urged, low and rushed. Hesitating only a moment, for as long as it
took for Tom to open his eyes. His black pupils has swallowed the blue, his teeth were as
white as bone.

“Your war,” Tom said, low and patient and condescending like Ginny’s nightmares and
Harry’s basilisk encounter. “Taught me many things. I have been preached on good and evil,
but a dead man once told me-.”

Tom spoke French. Crina blinked twice, comprehending a fraction faster than Dumbledore
did. Her lips moved between words, translating first to Romanian then finally to English.
Silently she translated, translating as fast as Dumbledore could Inhale sharply and clamp
once more on Harry’s shoulder.
Harry felt hollow and raw and the painful urge to cry. He hadn’t ever felt like this before,
this exposed and splintered on the inside. It hurt it hurt it hurt.

“Are you calling me weak?” Grindelwald asked. Fluent in French, but he chose to resume the
conversation in his accented English. Harry was thankful, given that he appeared to be the
only one unable to comprehend French.

“Me? Who has conquered, and built a legacy that leaves you shitting your trousers. You, who
chokes on words and-.”

“I am sick of your tongue .” Tom said flatly. Harry felt the piercing throb he couldn’t describe
peak- and suddenly he felt the tears uncontrollably cascade down his face, although he didn’t
know why. He didn’t understand, he couldn’t breathe and he felt so bloody hurt and-

“Choke.” Tom said.

Grindelwald grinned and gurgled, and laughed wetly then wetter. Blood vomited down his
front as he threw his neck back, frothing blood as black as tar in the room.

Crina’s eyes widened in alarm and she swished her hand low. The movement triggered a
wardstone of some origin, ancient and old that pulsated low blue and secured around
archways and gouges in the floor. Filling the absences, a security lock built long before their
birth into the castle itself.

Grindelwald choked; gurgling and writhing as he slumped off his chair. Dropping to the
ground, writhing like a worm as blood surged from his mouth. He kept laughing through it,
rolling in a puddle of his own saliva and mucus.

“Harry, Harry are you hurt?” Dumbledore desperately patted over him, turning his chin at the
sight of Harry’s uncontrollable crying. “Are you alright?”

“He’s so sad, professor.” Harry burped through the hiccuping wheezes of the foreign
emotions. “He’s so sad .”

Tom’s shoes were turning red, coated in the thick slime of both blood and phlegm and spit.
His face was blank, flat and pale but between thumb and forefinger he held a slippery piece
of meat.

“Call your dogs.” Tom said flatly, brokenly. Crina gazed at him adoringly, revolted in his
abilities.

Tom lifted his hand and said, “I have dinner for them.”

He was so sad and hurting, Harry couldn’t find the anger or disgust when he recognized that
Tom was holding Grindelwald’s tongue.

Join the Discord! You can cry in my direction and I'll wave
 Repetita iuvant
Chapter Summary

Where Tom has some emotions.

He doesn't like them.

The last week of October did not come gently. The courses began to pile more cruel work-
amounts that outshone anything they had ever seen before. Professor Umbridge seemed to
take keen delight in awarding detentions, handing them out by the handful. Already Harry
had heard the younger years bemoaning about ruined Halloween plans. Harry, through some
unknown chance of pure luck, had avoided both a detention or extra assignments on the later
years.

Ron and Hermione were not quite so lucky- Hermione finding herself bogged down with
prefect duties and Ron managing a late night walk with Filch after managing to fall asleep
during Defense class. It was amusing at least to watch Umbridge match her skin to the ugly
red lipstick she wore- but Ron complained enough as it was.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own, Harry?” Hermione asked, chewing her lower
lip. It was a bad habit of hers, it would scar if she kept up at it by the time they graduated.

“It’s fine, honest.” Harry said, “I’m not much company on Halloween.”

It was true. Harry would love to spend a good Halloween alone for once. Maybe pay a visit to
the Hippogriffs if he was really wanting a scare. Normally he’d find the idea of visiting
Hagrid’s hut appealing, but being down there felt even more lonesome.

There were large black skeletal horses walking through the hall, guided by Professor
Grubbly-Plank to pull massive pumpkins. Not as large as the previous years since Hagrid’s
absence had been long and itching on Harry’s mind; the pumpkins would be carved and
decorate the hallways with enchanted candlesticks. Harry knew that the Twins were planning
some sort of prank- likely the giant carved faces would vomit up candy floss or other sweets.
Harry couldn’t find it in himself to be excited.

He felt more like a ghost than the other ghosts were. They were cheerful, planning festivities
and parties as Harry drifted aimlessly from one stone tower to the next. There was a minor
chill in the air, enough that the Grindylows were retreating towards deeper water.

The Hufflepuff that Tom had antagonized before similarly drifted about. A skittish little
student that fumbled over his words nearly as badly as Neville.

“Hey, wait!” Harry said, racing after the yellow striped tie. The student squeaked, looking
alarmed and a bit faint as Harry towered over him, “I uh, I was wondering what you said to
Tom to make him so mad at you?”

The Hufflepuff looked at him with wide eyes, a faint scandalized flush to his cheeks. “I-
Tom? The…”

“The Slytherin?” Harry tried, “you know, when you uh…” Harry paused, giving a single
awkward wave towards his own lower half. The scandalized flush turned beet red, the
student’s eyes glazing in his shame.

“I mean, I’ve just uh, never seen him that mad!” Harry tried to rectify, “I was just curious.”

The Hufflepuff looked more nervous as he nodded, keeping his eyes on where Harry’s hands
were as if he was about to be grabbed again. “He- I didn’t know who he was! I- My mum
always said back home to help others and the Lord-.”

“Lord?” Harry interrupted, “I- sorry, you’re muggleborn?”

“Yes?’ The student squeaked, looking more worried that he had incurred Harry’s wrath, “I-
I’m Christian? He- he was looking mad and- and mum always said to help others so I tried to
comfort him saying the Lord works his plan even if we don’t know it and-.”

The Hufflepuff continued, babbling and stuttering as Harry felt more overwhelmed and
confused. Wasn’t Tom religious as well? Wouldn’t he be comforted by another student
sharing his same belief? Then again, this student seemed incredibly flighty.

“He was very upset, sir!” The Hufflepuff babbled worriedly, “I- I didn’t mean to offend him
so! I just said that the Lord has plans for us all, and we aren’t intended to know what fate he
has made for us and-.”

“No no, uh, it’s fine.” Harry said, taking a step back to try and clear his head. “Uh, sorry for
bothering you. Happy Halloween.”

The Hufflepuff ran off, likely worried he’d somehow trigger Harry’s rage as well.

Tom was furious and bullied a student over religion. Had the boy somehow messed up
a...verse? Was that even the right term? Was it some sort of religious conflict- and Tom
worshiped an opposing side? Harry didn’t know enough to really understand the values or
belief- if only it was easy like the Goblin Wars.

Tom avoided Harry like the plague. Either Harry had completely botched his only attempt to
get information, or Tom was going out of his way to avoid him in the morning.

Harry had completely redone his sleep schedule, trying to track down and find the other boy.
Instead of sleeping in, lulled by Seamus’ loud snoring, Harry was slipping on his shoes and
occupying the Great Hall. Tom Riddle hadn’t arrived once since that fateful morning.
“You look horrible.” Hermione said with no tact, “honestly, how early have you been getting
up? You went to bed last night before I did!”

“Early.” Harry grunted sourly, spearing his fifth roll with his butter knife. At this point, he
wasn’t even hungry. Just tired and irritated and likely going to get a detention from Snape in
this state. “Riddle hasn’t shown up once.”

Hermione looked more surprised by Harry’s aggressive bread-spearing. “Have you

considered asking the House Elves? I’m sure that they would be delighted to help you, they
deserve respect you know. Maybe showing them some respect would do wonders for my
movement and-.”

“The house elves.” Harry said in awe, “Hermione you’re a genius.”

Hermione looked a bit miffed as Harry gathered his things to run off. Tomorrow, Tom would
not escape him.

The pear on the wall giggled and slid open, bright and early at Six in the morning. The house
elves were all working in a fuss, throwing frying pans with half cooked eggs around the
kitchen. Rolls were sorted in and out of an oven; a furnace that baked a dozen different
pastries at once. Fruit flew down an assembly line with a dozen little hands holding massive
cleavers, chopping apples and pears and bananas into tiny wedges.

Better than that, Dobby was happily babbling away as he took Harry’s hand and guided him
through the waist high tables. Elves were on stools, kicking and shoving rolling carts around
that zipped from one station to the next. Everything was chaotic and messy, although the
furthest side of the kitchen had a set of tiny tables and what looked like a massive black
wrought iron cauldron.

Dobby kept chattering, like it was normal that Tom Riddle was bent over miserably vomiting
uncontrollably into the cauldron. Thick wet noises that made Harry’s own insides gurgle
angrily. The table in front of him was stacked with empty plates, a few crumbs and bits of
apple peel curling on the edges. At least nine plates, each empty, and the thick stench of bile.

“You’re a right mess.” Harry said, unsure of anything else to say.

Tom paused, entire body tensing before he moaned pitifully into the cauldron. His body
heaved once more, surprisingly fluid and rehearsed before he straightened and wiped his
mouth on a cloth offered.

“You,” Tom rasped tiredly, “need to stop following me.”

Any other day Harry may have considered it. Instead, he eyed the number of plates and drew
from his own memory how high the elves tended to stack things. The pancakes that towered
higher than his forearm, the mountain of fruit and thick syrup drizzled over sweet dates.
Nine plates.Tom’s body looked strained and exhausted and it was Six in the morning.

“How long have you been here?” Harry asked, sliding onto the stool another elf brought
hastily for him. Tom’s eyes were bloodshot around the edges, red rimmed. One spot near his
left eye corner looked bloody- a broken small vessel. Tom didn’t answer him.

Hours it must have been, even if he wouldn’t answer.

“Dobby?” Harry asked, not breaking eye contact. The elf appeared happily, not concerned by
Tom’s state. “Hello Mr. Harry Potter Sir!”

“Hey Dobby, do you know how long Tom’s been here?”

Tom’s nostrils flared and his hands twitched, cramping and shaking from where they rested
on the table. Knuckles knobby and bony- everything about him bony. He didn’t say anything.

“Oh! Mr. Tom comes sometimes all night!” Dobby squealed happily, “will you be wanting
more’s nows Mr. Tom? More loaves have been baked and-.”

“ Loaves?” Harry balked in alarm, “Dobby, what time did he get here?”

“Uh, three hours ago?” Dobby guessed, looking a bit perplexed and startled at how he
couldn’t say the exact time. “Mr. Tom has a big appetite and-.”

“Leave us.” Tom croaked, voice raw and sour. He looked weak and flushed and more
resigned and tired than he had any right to. If, what Dobby said was true, Tom had been
eating since three in the morning, scarfing down entire loaves of bread and who knows what
else.

“Mate…” Harry trailed off unsure, “...you have a problem.”

Tom laughed, verging slightly on hysteria as he used both hands to press firmly into his eye
sockets. “I have many problems, Potter. Take your pick, or are you going to run to the
Headmaster like a dog and call my shrink?”

Harry looked at his fingers. Two new loaves of bread arrived, each powdered lightly with
flour and looking positively delicious. He tore off one small bit, nibbling on it.

Tom eyed it with something ravenous. The cauldron at his side was empty, likely a vanishing
bottom considering a human stomach could only be so big.

“Go at it.” Harry said, and Tom lunged in for the kill. It was strangely captivating to see how
Tom ignored utensils, preferring to tear into its thick crust and spongy interior with nails and
bared knuckles. His teeth chewed slightly, but he instead seemed to swallow entire chunks
solid. Forcing it painfully down his throat before he lunged on the next, a desperate attempt
to fit the most amount of carbs inside a stomach before someone forced it away. It reminded
Harry of a starving wolf, so wild and animalistic it didn’t even surprise him as Tom paused a
half minute before keeling over with raw painful gagging. Entire chunks of bread, faintly wet
from stomach acid and mucus slid out like regurgitated rats.
It looked bad. Some sort of...half forgotten wish for comfort twisted at Harry’s head. The
things he had seen in Dudley’s movies, written in Aunt Petunia’s romantic novels. Harry
reached over, awkwardly rubbing along the pointed knobs of Tom’s back, just around his
shoulder blades. He could feel the boy’s entire body trembling, contracting with the force of
his heaving. It felt painful, and on a low animal level Tom whined.

The session finished and Tom clutched the edges of the cauldron, gasping. His entire body
was twiglike and thin- Harry wondered how often this happened if Tom was still so frail.

“I get it,” Harry offered in the silence, breaking through the chaotic noise of the kitchen.
“When I first came here, I did the same thing too. So uh, I imagine not much food in a war?”

Tom chuckled, dark and low. He spat out globules of mucus, blowing snot from his dripping
nose. “And what would you know about starvation?”

Harry felt that knob of guilt in his throat. He didn’t talk about it- not to Ron or Hemrione
although he knew she suspected. It felt almost like a betrayal to talk about it now, not when it
mattered anymore.

But Tom was vomiting his heart out alone for hours. Keeping some sort of...penance in the
dark, alone.

“I live with my...aunt and uncle.” Harry started. The words came to him easier than he’d
think. “They didn’t feed me much. I ate with my eyes for a week when I first came to
Hogwarts, made myself sick all the time. Stole so much bread, I reckon the elves thought I
was mad.”

Tom managed a wet laugh, finally hauling his head up from the cauldron. The smell vanished
with the activated charm- now they were at ten plates.

“What’s your favourite candy?” Harry asked.

Tom eyed him from the corner of his clear eye. The other red from leaking blood. “Acid
pops.”

“ Really?” Harry said, “those are bloody rancid!”

Tom managed a smile, sharp and tired. “The only candy Dumbledore doesn’t touch with a ten
foot pole.”

Out of spite more likely, but Harry couldn’t help but feel amused by Tom’s dedication. The
elves were hurrying along in true effort now, shouting orders out or complaints as someone
failed to get the jelly to a boil in time. Harry didn’t even know that jelly boiled, or how they
made it.

“Why are you talking to me now?” Harry asked. “I thought you were tight lipped and hated
me.”

“I’ve learned that you are persistent like scabies.” Tom mused, “I’ve given up trying to avoid
you and your burrowing tendencies.”
Another loaf of bread appeared in front of them. Tom had regained colour in their little talk,
something calmer in his expression and eyes. He didn’t take the bread, he ignored it in its
entirety. Harry knew the boy had nothing in his stomach, he’d bring him something smaller in
little portions to avoid this sort of... state later.

“That’s rude, calling people insects.” Harry pointed out. “Hermione would smack you for
that.”

“And where is that girl? I thought she was glued to your side.”

Harry rolled his shoulder. “I wanted to be alone.”

Tom’s eyebrows rose, one hand beckoning. Perhaps going to the kitchen wasn’t exactly what
alone meant.

“Not like that.” Harry tried to correct himself. “You...you aren’t like my friends.”

“ Now look who’s rude.”

“Not that you twat! You just...I think we could have been friends.”

Tom looked increasingly exasperated and slightly offended. “You? Me? Excuse me, I thought
I was a Dark Lord-.”

“Well you aren’t, so enough of that!” Harry snapped out before he could help himself. “I
bloody hate Halloween, okay? Because what Voldemort did to my parents- and I’m pretty
goddamn sure that you didn’t murder them, so you’re not my problem.”

Tom looked at Harry with wide eyes. Harry felt his heart began to slow. Perhaps a bit late, he
felt the guilt for his outburst. “Sorry. That was mean.”

“Mean.” Tom repeated in awe, “you are an absolute moron, Harry Potter.”

“I get that a lot.”

“I wonder why.” Tom huffed, rolling his eyes slightly. With one hand, he reached out and
pushed the plate with the new loaf of bread aside. He stood, chair scratching slightly along
the floor. He paused, hesitating a fraction of a moment before glimpsing over his shoulder to
lock eyes with Harry.

“I won’t stop you from following me.” Tom comforted him. The closest he would ever get to
an invitation.

Harry took it.

Classes were delayed and pushed around, given that it was Halloween. The forest was quiet
and ominous, feeling as if the trunks somehow broke the barrier of time itself. Knowing how
the bark felt as they quite literally did break time (thanks to a Time Turner) to run around in
the forest didn’t break the illusion.

“I’ve been in here a lot,” Harry confessed, running his hands over the soft cold lichen
growing on a large boulder. “Every year.”

Tom kept walking, slipping down and around the trail that the Magical Care classes followed.
The main patch was marked with pavers, round stones carved from flagstone.

“I’m surprised you were. The forest is dangerous.” Tom said, running his own hands along
the tree bark. Some trees stood tall over them, like soldiers or sentinels watching their
approach. Harry wondered if that was why Tom felt so at ease, under the eyes of tall towers
and hundreds of troops standing guard.

“Well, I snuck in most of the time.” Harry said. “It wasn’t bad. Well, my first year here we
had to find a unicorn and met y- a wraith. Then there was the acromantula that tried to eat me
and Ron. Then there was also L- the werewolf, and the hundreds of dementors and-.”

“Good thing I’m here then.” Tom cut him off pointedly. He ignored him from then on.

They walked through the forest, so dark in spots from the tall upper growth that they drew
their wands to light their path. The forest floor was teeming with life, small spiders,
chipmunks, and grass snakes mumbling on to a silent audience. It was peaceful in its
freedom, even Tom looked more at ease.

They kept walking towards where Hagrid had once shown Harry Hippogriffs. Instead, the tall
skeletal horses watched with eerily milky eyes. Flapping skeletal wings as they tilted their
dragon-esq heads and approached curiously.

“Thestrals.” Tom explained in a single blunt word. “They don’t age. The same ones I know,
you haven’t had any deaths in the castle then.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked, partially shocked and partially alarmed. A horse-
thestral, approached him curiously. The high arched ridges of its brow bone felt like stretched
leather on a drum. Slightly slippery, but soft and warm under his fingertips.

“The leader here, her name is Mylacedes.” Tom said as if that would explain anything at all.
“I’d say she’s the vocal one but, well, she doesn’t ever say anything useful.”

That’s an odd expression, Harry thought, but he couldn’t ask it since one thestral was nibbling
along the edge of his cloak.

They were beautiful creatures in a sad way. Scary, terrifying, but beautiful. Something like a
lone swan, or like a flower blooming when frost was imminent. Tom didn’t show many
animals fondness, and he didn’t show any affection towards this animal. Tom had dragged
Harry out for some cause Harry didn’t know. Perhaps he was as lonely as Harry was.

“I…” Tom trailed off pointedly, inhaling from his nose as his entire body tensed. “You killed
the basilisk.”
There was no question in his statement. There was disbelief, curiosity, then a dawning
realization of horror. Harry hadn’t heard a grass snake talk, but it was certainly possible that
it did. The Acromantula knew of the basilisk, and they populated the forest heavily now.

Shite.

“A basilisk.” Tom hissed out, “you killed Salazar’s monster?”

“It was trying to kill me!” Harry defended quickly, “I mean, I think that’s justified.”

Tom stared at him. The thestrals lingers, making odd echoing noises as they foraged for
insects or meat along the floor. One thestral, an older weathered one made an impressive
rattling m-boaaa, before it trotted off. Tom’s face twitched ever so slightly.

“Her name was Adalonda and you killed her.” Tom deadpanned. “I am…”

“Mad?” Harry asked, “I tend to piss off a lot of people.”

“I am beyond words.” Tom hissed furiously. “I...I’m going back to the castle.”

“What?” Harry balked, “but we just got here-.”

“That was before I knew that you killed the bloody basilisk!”

Harry had to run to keep up, something about the situation hilarious in a disbelieving way.
Tom Riddle, Dark Lord in training, could power pout his way all the way back to the castle.

Students outside watched them curiously; the classmates that knew Harry just rolled their
eyes and ignored it. Harry was long since due any sort of drama, and the new special
arrangement student was a proper enigma for the majority of them.

Harry was nearly out of breath by the time he made it to the top of the hill. Tom was similarly
panting, but he turned those pants into huffs of anger as he continued to storm to the castle.

“Hey Harry!” someone waved- Fred Weasley. He was sitting near the outer courtyard,
George perched in one of the archways that led into the castle itself. Easily able to spectate
Tom’s Dark Temper-Tantrum, as well as Harry’s exasperation.

“Try not to end up in the hospital wing this year!” George shouted encouragingly, “let’s make
a new record!”

“But if you do end up there-.”

“-We’ll send you some sweets from the feast!”

Both twins laughed as Harry waved back, already knowing that his luck was pushing it. “I’ll
try my best!”

The twins cheered him on, waving happily as Harry hurried after Tom.
Tom walked confidently until he stood in the main stairwell. Dozens of wooden staircases
shifted around them, adjusting positions and multiple floors as owls soared from landing to
landing. Somewhere below them, a loud game of exploding snap echoed off portraits- who
shouted in annoyance over the flash of light and smoke.

Harry skittered to a stop, carpet bunching under his shoes. Tom was standing on the main
landing, jaw tense and temple throbbing visibly as he glared over the railing towards the
dungeon steps where potions’ classes were held.

“Take me to her.” Tom said abruptly. “The basilisk. Take me to her.”

Harry looked at Tom in surprise, “the basilisk? You know she’s dead right?”

“Of course I know she’s dead!” Tom hissed viciously, “I’ve been trying to meet her for years
and you went and slaughtered her like an animal.”

Harry took a half step back, mindful of the fact Tom, for some unknown reason, hadn’t
viewed the large lethal snake as an animal. “I mean, it’s been some years. It’s probably kinda
rank…”

Tom’s glare sharpened, Harry stopped talking.

“I want to see her.” Tom said sharply. “Your schedule is clear, you have time. Take me to
her.”

Harry shifted where he stood, “you already seem to know it- her. Don’t you uh, know where
i- she is?”

Tom’s jaw visibly twitched, side to side as he ground his molars against one another. His
shoulders lifted ever so slightly, taught all the way up his neck.

“...I’ve seen things...about Adalonda.” Tom twitched ever so slightly, “she was heavily
documented in various journals.”

Harry stared. “Written in what, Latin?”

“ Yes.”

“Oh.” Harry said, “ah, okay then.”

Happy Halloween everyone.

Harry remembered the Chamber vividly. In his dreams, in his memories. Now, in his waking
life. The tunnel was slimy and rank with that humid aroma of mildew and algae. The pipes
were slimy, dingy and dirty. Harry took one glance at Tom’s robes- second hand but well
cared for. Harry imagined that Tom was used to trudging around in dirt.

Tom kept his face bland and inexpressive, even as Harry slid down and vanished from sight.
The bottom of the pipe shifted to a gentle horizontal slope, his speed bottoming until he was
wobbly standing and trying to fix the odd chafe along his thighs.

Tom appeared moments later, his hair standing up strangely; the wind and slime made a fairly
adequate hair gel. One small charm later, they were uncomfortably clean from magical
means. Tom pointed forward with his wand, glowing a steady blue light.

“It’s this way.” Harry pointed, stepping over the hazardous chunk where the wall collapsed.
Tom eyed it curiously and warily, tracing stress cracking with one hand as if he recognized
the signs. Harry was about to ask where the boy recognized marks of rock exploding before
he felt dumb and insensitive for even thinking about it.

They reached the next gate, a thick seal of multiple snakes interwoven into a locking
mechanism. Tom observed it, tracing each of the indistinct serpents head before he came to
some sort of solution. One he did not like, given by his sudden sharp inhale and quick steps
backward.

Tom stared at Harry quietly, face impossible to read. Very hastily, he whispered “nox” and
sent the two of them into pure darkness.

Harry cursed, fumbling to draw his wand and light up the room. By the time he did so, Tom
had traveled the scarce six feet between them to stand motionless and expressionlessly before
Harry. So close, Harry could feel the soft humid puffs of Tom’s breath on his face. Desperate,
searching for something Harry didn’t know.

“Who are you?” Tom whispered with something Harry almost interpreted as longing,
“...Open the door, Harry.”

Harry stared at Tom; his eyes were dark and flickering from the magical light. Harry didn’t
even need to look at the door, to imagine the slit pupils and the cold scales against his skin.

“Open,” Harry hissed, the words sounding distorted and echoing against the stone. Tom
inhaled sharply, and the door opened with a rough gear grinding.

Tom stood, so close the heat of him was tangible. He stared a moment longer, tracing Harry’s
face and cheekbones before falling upon the mostly obscured scar on his brow. Harry didn’t
know what to say, so he said nothing.

Tom took a step back, then another. His shoes scuffed over the stone, splashing through water
puddles.

Tom didn’t look surprised. He looked…

He looked like he expected it. That something deep in his gut told him they were connected.
The Basilisk didn’t stink, didn’t rot. Its body was fresh and sour, although it was distended
with bulging molded eyes. Bright white mold covered its exposed soft tissue like slime,
filtering over its nostrils and open gaping mouth. Its fangs were distended, loose and falling
free and Tom dropped to his knees before the basilisk’s head. Tom’s entire body could likely
curl inside its maw, its hand could fit within the clear hole piercing through the serpent’s skull
through the top of its head.

Tom traced it, fingertips gentle around the edges of the wound, tapping on the center of the
serpents forehead nearly lovingly. “Reptiles have something called a third eye. Muggles
believed it to be a...an organ to determine day and night. In magic it...they found, that
serpents and dragons used their third eye to tell weather, to taste seasons and feel threats
beyond their sights.”

Harry felt, for the first time in his life- guilty.

Tom traced the basilisk’s head, the wound where, Harry noticed, a scale seemed larger and
flatter and bisected cleanly with where the Sword of Gryffindor stabbed through.

“Dragons use it to sense magic,” Tom smiled sardonically, “basilisks, the kings and queens of
all serpents were...well, I guess I’ll never know.”

“Tom, I-.”

“Adalonda, was a gift from Salazar Slytherin. His proudest creature after the unexpected
death of his child. He kept her here, in the Chamber, as a gift for his descendants, to guide
them in dark times.”

Harry breathed, and felt so so horribly guilty.

“Perhaps that was what the basilisk third eye was for,” Tom mused quietly, tracing the small
scale ridges of the basilisk’s crown. “The third eye, to sense the future, or to guide us along
our path. And you killed her like a bloody pig.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry said, “she was trying to kill me.”

“Maybe that was what was supposed to happen then.” Tom said simply. “I wouldn’t know,
would I? What she would have said, what Salazar Slytherin would have said to me, would
you?”

Harry’s mouth went dry, “Tom don’t-.”

“Speak to me, Salazar Slytherin.” Tom mused, lowering his head to press his forehead against
the dead skull of the Basilisk. He closed his eyes mournfully, resting there silent.

“Tom, I think it’s time to go.” Harry said, unwilling to step closer to the massive creature.
Nothing good had ever happened here, only pain and screaming and Ginny’s prone body on
the floor.

“What happened here?” Tom asked him, slowly righting himself to stare at Harry with a look
far too bright and near mad. Something far too aware, burning behind his eyes in the filth and
gloom of a molding rotting corpse. “This is where that girl of yours came to die, isn’t it?”

Harry’s mouth went absolutely dry.

“It is.” Tom confirmed, knowing something he couldn’t possibly know. His eyes drifted to the
exact spot on the floor where Harry remembered only moments before. Something Tom
should not have known- what he could not have known.

“You were so scared.” Tom said, staring at that single unimportant spot in a quite large
Chamber. “I’ve spent my life searching for this place, and you’ve already ruined it all.”

“I didn’t mean to. Ginny was going to die.”

Tom smiled thinly. “People die all the time. People who die easily, they are the ones you
should be jealous of. Not defensive-.”

“Oh, sorry, it’s not like we’re talking about you trying to kill me!”

“Oh so now that’s me?” Tom hissed, voice higher pitch and furious. Harry felt it, like an
ominous wave of water swishing over him, tugging on his legs and knees with the undertow.
It was thick and wrong, like bread pudding choking you on its way down.

“Well you’re not looking pretty innocent right there!” Harry spoke, unable to stop himself.
Urged and coaxed by something that wasn’t him. Do it, something pressed and pushed- do it.

Harry took one step forward, Tom rose and unfolded his legs; they both drew their wands.

There was a pressure pulling on them both, pushing on the back of their necks behind their
eyes. In their brains and behind something visceral. A deep adrenaline coo of fight, fight-.

“Go ahead, Potter.” Tom Riddle smiled and bared his teeth. “I’ve fought and won against
things more impressive than you.”

“Same,” Harry said, “take a bloody look behind you.”

Tom snarled. Before they could think or move, they spoke as one synchronized entity and
cast a stunner at the same time and angle. It hit in midair- an impossible action if not
choreographed. Something- something that could not-

With a feather soft touch, Harry remembered the name of the brother wands meeting, the
Priori Incantatem.

It wasn’t that, it was something entirely different. As if there was a mirror between them,
each moved in the exact same echo without any conscious decision dictating how to change
exactly.

Two stunners clashed together like bombs exploded, once, twice- more times than luck or
possibility. The probability dictated that it was impossible, and yet it continued over and over
and-.
Tom flinched back, one hand flashing to his head as he made a loud gurgling cry of pain. He
crumpled to one knee, clutching his face although no spell had hit. The shock broke whatever
tension had been made, leaving Harry standing over Tom with his wand held aloft.

“Get out,” Tom hissed furiously into his hand, “of my head.”

Harry froze, horrified. He could only think of the flashes he had- the nightmares, the pain,
the-

Kill the spare!

“No,” Harry gasped out horrified, “no, no. Shite- Tom-.”

Harry reached down, Tom flinched away with a low keening noise. Harry froze, Tom
twitched in restrained agony, and then flicked his wrist.

“Shite!” Harry gasped, clutching his arm and stumbling to his knees. His bicep gushed blood,
his fingers of his left arm already going numb from how deep the cutting curse had hit. Tom
groaned low in his throat, hand squeezing hard against his temples.

Harry hissed out a breath, pulling his hand away to survey the damage. It kept bleeding, a
dark colour that looked nearly black in the low lighting. Tom managed to get to his knees,
still bent over in pain. Harry didn’t know what he had done- what he was doing.

“Stop,” Harry gasped out, anxiety thrumming and pain and paranoia and something was
pounding behind him and- “Tom, just... stop.”

The pressure let up, and Tom heaved a gasp of air as if he had been suffocating.

He heaved, sprawling onto his back to gasp. His diaphragm rose and fell frantically, rib cage
lifting high like smooth spider legs.

“... shite.” Tom gasped, hand digging firmly into his skull as his body twitched. “The
bloody-.”

“You okay?” Harry asked. His arm stung, but in a cold distant way. Like he was walking
outside in the cold without shoes. “You aren’t unconscious are you?”

Tom said something vulgar, managing to get both his forearms under him to lift into a braced
sprawl. They rose, disjointed and wobbly, tired and hurting.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Harry winced in sympathy, “I ah, got headaches a lot.”

Tom looked at him with a foul look. A stink eye if Harry had to label it.

“ That,” Tom said, “was not a headache-.”

“I got visions too,” Harry offered with a grimace of disgust. “Hurts like a hot poker and weird
flashes of things? Sometimes a snake-faced ugly bastard?”
Tom watched Harry a moment longer, his scowl shifting into more a frown. “...No vision.”

But yes, went unsaid.

Tom’s eyes flickered down. Harry’s blood dripped steadily onto the floor.

“This brings back memories.” Harry grimaced, hissing out in pain as he prodded the wound.
A clean cut- severe but not enough to kill him.

“Bad ones, I presume.” Tom said, quietly approaching. He conjured bandages, unraveling
fairly adequate cotton to observe the wound critically. He saw something in the blood, the
black inky iron that looked slippery and weird in the chamber light. “You’re bleeding.”

Harry was, but the statement felt rhetoric. Tom looked at the wound, his frown deepening
ever so slightly. He eyed the blood, seeping out slowly, but enough to suggest a danger for
long term movement. Tom set aside the bandages, looking contemplative.

“We must be miles down…” Tom said, more to himself. He pulled his wand, the glow
illuminated his face and sharpened the hollows of his chin. “You’re lucky you can hold aloft
a light. Cleaner this way.”

“What?” Harry asked, fumbling to cast a hasty lumos!

Tom’s face betrayed nothing as he slid his wand alongside Harry’s wound, hissing out a quiet
rolling word “ Concres!”

Harry screeched, voice cracking off sharply into ragged breathing. His body twitched,
sagging as he fell to his knees pitifully. Tom looked expectantly at him, having anticipated
such a reaction.

“Blood boiling curse, a minor one.” Tom said flatly. “Your arm will be clotted. The pain will
fade.”

Harry hissed a breath, eyeing his arm. The skin was flushed and sore, blood that had trickled
free looked flaky like ash. The wound itself was hard and raw, like jelly had a torch lit to the
skin itself. It felt unbearably painful.

“It’ll last you until you can be fixed in the infirmary.” Tom said, “and prevent infection and
blood loss.”

“How do you know this?” Harry gasped out, feeling black spots fleck his vision as he
stumbled to his feet, “this is- this is bloody dark.”

“You can’t be picky when you’re going to die.” Tom scowled, “healing magic does not affect
yourself; only those with different magic.”

“You boiled my arm.”

“I did, and look, you aren’t bleeding.” Tom pointed out, rolling his eyes with a huff. “I have a
bloody headache the size of Big Ben, let’s go already.”
Harry wasn’t willing to look a gift horse in the face, so he stumbled to his feet and followed
along.

The bleeding had stopped, although his arm hurt significantly worse. The pipe adjusted to
their movements, gravity rolling around them until they ascended up the pipe near vertical.
Their shoes stuck to the side- which clarified quite a few questions Harry had. The basilisk
was long, but even then it would be quite an effort to climb near vertically up a pipe. Instead
the ground... shifted, so walking up the sleek surface was as easy as walking along a corridor.

The pipe opened at the top into a gentle four step climb. The washroom was empty, even
Myrtle vanished somewhere for the Halloween festivities. A good thing too, since she had
not fond memories of Tom’s (now slimy) face.

“You’re bleeding.” Harry said, surprising even himself. Tom was bleeding- gashed along his
left hairline and matted in his hair. It was hard to see, flaking and thin. A little amount of
blood then, coming from a wound inflicted from the Chamber. It matched the eye with the
small burst vessel. A single blood drop staining the side of his left eye, broken from violent
vomiting.

Tom brushed his hands through his hair, small flakes of dry rust fluttered to the soggy
ground. Tom ignored it, rubbing one eye vigorously.

Harry’s arm hurt; Tom’s room was in the hospital wing anyways. They walked, quiet and
somber and deep in contemplation.

In better lighting, Harry could investigate his arm better.

He didn’t know what he expected from it, but the sight left him cringing. The gash had been
deep and painful, the clotted wound even more so. Harry knew of cauterizing- pressing hot
metal to an open wound to seal it shut via baking the skin. This must have been on par, or
inspired by it. The fluid was crusty and thick, like someone poured black cement and let it set
and clog his arm. He could feel it, the angry harsh pulse of it and the static tingling at the tips
of his fingers. His nail beds were turning blue, a shade shy of light indigo.

Tom noticed but didn’t seem alarmed. He acted like he had done such a thing before.

“Great.” Harry winced, hurrying along as Tom kept up his quick pace. “I get another bloody
scar, Can’t you maniacs leave my goddamn arms alone?”

“Never,” Tom said dryly, shoving the Hospital Wing doors open with one shoulder.

Madam Pomfrey looked up- her face crumbling into exasperation and resignation. “Mr.
Potter, can you not last one year?”

Harry would have rubbed the back of his neck if he could- his arm throbbed once more.

“Sorry, Madam.” Tom said, shifting his upper torso into what looked almost like a half bow,
“I found him in such a state.”
Harry scowled and started to trudge towards what he knew was his assigned bed. There was a
student in another, moaning and clutching his stomach. Likely the subject of a prank, or he
overate on Honeydukes sweets.

“You’re lucky I’m always expecting you, Mr. Potter.” Madam Pomfrey sighed, wheeling her
small travel cart of various diagnostic tools over. “What is it this time, a broken bone? A mild
concussion?”

“Just my arm.” Harry grimaced, holding it aloft.

At once Madam Pomfrey’s face fell into something like mild shock. She supported his elbow,
running her wand over the thick hard crust with a quickly blank expression. “Mr. Potter, who
did this to you?”

“I did.” Tom said very calmly. “It is a minor blood boiling curse, it was taught as standard
first aid for deep lacerations.”

Madam Pomfrey’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “This curse has been removed from any
sort of curriculum, in fact, it’s practically outlawed. It hasn’t been used by...by field medics in
decades.”

Tom didn’t look surprised. Harry suspected that he had already known that. Harry wouldn’t
be surprised if Tom knew a half dozen healing spells, and instead chose to burn Harry’s blood
like a royal git.

“My apologies then, Madam.” Tom said, smooth like the performer he was, “I see that I’ll
have to speak to the Headmaster to see if any sort of discrepancies lay in my education. I
would not wish to repeat such an offense.”

Madam Pomfrey didn’t look fooled. “I’ll speak with Albus, you go right ahead.”

“Tom has a headache!” Harry blurted, managing to press a stink eye. “I ah, I managed to
smart him pretty well when he did this mess.”

“Yes, I can see that. This curse does hurt…” Madam Pomfrey mused, beckoning for Tom to
sit down on the other accompanying bed. Tom scowled, composing himself the moment
Madam Pomfrey turned to survey him.

“Sit tight, let me scan you.” She waved her wand, mumbling out a half dozen or so spells
before she tapped a sheet of parchment, dark lines fluttering out in various patterns that likely
meant something to her.

She frowned at the results with a huff, “I only checked your head, but it looks like you have
some swelling. I haven’t diagnosed further, but if what Mr. Potter says is correct, you must
have had quite the hit.”

Tom said nothing. Harry suddenly felt far more attentive.

“Mr. Riddle, have you had any dizziness?” She asked, rustling around in her cart, “any
memory loss? Difficulty walking on the way here?”
Tom very stiffly said, “no.”

“Then it likely is a mild concussion, Mr. Potter is on the Quidditch team.” Madam Pomfrey
explained, “I can look further, but-.”

“It’s fine.” Tom said sharply. “I’ll just sleep it off.”

“Allow me to find you a calming draught,” she said, “It’ll relieve any minor inflammation
you have, at least to help you sleep tonight. Just this one, they aren’t good long term use.”

Tom said nothing as she quickly walked off to her private stores.

“A concussion?” Harry hissed to him under his breath, “I didn’t even bloody hit you! I never
got a concussion from-.”

“Can you be quiet, for once in your life?”

Madam Pomfrey came back, passing over an unassuming small bottle of a calming draught.
Tom took it, downing it under her eye before passing back the glass, folding his arms sourly
on the cot he would be forced to stay in overnight. It must have been especially aggravating
considering his bedroom was within sight.

“And you, Mr. Potter. I’ll have to liquefy this boiled portion before patching your vessels.
Thankfully it shouldn’t take too long to do…”

It didn’t. By the time Harry had the worlds largest blood clot removed from his arm, Tom
was fast asleep.

Harry dreamed that the air was filled with dust, and that the sun beat down on him rudely.

It stunk, a thick stench like hot tarmac in summer. The temperature burning into his skin like
he had been weeding Aunt Petunia’s garden for hours. It burned, the back of his neck felt
leathery and raw.

Harry Potter dreamed that he walked, limping and sore with boots too large for his feet. His
hands were small, his stomach cramping and eating itself with the viciousness of his hunger.

He looked at the sky then shoved his eyes downwards. There would be no solace in the
clouds, no water or rain to bring him relief. The broken stone under his shoes led him
towards the rubble of buildings. He remembered this one, an old butcher that brought in
shipments of pork and beef. Harry dreamed that he knew the dog, the small yipping creature
that someone had eaten in a fit of desperation. Harry was out of tickets for milk and bread,
and he was starving himself thin.

He scrounged through rubble, the broken glass of the front window. He searched, turning
opened tins on their sides to pour out rat droppings. The insides had already been picked
cleaned, foraged through. He would be hungry again that night.
“Oi!” someone shouted behind him, a taller man who looked thin and weary. His clothes
sagged on his body, he was hungry as well. “Wha’ you f’ink you doin in f’ere!”

Harry bit back a curse, his lips splitting from his teeth. He knew it was stupid to go out during
the day. He knew he should have waited until nightfall, like he always had.

“No’fing!” Harry said, voice higher and rounded over the vowels. A different accent he had
never had. “I’ll be on my way then-.”

“No you bloody don’!” The man shouted, hungry with bright glazed eyes. Harry cursed,
scrambling over broken stone and the busted mortar into the back of the store. The man
screamed, chasing in. He ran, the man chased after.

The air was dusty and stunk of mildew from the rain last week. The shelves were barren, old
wood that once hung pork now hung barren. It was a fool’s attempt to find something to eat,
even his stomach agreed. He had chosen poorly and acted out in his desperation, and now his
pursuer was looking for his prey.

Harry dreamed he was running, being chased. He managed to weave in the back storeroom,
slipping out the main entrance and darting for the freedom of open air. Over the broken glass,
the wall that had caved in and granted him entry.

“No you li’le shi’!” The man screamed, tackling him and Harry screamed in response. The
glass bit his skin, piercing his face. He had found a can of beans in the back ruins, hidden
under a shelf he hid alongside. He had food in his bag, and a starving half crazed man over
him.

“Give me wha’ you bloody go’!” The man shouted, thighs pinning down his hips. Panic,
desperation- Harry’s fingers scrambled and horrible visions flashed before his eyes.

“No! Ge’ off!” Harry shouted back, jerking desperately to remove him. He didn't have a
knife or a weapon, the glass was too small to cut anything free.

The man’s eyes turned more hungry, in a different sort of raw fury. Harry’s fingers landed on
a chunk of brick, broken from the wall.

He slung his arm, weak and thin but the cobblestone jerked with was strong. A bit of granite,
torn from the rubble colliding with the man’s skull.

The man went limp, blood sprayed out and kept pooling at such speed Harry’s first worry
was that he had crushed his can of beans.

He managed to his knees, bleeding and realized in a cold distant way, that the man’s head had
been cleaved open. His brain was a wet red and white, like the light fat along cattle’s belly
hanging in the windows.

“No!” Harry shouted, numb and horrified and “wake up, oh- oh Lord I didn’ mean t- wake
up! Wake up!”
The man’s eyes were glazed, looking in different directions. His brain oozed out like
mincemeat, drooling on the pavement.

“Wake up.” Harry said, breathing far too quickly as sobs bubbled, “I- I didn’ mean t’ k- K-.”

His hands were shaking. He couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t mean to kill you. Harry thought brokenly. I’m a killer now.

I’m a murderer now.

Harry was twelve.

Harry leaned over, and puked bile onto the broken cobblestone.

He was so hungry.

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bed covers were
twisted all around him like a straitjacket; he felt as though a Tom’s bloody curse had been
poured through his skull.

Harry moaned, slapping the side table for his glasses. The night was quiet, even the boy with
the stomachache was quiet.

Harry shifted, his breathing was shaky and his heart fluttered in terror. The dream had...no,
the nightmare was horrible. Absolutely wretched. He had never experienced something like
that before, not in such a fine detail.

A low whimpering noise caused Harry to part the curtains. It was hard to see in the dark, but
the bed nearest him was filled with a writhing shape. Obscured by a thin blanket, the larger
comforter had been kicked askew. The pillow too, lay on the floor.

“Tom?” Harry whispered sharply, feeling very alarmed at the sight of the other boy contorted
ever so slightly. Uncomfortably tense, shifting in a ever so fine tremble Harry almost missed
it. “ Tom?”

Tom awoke with a high pitched yelp, slugging a fist across his body so suddenly, Harry
almost was hit. He wasn’t, even as Tom jerked himself to a seated position, panting heavily
and clutching his head.

Harry too, was feeling agony through his skull. Tom though, looked nearly on the very of
screaming.

“Are you…?” Harry asked, trailing off when he realized it wasn’t panting. Tom was sobbing,
open gasped heaving noises. It must have hurt.

“Go to bloody sleep.” Tom hissed, fisting his hand in the privacy curtain to yank it shut.
Harry stayed awake, unnerved, for a long time after.
 Ordo Salutis
Chapter Summary

Where Crina is more than what others thought, and Tom has a very not good day.

Chapter Notes

Warning! This chapter may have sensitive content in it!

Harry woke up well past the time birds were chirping. Despite that, the moment awareness
sunk into him, he could instantly feel the tense atmosphere and the hasty shushed voices of
an argument.

Harry slowly pulled his bed draped back, feeling quite surprised to spot the prim and proper
stature of Crina Dimitriu standing at the foot of Tom Riddle’s bed.

“Uh, hello.” Harry said, fumbling for his glasses. He threw a look at the clock, “It’s uh, It’s
six in the morning?”

“Time zones, it’s near seven in my time.” Crina said without any hesitation. Her large fur
cloak was absent, exchanged for a thinner fur robe that looked no less ridiculous. Harry could
see what looked like individual mink skins sewn together around the length of it. It must have
cost a fortune, although Crina never seemed to pause on expense. Harry wondered if other
things in her life were equally odd- did she have an entire wardrobe filled only with fur?

“Oh,” Harry said. His mind still fogged itself on sleep, struggling over basic things like
words and meanings. “I uh…”

Harry was suddenly very aware that he was wearing only his boxers below the hospital wing
bedsheets. Crina Dimitriu was likely older than Professor McGonangall, but Harry couldn’t
help but feel incredibly uncomfortable. Speaking to anyone with power and authority while
in underclothes tended to make him uncomfortable. It was sad considering how often it
occurred too.

“Don’t mind me.” Crina said, sounding uniquely ticked by something Harry didn’t know.
Likely the hushed conversation just before he woke. “Pardon me a moment-.”

Crina fished in a small pouch at her side, pulling out a collection of dark pins she scattered on
Tom’s bed. The boy said nothing, staring quietly at his feet as Crina began to twist and fasten
her hair. Her hair wasn’t... long, but Harry had always seen her in some state of formal wear,
or at least professional work attire that never quite fit standards Harry recognized. Aunt
Petunia would have a heart attack at the thought of Crina.

She fastened one last pin into her hair, not having enough to wrangle all of it into a proper
bun. Harry wondered why she didn’t use magic to fix her hair, but Crina tended to approach
things in a surprisingly muggle way. Harry looked at Tom, who didn’t seem alarmed or
affronted by the action.

“That’s good enough.” Crina said to herself, huffing slightly before she sat on the end of
Tom’s bed. She managed to avoid his feet, resting on the gap between the baseboard and the
end of the mattress. “Good morning Harry, I trust you’re feeling better?”

Harry blinked, surprised. He was feeling a bit overwhelmed by Crina so early in the morning.
“Yes, I mean, I’m fine. It was just a scratch.”

“I hadn’t known the details, only that my ward placed another student in hospitalization.”
Crina said rather calmly considering the weight of the news. “I had to come in person, to
understand the implications of it. That, and apparently Tom Riddle is idiotic enough to
develop an inflamed brain. Why had nobody thought to inform me? A psychiatrist?”

Ah, that would be a good reason for why she appeared so furious. An inflamed brain would
have some sort of...presence, her not catching it either offended her professional capabilities,
or wounded her pride for her own medical treatment.

Tom breathed very slowly through his nose and said nothing. Harry felt a bit at a loss as well.
Comforting Crina would be idiotic considering she was a grown woman. Mentioning that
Tom had seemed off would likely come across as rude, that, and Harry wanted to leave the
hospital wing before the boy cursed him out again.

“That’s beside the matter at hand…” Crina sighed, looking a bit tired. Harry realized that for
her to be here she must have dropped all of her important commitments upon notice. He
couldn’t imagine that Crina would leave her prison in poor hands, so she must have…She
must have instantly leapt into action, finding and stumbling through hasty arrangements to
manage an impulsive leave of absence. She would have procured a way to travel across the
world, since Nurmengard was located on the mainland of Europe.

“Yes, I’m tired.” Crina said, eyeing Harry with a frown. She did have small bags under her
eyes, not nearly as noticeable as they could have been. Her body language reflected her
exhaustion, her preference to sit instead of stand. “You two would have given me liver failure
at this rate.”

Tom managed a small huff, looking absolutely miserable. Harry wished he had heard what
they were discussing before he woke. It couldn’t have been good, since both Crina and Tom
seemed quiet and distressed. Harry hadn’t seen him like that before.

The hospital wing was empty besides them, even the bedside tables were empty of sweets the
twins had promised him. Tom looked very small in the large bed.
“I’m considering discussing your living situation with the Headmaster.” Crina said very
coolly. “Since your sad state is reason to suspect you’ve been neglecting the nutrition potions
prescribed to you. Would you like to tell me what else you’ve been hiding?”

Tom lifted his eyes very slowly and glared sharply. “I don’t know, what have I been hiding?”

Harry felt very much like he was intruding.

“”I’m considering your placement within the Gryffindor Tower, under Harry Potter’s eye
considering that you two seem to be within close proximity under every instance of trouble.”

“It was my fault!” Harry blurted, anxiously shifting in his bed. “Tom didn’t- I mean-.”

“Tom hospitalized you,” Crina said, “why do you believe that such a thing is your fault?”

Harry felt his throat tighten slightly. “Well, I- it is my fault. We...we got in a fight and-.”

“I was simply the better shot.” Tom said coldly, voice slightly hoarse from sleep. “That’s all.”

Crina looked skeptically between the two. Displeased, unsure, or perhaps exhausted of them
both. “You do understand, I utilize the minds of pathological liars and monsters and here you
are, two teenage boys, thinking you can lie to my face.”

“Is it working?” Tom asked, more rhetorically and cruel even in his own ears.

Crina’s jaw shifted ever so slowly, a horizontal glide of her molars. “This reminds me of the
alleged stabbing attempt on your arm.”

Tom mirrored her jaw, and ground his teeth similarly. Harry wondered if they were even
aware of how they subconsciously mirrored each others social cue.

“That was his fault.” Tom accused Harry, although his words had little bite to them. By
clarifying the incident, it shifted away the notion that their fight was in any way related to
that prior incident.

Yet, it was. Back then, Harry remembered very strongly that foreign haze. That unfiltered raw
desire for Tom to hurt- and then he had. The chamber had a similar filter, a rose hued mirror
that shifted and turned both boys into marionettes controlled by some unwilling third party. It
was unique, different in comparison to the action of Tom stabbing himself, but inexplicably
similar.

“We just copied each other.” Harry said, breaking the intense staring contest between the
woman and her patient. “Is that a thing? Magical copying?”

Crina frowned, irritation swapping for cold professionalism. Her entire body relaxed ever so
slightly, loosening the muscles of her neck and the ones giving herself a toothache.

“A...magical copying.” Crina digested the words, “there is a...behaviour, where individuals
mirror another’s movements and behaviours in subliminal attempts to build rapport.”
Harry wondered, curiously, if Tom knew that he had been doing just that with Crina seconds
ago.

“No.” Tom said coldly. “It was...synchronized.”

Crina looked between Tom and Harry, eyes flickering across both of their sorry states. Tom,
with blood crusted near his hairline and Harry with a bandage around his arm. Crina looked
at them, and then looked further.

“In muggle medical science, there are...parts of our brain and mind, that impact our behaviour
based on actions performed by others. Mirror neurons, they aid in our physiological
mechanisms for action coupling. Our understanding of what actions are and how they
operate.”

“I don’t care for…” Tom paused, his nose scrunching in an expression of disgust, “ muggle
science.”

“You’d be surprised,” Crina said, “it isn’t all...exorcisms and drinking paint thinner now.”

Tom made a small movement. Harry couldn’t tell if it was a shrug or a flinch.

“It may be something along those lines. Mirror Neurons, unfortunately, fall into the area of
Muggle Studies that best reflect neuroscience. Of course, no studies have been made with
magical interactions, and I haven’t the resources to investigate such.”

“What would it take for you to obtain these resources?” Tom asked, calm and cold. His entire
body language was still... off, inexplicably shamed or irritable or some sort of mixture.

“A year with a dozen experimental studies.” Crina said with a scoff, “It’s impossible. Pure
speculation on my side, but I’m always glad to experiment-.”

“No,” Tom snarled quietly, “I refuse.”

And that was that.

“I’ve had issues of my own.” Harry said, feeling brave for a small moment. “With…”

Harry reached up jerkily. His fingertips brushed along his fringe, adjusting the horrible cow’s
lick of black hair to show off his hated scar. He knew that Crina understood, although her
eyes never deviated from his own rather respectfully.

“I’ve had... visions, and...it hurt when.. he, was close and-.”

“It hasn’t hurt since?” Crina asked. “No double vision- not your perspective rather. No
intrusive thoughts or overlaying thought patterns?”

“Uh, no. None of that.” Harry said, already feeling a bit baffled. He had never been
questioned so carefully before. Normally Medical witches and wizards just waved a wand
and frowned obnoxiously when nothing came up. “Professor Dumbledore says its residual
from where I was hit with the killing curse.”
Tom’s eyes snapped over, staring at Harry blankly. Either he had surprised Tom, or insulted
him in some way.

“Right, ignoring what Dumbledore and everyone else in this absolutely backwards society
has said to you, have you experienced any lost time? Hours slipping by with no recollection
as to where it went?”

“No.” Harry said, “sometimes I... feel...emotions.”

For the first time in Harry’s life, a medical witch did not look at him with pity. “Which
emotions in particular?”

“Why is this important?” Tom asked, interrupting the strange kinship that was being made
before his eyes. “Emotions are fickle-.”

“Emotions are constructed by various chemicals in our brain. Depending on which emotions
are being felt, I can determine which chemicals are being influenced. It’s how potions work,
Tom.” Crina said almost in a patronizing coo.

Tom sulked, clearly not used to being out of the loop.

“Happiness.” Harry said quietly, “when he’s mad. Disappointed, or pleased. It hurts, a lot.
Sometimes my scar bleeds, and its always red like when you get stung by-.”

“That’s quite alright.” Crina looked a bit confused, but not at all the lost expression Harry had
seen so many times before. “There's various chemicals you won’t know- Norepinephrine for
example has a key role in several functions. Increased activity leads to mania, and has a role
with pain perception. I imagine that your brain is quite an interesting place, Mr. Potter, but I
have no doubt that your suffering is in no way... residual effect of a Curse Scar.”

“What?”

“Curse Scars react and affect our magical core, yours seems isolated except for various
instances where you access it- which has affected Tom if my guess is correct.” Crina looked
at Tom with a completely serious face. “Did you experience foreign emotions and pain either
the knife incident, or whatever disaster you two stumbled into last night?”

Yes, Harry thought.

“No.” Tom said sharply, “now go away.”

Oh, Crina did not like that.

Whatever peace had been constructed with Harry’s cooperation fell and crumbled under
Tom’s cranky state. Crina’s smile became forced, then waspish as her words found venom.
Her direction shifted, closing Harry off and once more the battle evolved into Crina’s
personal offended feelings and Tom’s petty stubborn nature.

“To lie is to sin, Tom.” Crina said, smiling sharp and cruel, “or is it time for me to finally
address your tendencies for religious masochism?”
Tom stiffened so firmly, Harry was afraid he had been petrified. It was nothing like the quasi
flinch from before. Crina showed her fangs and bit in hard. The time for civil discussion was
over- Harry learned first hand that interacting with Tom normally ended in violence.

Harry swallowed, trying to ignore how unsettling the little showdown was. Harry wasn’t
supposed to be here- but at the same time he felt included. Crina wanted him to know this
information; she had been serious with her consideration for moving Tom to a more public
area. She had been serious with her professional aid with Harry’s scar. She had been serious
with saying such a cruel personal thing right in front of Harry.

“Oh, yes.” Crina said, “You must consider me dim to ignore your behaviours. I’d be kind to
label you masochistic- I dare say you’ve never heard such a term.”

Tom’s stiff limbs never relaxed, instead he seemed absolutely frozen. With how outdated his
understanding of medicine and psychiatry was, perhaps her words had devastating weight
behind them. Implications he didn’t like, a level of intimate knowledge that terrified him.
Crina didn’t stop- perhaps this was her only opportunity to prove that she was certifiably
smart. The only chance she had to prove that giving her information was within their best
interests.

Tom learned through pain, and Crina had to qualms with being gentle.

“Mortification is the name of you voluntary offering up discomfort and your pain to God.
Fasting, self-flagellation, that cilice you think you’ve been so sneaky with. I can’t blame you
in truth. There’s been a long history of mortification in the Catholic Church. It was endorsed
by a pope, wasn’t it? Something along the lines of... let him-.”

“Let him deny himself,” Tom said, words a feral snarl, “take up his cross daily and follow
me.”

Perhaps that was what Crina had wanted. Perhaps it was unexpected. She didn’t look pleased,
but instead held herself tight with a restrained sort of presence. She appeared unhappy. She
had expected Tom to finish the religious verse.

Needlessly, Crina said, “I’ve researched into your little plight.”

“You have no right-.”

“Psychological Issues where you address your oh so wounded human nature, or your...
inclination to sin as the reason for resorting to extreme corporal mortifications- tell me Tom,
have you learned that lesson yourself or was it whipped into you?”

Harry blinked, and felt blood coat his fingers. The sharp stench and burn of vomit in his
throat. He remembered the sightless gaze of a man bludgeoned to death under a brick.

Wake up, please wake up!

Whatever vicious response Tom may have said was brutally interrupted by the slamming of
the Hospital Wing doors. They bounced once, swinging jauntily on old hinges as in stormed a
woman in a pink fuzzy robe.

Harry couldn’t help but give a small groan. Professor Umbridge, storming into a hospital at
six in the bloody morning. She couldn’t have any worse timing than Fawkes delivering him
the Sorting Hat.

Instantly, Crina slid from her seat on Tom’s bed to stand regally in her long mink cloak.
Messy hair, face untouched and naked of all adornments. Somehow, she appeared more regal
and respected than Professor Umbridge. Perhaps it was the mink, suspiciously flatter than her
normal overwhelming poof. Crina was taller, sleeker (literally with the fur), and appeared in
every way Professor Umbridge’s opposite.

Professor Umbridge looked like she had barely the time to prepare herself before storming
down the halls to the Hospital Wing. Harry spotted what looked like a small hair curler
unraveling and folding itself away magically only seconds before she came to a stomp before
Crina Dimitriu. Harry wanted to argue that Crina had literally finished doing her hair with
pins on Tom’s bed only a half hour earlier, but even her brown hair looked better. Umbridge
was...short, nearly a full head smaller than Crina.

Although, Harry wasn’t sure how much of Crina’s height was synthetic since he remembered
she wore absolutely ridiculous knee high boots under all that fur.

“How dare you!” Professor Umbridge bellowed, face flushing red before their eyes. It
contrasted poorly with the paler pink cosmetic blush she dabbed onto her cheeks. Harry
didn’t know much about makeup, but her eyeshadow was an odd shade of blue for the cotton
candy pink of her dressing gown.

“Hello there.” Crina said very calmly and completely inexpressive, “please hold.”

Crina Dimitriu turned her back absolutely on Professor Umbridge, as if she were a
telemarketer. Professor Umbridge spluttered, clearly unsure how to react. Harry would have
laughed if not for how surreal the entire situation felt.

“You two,” Crina said, eyes flickering between both Harry and Tom, and their exact same
bed and bedclothes, “have disappointed me. Beyond words.”

Harry wondered if this was what it felt like to be scolded by a parental figure. Tom wouldn’t
know either.

“I- you have no right to be in my castle!” Professor Umbridge wailed in fury, “you are not
welcome here! Why I- I ought to message the Minister right now and-.”

“Oh, I see.” Crina smiled quite fake, the expression of a woman who had to deal with various
governmental workers all the time. “You must be the desk staff here to collect Headmaster
Dumbledore’s applications for Ministry appointed finances. In that case, do pass along a kind
word to the Minister for me, yes? Off you go now.”

Professor Umbridge surpassed red and ascended to righteous maroon fury.

“How dare you!” Professor Umbridge screamed, “you are not welcome here Dimitriu!”

Harry wanted to ask how Professor Umbridge knew Crina- someone who, as far as he
understood, was quite a recluse. She only appeared after Dumbledore had bribed her with
Tom. How did Professor Umbridge know her?

Harry wanted to ask, but then he saw a dark foul gleam in Crina’s eye. A dark look that
reminded Harry of Sirius before he told off someone. The eyes of someone who had seen
hell, and now had to deal with an insufferable yapping pup.

“First,” Crina said, her voice falling a few tones into something as chilly as a dementor. “It is
Frau Dimitriu, unless you prefer the more old fashioned approach as you seem so inclined in
this country. In which case, the proper address would be Gracious Lady Dimitriu, but I can
see that may be a bit beyond your capabilities.”

Professor Umbridge opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. The argument
had...escalated. It didn’t feel the same as before, now it felt more personal. Dangerous with
the insinuation that something bad could occur. Professor Umbridge was a dangerous and
petty woman, but that didn’t invalidate the fact she was dangerous.

“You are not permitted to be here, Frau Dimitriu. As you have so politely mentioned, all
international agents are required to enter the country through the Ministry of Magic, such as a
visa.”

Crina’s eyebrows rose. There was something uniquely amusing how Crina, likely twenty
years older than Professor Umbridge’s portly body, managed to look more refined and
somehow more youthful. That, or her ridiculous mink coat was less ridiculous than Professor
Umbridge’s fuzzy pink robe.

“How kind of you to intrude on governmental affairs whilst in a position of academic

purpose.” Crina mused quietly, “I do enjoy overachievers. Fortunately, I do have credentials
allowing me into this...country. Unfortunately I believe that information is above your
payroll.”

“It is not when I am facing an illegal entry to-.”

“I have filed all the proper paperwork, and currently possess the status of an International
Work Visa with the clause that I may work within any residential country of a patient.”

Professor Umbridge inhaled and exhaled so dramatically, Harry could spot her throat expand
and shrink. It was an inspirational sight, something the Twins had been trying to obtain for
the entire school year so far.

“Frau Dimitriu, on behalf of the British Ministry of Magic and her associated peoples, you
are under arrest on suspicion of illegal human magical experimentation, in violation of the
Dark Magic registry act of 1985. You do not have to say anything, however anything you say
may harm your defense if you-.”

What.
“I beg your pardon?” Crina blurted, eyebrows so high she looked thoroughly shocked. Her
eyes flickered to Professor Umbridge in legitimate surprise. “You claim I am under arrest by
British law?”

Harry noted that Tom was very very still.

He was too.

Crina was wanted by the Ministry?

For human experimentation?

“Yes.” Professor Umbridge shoved her chin upright, signifying the slight height difference
between the two even further. “You are wanted for the violation of human magical exp-.”

“Yes, I know.” Crina snapped out sharply, “I heard you the first time. Do you understand the
absolute rubbish that is that statement? I am the International Warden of your prisoners. All
unethical experimentation has been conducted by your people then kindly deposited on my
doorstep. I have documentation and research proving such a thing- you want to go to the
International World Court?”

“Gellert Grindelwald arrived to Nurmengard with all limbs attached. Information proves that
Gellert Grindelwald now lacks both arms, as well as his tongue-.”

“All permissions regarding human autonomic rights of Gellert Grindelwald returned to the
governing magical body of Austria, then to the Warden of Nurmengard, ergo, my abilities.
Your meddling itself is a violation of my own protected privacy-.”

“You have violated the British Humanitarian Efforts-.”

“You have violated the Austrian Public Security Act-.”

“You are wanted!” Professor Umbridge screamed. It was so shrill, so sharp that everyone fell
silent at the noise. Harry’s ears rang, Tom looked pale.

Crina silenced herself, looking taken aback.

“You are a wanted woman,” Professor Umbridge said, voice barely more than a hoarse
whisper. Harry’s heart thrummed in his throat, his entire body felt twitchy and fueled by
adrenaline.

Umbridge continued on her rant, “by the Ministry of Magic! I will take you into custody now
and-.”

Crina Dimitriu, Frau Dimitriu, the Baron ruler of the most infamous prison in all the Magical
World, snorted.

“I have better things to do.” Crina said coldly, “like taking a bubble bath.”
She turned on her feet, walked sharply in her high boots right into the fireplace, and flood
away in a puff of green smoke.

Professor Umbridge stared at the fireplace, looking stunned by her sharp departure. With a
quick twist, Professor Umbridge grabbed a nearby pillow, threw it, and screamed.

Harry’s breathing hitched as a strange feeling slid over his skin. Thick and slightly damp, like
a dog’s tongue somehow drooled over every portion of his body. Harry jerked a bit at the
unexpected feeling, looking to his side. Tom had his wand out, still looking alarmed and
incredibly tense. Anxiety fluttered in Harry’s chest; he wasn’t so sure it was only his.

A moment passed, then Umbridge screeched out a shrill Albus Dumbledore! She stomped
out, thick slippers flopping as she stormed out in a bright ball of pink. Harry’s breathing
relaxed with a sharp gulp of air, his nerves fried.

“What did you do?” Harry asked, looking spooked. He noticed that Tom’s hands were
justifiably shaking.

“A charm,” Tom choked out, “so she didn’t turn on us.”

Harry couldn’t stop himself from shaking. He felt cold. “A notice-me-not?”

“No, different. Stronger.” Tom shivered visibly, a small jerk through his shoulders, “older.”

That was...smart. Charms and spells taught in Tom’s era wouldn’t be used now, thrown aside
for being outdated. That being said, the older spells wouldn’t be readily recognized, or
countered. Umbridge clearly hadn’t noticed them, which meant that whatever Tom did,
worked.

They sat there, uncertain and alarmed and- deep down, Harry felt inexplicably violently
betrayed.

Harry thought that it was a bit nice that almost immediately after the shock in the Hospital
Wing, a nondescript barn owl was depositing him a small letter in familiar handwriting.
Sirius was more discrete now, but with Remus working alongside him they had created a
rather reliable system for letters.

It was nice, in that deep ache that Harry could describe as loneliness. Sirius was just reaching
out, trying to comfort him over an apparently stressful morning. Harry could only imagine
the chaos of Dumbledore’s office after Professor Umbridge stormed off.

Although, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sirius had known. That there was some sort
of...unspoken white elephant surrounding Crina. Sirius was terrified of her the first time they
met, everyone was terrified of her. Why?

Sure, Nurmengard was a deeply unsettling place. The Lupescu wolves were more terrifying
than the Horntail, because they were intelligent. They could outsmart you, outpace you, tear
you- literally, limb from limb.

Sirius had been afraid of Crina, not her wolves or the prison itself. She presented a sort
of...raw fear that Harry had managed to blind himself to until Umbridge screamed herself
hoarse.

Harry wished, not for the first time, that he could just...floo straight to Sirius and demand
answers himself. He couldn’t of course, but it didn’t help his temper.

The Gryffindor tower heard about his hospitalization; nobody was surprised. Hermione and
Ron seemed a bit more worried, especially when the only suspect was Tom since Draco had
been caught bullying the younger students late last night. Fred and George held true to their
promise, showering Harry with sweets from the Halloween feast and countless test products
that flooded only half the room with melted sugar.

The festivities were loud and warm. Soon, Harry forgot all about earlier that morning, until
Fred and George were throwing nervous looks in his direction.

Harry had cultivated a keen sense of knowing when bad news was likely to come. He liked to
imagine it developed during his fourth year at Hogwarts, with the Triwizard Tournament and
all, but considering he had been taught and tutored by a Death Eater the entire year posing as
a man locked in a trunk, he had a sometimes faulty danger-radar.

“I have a feeling, this isn’t going to be good news.” Harry said instead of a greeting. George
grimaced, confirming his suspicions.

“I’ll take over,” Fred assured his twin, stepping aside to shout over the chaos about more
Butterbeers. The crowd of Gryffindor students cheered, George and Harry slipped away to
the quieter study corner of the Gryffindor tower.

“Listen mate,” George started with a small wince, “we don’t mean to bother ya but-.”

“It’s Umbridge isn’t it.” Harry said, feeling a chill trickle down his spine, “it’s something
bad.”

George had the empathy to at least look apologetic before he offered his hand. Harry looked
at in, shocked and horrified by the silvery lines carved cruelly into the skin. I must not be
disruptive.

“Afraid she’s been doing it to all the houses,” George continued, voice low as he spoke
seriously, “Fred an’ I gathered a group of firsties sobbing outside her classroom last night.”

Harry’s hand twitched as he clutched his chair furiously.

“Ol’ Longbottem got some tentacles from the greenhouses, managed to whip up something
for students comin’ back with it. Already went to McGonagall ‘bout it- says she can’t do
anything with the High Inquisitor position.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, staring at the scars with a sick feeling in his gut. “All of her detentions
are this?”
“Bloody surprised you didn’t get one yet. Fred an’ I want to handle it, thought about poison
but too much effort…” George trailed off pointedly, glancing out over the tower.

Everyone was having a good time, laughing, joking. Throwing arms over each other, sipping
butterbeer and feeling young and free. And Umbridge was hurting them all and nobody could
do a thing to stop it.

If Harry hadn’t seen what he did this morning, he would have considered maybe messaging
Crina. Now, he didn’t know how to feel about her.

“Over ‘eard Ronnikins and Hermione last night, scheming about all sorts of things.” George
hummed, voice dropping quieter, “heard you held your own against Riddle and we’ve been
thinking the same. We want you to teach us Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Harry stared at George. His mouth turned dry, hands clenching in sudden unexpected anxiety.
He had never been so anxious before in his life, why had this suddenly sprouted now?

“We all wan’t to prepare ourselves, especially knowing that…” George trailed off. That Tom
Riddle is in the flesh. “...Umbitch isn’t going to teach us shite, and I don’t know about you
but it bloody pisses us off when ickle firsties are crying and bleeding into the bloody
carpets.”

George was right. It didn’t make it easier.

“If you want me to contact Lupin…” Harry began.

“No no, the Order is too busy anyway. Fred and I- and some others who have been on the
hush hush have mentioned your name a bit. You saved Ginny, did that Tournie last year, you
bloody outflew a dragon…”

Harry watched the festivities. Someone conjured sparks, likely Seamus given that the drapery
instantly caught on fire and suddenly two sixth years were desperately extinguishing it.

“But, I’m not a teacher, I can’t-”

“Mate,” George said soothingly, “I’m not going to pressure you. Sure Hermione’s going to
give it a shot, but I wanted to let you know. Not just because Fred and I reckon you’d be
good- the whole bloody school thinks so. The Claws, the Puffs, bloody hell Harry, everyone
talks about you when you aren’t looking. I know it’s…” George trailed off with a small sigh
through his nose, “it isn’t fun. I can't thank you enough for saving Ginny, but one day you
aren’t going to be here . Fred and I want to make sure that we’ve got a bloody shot . Some of
the older students, they know what this is like, what’s happening since you came back with
the cup screaming about You-Know-Who. They’re terrified mate, thinking they’re going to
be the next one murdered or tortured or watch their family die. This school hasn't taught us
how to survive that in classes and now that bloody bitch isn’t teaching us anything-.”

“I don’t know what it’s like in war either.” Harry said numbly. He said it, and instantly he
knew he had lied.
Maybe it wasn’t... right, to say that. Harry Potter had never been in a war. Harry Potter had
never known what it was like to fear for your life every day. To be so desperate and terrified,
so vicious and determined to survive he’d do anything .

Harry Potter didn’t know battle or war, but he remembered the feeling of thick blood and the
smell of iron and feeling his brick smash a man’s face in.

I didn’t mean to kill you. Harry remembered thinking. I’m a killer now.

“I don’t want to- to train an army.” Harry said, no matter how many times he swallowed he
couldn’t get the nausea to fade. “I- I don’t want to prepare people how to die.”

“I know that, mate.” George said quietly. He looked at the back of his hand, smiling thin and
dark as he traced the silver scar tissue. “I just think that- it would be bloody cheap if we had
another goddamn Lockhart preaching about shite he doesn’t know about.”

It would be a disservice, for someone to teach them how to fight and defend themselves when
they had sat in plush pink recline chairs and sipped tea all day. It would be a slap to the
memory of everyone who had ever fallen, to pretend that there wasn’t a war brewing in the
distance.

If Hermione had told him this, if she and Ron had begged Harry to teach them spells, Harry
would have always argued. He would have protested, been offended maybe.

There was something about George, who had witnessed everything as a bystander and never
had the ability to do more-.

“Okay.” Harry said. “I’ll do it.”

Hogwart’s schedule worked around multiple landmarks and timetables. The first weekend of
October marked the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year.

Tom had ignored it, and its subsequent weekend towards later that month. The next visit, the
third, was marked for the first weekend of November.

For the convenience of family meeting family- friends and siblings apparating and floo’ing in
to spend the day with students, all Hogsmeade weekends were public knowledge if you knew
where to look.

Tom often ignored it, he had few memories of Hogsmeade that mattered to him. He wasn’t
one for nostalgia. His finances were a conundrum that would not be helped through the
spending of knuts in a candy store, or wasting the afternoon drinking tea. Not to mention the
hike to Hogsmeade as the season became colder was irritating. He had better things to do.

It was only his luck, that the day before the November Hogsmeade weekend, a casual brown
owl flapped into the kitchens and deposited a letter on the table in front of him. He should
have known that staying out of the Great Hall wouldn’t prevent mail. House Elves had to
receive kitchen requests for banquets and club meetings somehow, even with Professor
Umbridge shutting down opportunities left and right.

The owl waited for him, pecking at toast he had been carefully eating in moderation. Ever
since Crina had mentioned his sickly appearance, he had been more careful with the
uncontrollable urges to eat and eat. The house elves were polite and respected his
uncharacteristic modesty with food. The owl did not respect his food, and proceeded to ruin
what was left of his breakfast.

Tom opened the letter, and stared at the words on the page with a sense of isolating dread he
knew would end poorly.

I know you have a Hogsmeade trip. I want to meet you. I can come to Hogwarts if you can’t.

Hogs Head Inn. 11:30.

It wasn’t a request. It was a threat.

P.S. What is your favourite sweet?

The morning of the Hogsmeade visit dawned bright but windy. After breakfast, Tom qued in
line before Filch, who matched their names to the long list of students who had permission
from their guardian to visit the village. It was a kind mercy that Crina had obliged months
ago, although this was the first time Tom had used said privilege.

Tom barely cast an eye to the caretaker, walking through the tall stone pillars topped with
winged boars. He turned left onto the road that led into the village, the wind tugging on his
scarf and making his ears burn.

It was still early, before other students would begin to filter down to enjoy their day. Tom’s
brain felt far too aware, a live wire that stung and pulsed at every flick of stimuli. He hadn’t
taken as much a dosage of Dreamless Sleep that night, terrified that he’d accidentally manage
a drop too much and slumber through his forced meeting. Instead, he stay awake in a
nauseous sweating bundle. Far too jittery and anxious to ever consider sleeping well. His
head screamed at him like a mandrake.

The sunlight didn’t help. The nausea returned, a low dreadful twist in his gut that made his
nose burn like acid. He hadn’t vomited, but he felt close to.

He kept walking until he managed to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. His leg felt odd, bare and
stiff without the normally reassuring brace of the cilice. Moments of doubt chased away by
biting metal. He missed it, the sharp pricks of courage he relied on when frozen stiff.

The main street of Hogsmeade was opening up, people rushing and bustling about for lunch
and tea. It wasn’t even nine in the morning yet, but Tom was determined to get out of sight
far before anyone could see what he had stumbled into. The earlier the better, the less eyes
the better.

The main street of Hogsmeade had a few stores he recognized. A post office with owls
readying themselves to fly away. A Joke shop stood proud on the corner. Slowly, Tom turned
up a side street leading up a small hill. At the top of which stood a small in. A battered
wooden sign hung from a rusty bracket over the door; it detailed a wild boar’s severed head
drooling blood onto the white cloth around it.

The sign creaked as he walked under it, pressing the door open quietly before slipping inside.

There was nobody inside, and great reason for it. The Hog’s Head bar was a single small,
dingy room that smelled strongly of livestock. The rank stink of animal sweat, the one
accompanying goats and sheep. The bay windows were so dirty that the daylight outside
could not break through. The room smelled of dust, lit by stumpy candles blazed sleepily.
Tom could not imagine a man of any standings ever setting foot inside such a...filthy place.
Doge had thought this out well.

The barman appeared, throwing a single judging eye over Tom. Tom had been careful to not
wear any sort of clothing broadcasting his status as a student. Even his scarf was a simple
dark blue weave. Nothing associated with houses of Hogwarts. His cloak was old, dark and
normal. Nothing odd, but still he could not help the suspicion churning in his stomach.

The barman was a grumpy looking older man. Old enough that he may have been around
when Tom attended Hogwarts for the first time. Perhaps that was why he seemed distantly
familiar.

“What?” The man grunted, frowning at Tom. It was so early, he didn’t expect any visitors
yet.

“I’m here to meet someone.” Tom said, voice a silent whisper before cracking audibly into
words. The man didn’t seem that surprised, but he did have the briefest flash of disgust. Age,
Tom learned, only bothered the cowardly. There was no disguise over what Tom was
summoned here for. If he looked for it, perhaps he would see pity in the barman’s eyes.

“Right.” The man said, “upstairs first door on the left. Rented all day.”

Tom hoped with all his heart, he would not be trapped here that long.

Tom entered the room, small, nondescript. Clean in an unused sort of way. There was a basin
of water to the side, an accompanying pitcher filled to the brim. A nice thought, since there
was no loo attached to the door.

The bed creaked as Tom sat down and waited. He stared at the clock, one so obscured by
grime he used his sleeve to clean it enough to see the minute hands. He had two hours before
he would meet his party. The room had been paid in advance, Tom wouldn’t be surprised if it
was anonymous. Unknown, a fake name. Another notch on the bedpost and a line in a ledger.
Merlin what was he doing. He felt- he felt like a cheap whore. Told when to arrive, told when
to leave. Meeting in places so filthy he didn’t trust to drink from the glasses. His thighs itched
and he was pressing firm into the scabbed skin there, wishing beyond words for the little pin-
pricks that would chase away the anxiety and let him bloody think. His sores were bothering
him, itching and gross with that wet oily sheen that pimples left behind. He would have to
deal with that soon- likely a side effect of the Dreamless Sleep Potions. His headaches, the
nausea and the slight confusion and disorientation. He’d have to deal with it; he could find
other potions that wouldn’t interact so badly like the Calming Draught did...

The doorknob rattled. One hour and forty seven minutes early. Tom had wanted more time-.

“You’re early.” Doge said, sounding positively delighted in that sick predatory way Tom
recognized. Doge didn’t look surprised, he looked...normal. Shockingly normal, a bland
overcoat, slightly muddy shoes. He had trimmed his beard recently, getting rid of any scruff
but the shadow was starting to ghost in. He looked like a standard unnoticeable person,
perhaps that was why he seemed so monstrous.

Tom shrunk back ever so slightly, staring at the ticking clock. He didn’t want to see Doge’s
eyes. He didn’t want to see and evaluate that gleam, or figure out how dangerous this
encounter was. He could survive this, then he could deal with Crina. Have her sort things out,
perhaps change where he was residing and get out of the Country. Escape from this- this
hellish-.

Tom flinched unwillingly as a hand gripped his neck, sliding down his throat stiffly until it
rested slightly under the collar of his robe. Tom inhaled through his nose. The clock ticked
slowly.

He wanted to leave. He wanted to bolt out the door, but he couldn’t. Tom had nothing but a
bad reputation already working against him. Who was he, a poor orphan boy with no money
and no family.

To those who knew, he was the budding He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.

To those who knew him, he was He-Who-Has-No-Name.

Doge’s hand slipped further down Tom’s collar.

“Don’t be nervous.” Doge said, prattling on other gentle complements Tom was not foolish
enough to listen to. Tom ignored him, stiff and unwilling even as blunt nails dug in hard
around his collarbone. A painful handle, jerking him bodily. His thighs stung.

“I even got you Acid Pops.” Doge frowned in mock concern, “oh, you neglected little thing.
Don’t worry, I wanted to surprise you so I arrived a bit ahead of schedule.”

Bite me, Tom thought. He wanted to chew Doge’s throat and tear the damned thing out.
Leave him sprawled and undignified over a grimy bar’s bed. Let him-.

Tom choked and yelped a bit at the unexpected manhandling. The mattress creaked and the
covers felt itchy on his spine and shoulder blades. Tom’s jaw locked, his protests and hisses
muted by Acid Pops gagging back his venom.

“Don’t worry,” Doge shushed him, mistaking his snarls for something more innocent. Or,
perhaps, Doge heard him and smiled all the same. “I’ll take care of you now.”

I hope you choke, Tom thought viciously, cruelly. Fending off hysteria and that raw animal
panic and pain - Oh Lord it hurt.

Tom blinked back the tears welling in the corner of his eyes. For a brief moment, he smelled
the pungent incense from a thurible; Tom felt the burning of herbs lashed tightly to the
bleeding whip lines across his skin.

“From their callous hearts come inquiry!” Tom remembered the priest saying, shoving hard
where Doge did- Tom bit through his lip not to scream. It had been hard to breathe through
the Frankincense, it was hard to breathe now. “Their evil imaginations have no limits!”

Doge smiled, cooing and coaxing more bloodshed and hatred.

Tom gazed through tears and snarled around acid candy, and thought whole and faithfully to
the Lord-

I pray I cut your heart out.

Fred and George were rather proud of themselves. They had managed a great array of
impressive tasks before, messing with Snape generally, but this was well done.

Hermione leapt as soon as Fred casually mentioned that Harry was entirely agreeable with
the idea of extra teaching lessons.

Hermione, in her naturally organized nature, casually compiled a massive list of individual
students and possible locations. Fred and George, having memorized every rule in Hogwarts
by their first year, double checked and assured that the Hog’s Head was open to students.
People just generally avoided it given that it looked like somewhere you’d pick up
pneumonia.

After Hemione made her list, Fred and George casually scouted the entire castle and updated
every student who had been wanting remedial lessons to the specific date at hand. Soon, they
had an assortment of students marching throughout Hogsmeade, trying to convene in one
very small pub just before noon.

Butterbeers sorted out, Harry stood and gave a very inspiring speech and by that it was not
very inspiring and Hermione took over. The facts stood at the end of the day, that Ginny
Weasley had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets and Harry brought her back. Harry
Potter entered the Triwizard Tournament and survived when an older student, hadn’t
(although the reasoning for how Cedric died was still a hot topic of debate.)
Harry and Malfoy’s feud was well known throughout the castle, enough that even the
younger skeptic students admitted that Harry likely knew and used more useful charms.

Everything was sorted out, a long charmed parchment of names was folded up and stored by
Hermione, now secretary of their little club, and everyone was on their way.

“All in all, a bloody good day.” Fred whistled, stretching his arms. George couldn’t help but
agree, until Fred patted his pockets and cursed loudly.

“My damned scarf!” Fred bemoaned, “I must have left it back at the pub!”

“Well why did you do that?”

“The Butterbeers were cold! I had to carry them, not like you did much!”

“Ah, that is where you’re wrong, my dear brother. I supplied the artistic touches to our
humble pub.”

Through bickering, they casually redirected themselves and started down back towards the
pub. It wasn’t that big of a detour- mum would kill them if they lost her knitting. Not to
mention she’d wonder wear they lost it, and that wasn’t a debate they were willing to have.

Fred slipped through the door, moving instantly towards the back corner where his scarf
wrapped around the back of the chair. Exactly where he left it. George couldn’t help but grin,
waving coy at the barman who looked resigned to their presence once again.

“Don’t mind us!” Fred said jauntily, “just forgot something! We’ll be on our way!”

“Wonderful place you have,” George added, “mind if we come back more oft- Tom?”

Tom Riddle, looking startled and slightly frozen stood on the stairwell behind the bar. He
looked...thoroughly surprised and a bit uncertain as to why the Twins were there.

“Why are you here?” Tom asked, voice slightly hoarse and quiet.

“Us? Why are you here?”

The barman noticed the increasing tension and grumbled quietly, fishing for a rag and a glass
that needed cleaning. Tom looked pale, unsettled and more like a skittish deer than a student
who had bloody cursed Harry.

Fred and George didn’t... like Tom, but they didn’t dislike him either. He wasn’t the one to
hurt their sister, he was just a (surprisingly funny) normal bloke that apparently had been
upstairs in the Hogs Head for hours.

“How long have you been here?” Fred gaped in surprise. “We were- we had a club meeting
here for an hour! Have you been here all morning?”

Tom’s eyes flickered around the pub, taking in the various people looking very interested
with the display. The twins recognized how this was a poor location for a scene, and quietly
stepped back towards the main door.

Tom’s eyes flickered to the door. They were bloodshot slightly, glassy.

Tom made his way very slowly across the pub, moving in what looked like a stiff carefully
controlled walk.

You see this? Fred’s wide eyes told George. He nodded ever so slightly.

They exited the pub, the wind caught Tom off guard. Tom had a normal scarf, a simple knit-
purl-knit in dark blue. It was wound around his throat tightly, looped over and over.

“You alright there mate?” Fred asked, forcing his tone to be light. There was nothing casual
about this.

George thought quickly. Had Tom been buying firewhiskey? Buying dark artifacts? Buying
drugs?

“Fine.” Tom clipped out shortly. He was walking oddly, stiff with the smallest moments of
hesitation. A small limp, the tight wound scarf-.

“No bloody way!” Fred barked out in alarm, face twisting in delight. “You dog!”

“No,” George gasped, catching on immediately, “ no- well, I reckon the hospital wing is a bit
tricky to manage. Better than a broom closet here, eh?”

Tom froze, turning into a petrified shadow of himself. Likely the embarrassment of being
caught. The scarf likely was hiding marks of his snogging. With how close the teachers were
always watching him, the best Tom could do would sneak away to Hogsmeade.

“Look at you,” Fred snickered, patting Tom’s shoulder. Tom flinched back, jerking at the
contact. Shy after being caught most likely. “So proud, little Tommy sneaking away to dirty
pubs-.”

“-coping a feel with almost-melted candles-.”

“ Stop.” Tom said, a low hoarse hiss. He didn’t flush, instead he just looked tired and pale.
The limp was suggestive, Fred had to bite his lower lip to not grin.

“Sure sure, anything you want.” George obliged, trying not to giggle, “oh! Heard from Harry
you like Acid Pops. Managed to get a haul from Honeydukes since Halloween, you want us
to bring them to your room or…”

Tom leaned away, looking slightly green. “No. I...I’ve lost my taste for Acid Pops. What
were you talking about for that club. Teaching yourself Defense classes?”

Fred and George shrugged, eyeing Tom with a small speculative look. They chose the Hog's
Head because they didn't think, ironically, anyone would be there. They hadn't expected
Tom to be up in the rooms above the main floor.They had wanted to make the club for the
sole purpose of defending themselves against people like Tom. That wasn’t entirely fair
though, Tom obviously came from a war period and likely knew how to fend off bigger
threats. Tom wasn’t on anyone's side, which meant he had two fights battling at once.

“I heard your inspirational speech.” Tom said tiredly, “seems Hogwarts has been busy.”

“Just Harry, mostly.” Fred said. “Why, do you want in?”

Tom paused, staring down the road. It was windy, his scarf refused to budge. Tom scratched
his right thigh over his cloak, firmly with claws pulling tiny tears into the cloak. Bugger of an
itch.

“...No.” Tom said finally. “I’m...confident, in my own spellwork. Let me know if you’re
learning anything actually useful.”

That was the closest to a nice Tom they’d get. The less he knew, the less trouble they’d get in.
It was the best of both worlds.

“Sure thing.” Fred nodded, giving one more friendly shoulder pat to the younger boy. Tom
said nothing else. Fred and George watched Tom walk slowly all the way down the main road
of Hogsmeade back to the castle, until he walked out of their sight.
 ex post facto
Chapter Summary

Where Dreams are fickle things, and too many people are crammed in a small mind.

Chapter Notes

SO, Chapter 15 (the next one) is the official halfway point where the story starts to shift
into the second arc.
I hope you enjoy!

Harry hadn’t felt happier in a long while. The day was bright and new, sunny and cozy in the
Gryffindor Common rooms. For the first time in a long while, he was ahead on his
homework. Ron, who was of course not up to date on his homework, was scribbling away
madly on the coffee table. Hermione had taken to bringing her knitting needles with her,
clacking gently as she spooled more yellow thread between her fingers and wove it between
her needles. Already she was a fair ways through another scarf, this one decorated with rows
of alternating bumps and stripes.

“You’re getting fast at that,” Harry remarked, finding the steady rhythm soothing to watch. “I
thought you normally bewitched your needles?”

“Oh, I do!” Hermione said, looking almost embarrassed with herself. Her hands stopped
moving, the taught yarn going slack in her hesitation. “I ah, I’m not the best with my hands!
It’s so much easier to bewitch needles, why, Molly showed me a wonderful technique the
other summer…”

“That’s pretty brilliant.” Harry admitted, looking at the scarf curiously, “a different sort of
row now, eh?”

“Yes!” Hermione enthused, “I was in the library the other day, reading about the Egyptian
expeditions when I ran into Tom, or rather he stumbled upon me and-.”

“What?” Ron asked, finally hearing what they were discussing, “Riddle knits?”

Hermione huffed softly. “Normally I’d argue about selective hearing, but shockingly, yes.
Tom stumbled on my work and critiqued my knitting, took my needles and started knitting
himself.”
Harry stared, unable to remove the blatant shock on his face. “He... knits?”

“Yes Harry,” Hermione now looked a bit upset. “It’s not uncommon, back then it was
mandatory for children to knit for the army. Knit two, purl one.”

“I dunno what that is, but why were you bloody talking to Riddle!”

“I wasn't! I was knitting!” Hermione defended, now looking upset with how the conversation
and the good mood had fallen apart. “He came over and showed me how to purl properly!”

“Because of course Riddle has to show you-.”

‘Ron!” Hermione shouted, throwing her needles and yarn onto the table. Her eyes were
suspiciously wet in her frustration. Harry understood it; Tom Riddle wasn’t always a cause of
aggression and it was incredibly frustrating to treat him as such. Harry had no doubts the boy
had ulterior motives, but he had simply joined Hermione and shown her how to knit by hand
more effectively. A rather noble gesture considering Hemione’s devotion to her house elf
cause.

The cheery day came to an abrupt halt the moment they noticed a small group of people
gathered around the Gryffindor notice board. The announcement was so large, it covered
everything else on there- the list of secondhand books for sale, the regular reminders, the
Quidditch team schedule, and the Weasley’s advertisement for new testers. The new sign was
printed in large black letters that looked similar to the wanted posters decorating official
ministry areas.

“The hell?” Someone said, scowling at the board angrily. “Bloody Educational Decree
Number Twenty-four? That bitch can’t even count that high…”

“Oh no,” Hermione said, looking at the notice with obvious terror. “The removal of all
meetings? No more Organization, Teams, Groups, or Clubs?”

“Like that’s going to hold.” Someone else muttered, although in the back Angelina was rather
viciously cursing about Quidditch.

The happiness that had filled them vanished. Even Hermione’s hurt feelings were washed
away by the anxiety and nervous tightening of her gut.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Harry said, his hands curled into a fist. “She knows. Someone
ratted.”

“She can’t know.” Hermione said instantly. ‘Trust me, nobody ratted.”

“We made sure of it too,” Fred piped up, sliding on over to stand conspiringly close to the
trio. “Spread some nasty rumors-.”

“-that we’d be ruddy mad if anyone spilled.” George added with a well meaning look. “We
think that bitch had spies everywhere.”

Hermione scoffed angrily. No doubt thinking of the illegality of that.

“Anyways,” Fred said, nodding to the board, “that went up last night. Saw it, Filch looked
pretty pleased.”

Ron didn’t looked pleased at that.

“What do you know?” Harry asked, “Is it because of…”

He let the sentence hang, everyone understanding implicitly what wasn’t stated.

“Likely so.” Fred said with a sad look, “we’re trying to learn more.”

Ron’s eyebrows lifted. “ More? How the bloody-.”

“We’ve got our own spy.” George sniffed, “taking one for the now illegal team. Meeting with
the queen bitch herself, seeing if he can weasel some information out of her.”

Hermione instantly paled. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, we did.” Fred sighed dramatically. “Who else has a bigger ego and issues with
authority?”

“ Tom?” Harry gaped, “ Tom is going to meet with Umbridge?”

“Willingly too,” George added casually, “mighty surprised by that one. Had questions for that
stern teacher of his.”

Crina? Tom was going to Umbridge with questions about Cri-.

Oh, oh no. Umbridge had clearly known Crina, at least in name. She had claimed many
things, generally shaking the foundations of what Harry knew of the woman. It was rational
that Tom would investigate further- pushing past to see exactly Crina was under arrest for.
Harry had no doubts that the arrest was fake anyways, but Umbridge seemed cocky enough
to want to share information regarding her.

Umbridge was...a source of information, but she was a bad source, one that had no issues
with giving out punishment that- according to Fred and George verged on the painful side.
Even Tom’s supposed religious self injury wouldn’t hold up.

Tom stepped into the office and didn’t blink. The walls were painted a horrible shade, the
exposed stone filled with plaster to deceive the eye into a softer look. Dozens of embroidered
cats peered out from little wooden frames, watching him with slit eyes and cruel expressions.
Of course, embroidery tended to be too crude to capture the true details necessary for an
enchanted portrait. For a subject such as an animal, the amount of detail was no longer
needed, and the legalities behind paintings no longer applied. Intelligent way to work around
that, and still spy on all visitors.
“Thank you so much for allowing me to meet with you, High Inquisitor Umbridge.” Tom said
smoothly and calmly. He took the seat offered across from her desk, the plump cushions sunk
around him until his feet were unable to touch the floor. It was unnervingly well done. “I
understand your schedule is terribly full, I am incredibly grateful for your accommodations.”

Professor Umbridge smiled, waddling to her seat before settling down daintily. The cats
behind her meowed curiously. She pulled out a miniature tea set from her side cupboard, a
similar design to that which Tom distantly recalled Abraxas flourishing many years ago.
Pureblood memorabilia, showing wealth and high class.She would be similar to Professor
Slughorn then.

“Oh, it was nothing.” Professor Umbridge tittered, sprinkling salt and chocolate powder all
throughout her tea. Tom’s nose didn’t wrinkle. He heard that the Russians put jam in their tea
and coffee. “I always have time for the concerned students of this great facility.”

Interesting play on words. Rudimentary, see through. Viewing Hogwarts only as an

establishment to produce results, not education. After having discussions with Crina,
Umbridge was a roe deer of intelligence and a dumb one at that.

“A service we are incredibly grateful for.” Tom continued, pausing to take a small sip of his
tea. A fancy brand, tainted with too much honey. “Your aid to our educational achievement is
unsurmounted.”

Umbridge looked pleased, but also a bit perplexed. Tom saw her eyes flicker over his
uniform, the bland unimportant appearance that lacked any tie in particular. Tom did have
one, but the plain black stood out more than anything else. By wearing no tie at all, she could
presume it to be laziness or forgetfulness instead of no house allegiance.

“Yes well, I do my best.” Umbridge smiled, fake and far too sweet. “Ignore my rudeness,
would you enjoy some cake? A tart perhaps?”

Tom couldn’t throw in a word before a house elf appeared with a small tray of cookies with
lacy designs. Umbridge plucked one, nibbling on it daintily. “Now, what appears to be the
problem?”

“I have been experiencing some...information barriers, much to my dismay.” Tom said,

careful to accept a cookie and eat a small portion. Making sure they appeared on equal
footing. “The teachers here are... reluctant to aid in my education.”

Umbridge hummed in understanding, “ah yes, the professors here are rather...liberal with
their beliefs.”

“Exactly,” Tom stressed, careful with his movements. “I’ve been hopeful that perhaps a staff
member would aid me in my ventures.”

Umbridge looked passive, humming as she took a sip. Tom knew that this would be the
careful moment, the small slip that would determine how the conversation would progress.
“I’ve been quite fascinated by the Ministry of Magic and the associative organizations,
especially since our OWLS are so soon and our scores determine our future.” Tom said very
cautiously, “in fact, I’ve found myself quite... stuck with future professions. It seems
Hogwarts isn’t helpful with discussing the Ministry.”

Careful, any further prompting would shift from casual into serious, and from there
Umbridge would be far too paranoid. Shifting the blame to Hogwarts created a new target, a
new aggressor to bond over. Umbridge was no different than a faceless matron, or a priest
looking for a victim of sin. He could twist them until they sang what he wanted, he could
make her cooperate as well.

“Yes yes, what filth.” Umbridge sniffed disgusted, “casting aside the helpful eye of the
Ministry. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if this entire staff team were found incompetent.”

Careful, ever so careful. Pushing the blame too far would inspire a furious fit where
Umbridge went to fire everyone. Deflecting too many people would alert her that Tom truly
didn’t care.

“I’ve mostly looked to see how the British Ministry handles foreign power, especially with
the close quarters last year with the Triwizard Tournament,” Tom said, despising that of all
time periods he had missed such a large event by less than half a year. “It seems so odd to
cave to the whims of lesser foreign powers. I was wondering if perhaps Hogwarts has a
European educational alliance?”

They didn’t, except the international board of education which Crina served. Tom, through
her, submitted his own tests and results directly to the international registry. Dumbledore and
other faculty gave updates, but since Tom had not selected to enroll in Umbridge's lessons,
she would have no way to know that.

“Those are all quite good questions, yes...I should look into that internship for that bright few
Ravenclaw Seventh Years…” Umbridge mused, fingers tapping on her cup, “what was your
name?”

“Riddle, ma’am.” Tom said respectfully. “Tom Riddle. I didn’t know the Ministry offers
internships.”

“Only to those with proper aptitude.” Umbridge smiled thinly, “the role of the Ministry is
quite important. It has seats available to only the... brightest minds, yes?”

The purest, you mean. Tom mentally corrected, already trying to calculate in Professor
Umbridge’s apparent blood supremacy. Tom could bluff, but without any sort of backing, he
would be claiming a title that she could easily check. Unless there was a reason why he
couldn’t explain…

“Ah, that’s very wise of the Ministry, I had no idea…” Tom trailed off, mentally counting two
seconds before continuing on, “forgive my ignorance. I was...not given proper educations of
such things.”

“Mmm.” Umbridge eyed him with beady eyes. “Muggleborn then, yes?”
“Halfblood, I believe.” Tom said, trying to focus as much false emotion into making his
acting convincing, “illegitimate. I’m quite sorry but I believe I’m not legally permitted to
state my family name until I am of age. I’m sure you understand.”

Umbridge’s eyes looked slightly more greedy. Only the more powerful Pureblood houses
would have such laws- Abraxas and Cygnus had explained the events of illegitimate children
quite happily back then. Under those assumptions, Umbridge could no longer look up his
family history, but assumed he was related to a wealthy or affluent name. Checkmate.

“Ah, yes of course.” Umbridge nodded readily, taking a sip of her tea. “Oh! Your question,
yes. The British Ministry of Magic and department of Education is independent of all foreign
bodies, with the exception of the International Committee of Education-.”

“I wasn’t aware that such a thing existed.” Tom interrupted smoothly. “How unfortunate.”

“Very.” Umbridge agreed. “Quite messy, all rude with how they- intrude on other’s
business…” Umbridge sniffed sourly, looking quite peeved.

‘Gotcha’ Tom thought victoriously, playing with the handle on his tea cup. “Forgive my
boldness- but has this...committee, intruded on Hogwarts? I could have sworn I saw the
Headmaster talking with this...foreign woman…” Tom trailed off, counting to three this time.
“Ah, forgive my tangent.”

“Oh no, by all means continue.” Umbridge beckoned, “a foreign woman you say?”

“With the most horrid fur coat.” Tom said, trying his hardest not to look at anything pink in
the office, “absolutely disgusting wardrobe.”

A cat meowed behind Umbridge, she looked quite pleased. “Ah yes. I know such woman.
The worst of them. Crina Dimitriu, a truly monstrous woman.”

“Crina Dimitriu…” Tom let the name fumble around his tongue, throwing in the slightest
burr of old Cockney accent to make it appear more unfamiliar. “That name...sounds familiar.”

“She has made quite a name for herself.” Professor Umbridge looked outright irritated by the
thought, “performing such disgusting experiments- why, she’s gone and gained glory through
discussion with freaks and -...”

“Surely Hogwarts could not have…” Tom paused, letting surprise and shock paint his face,
“not- not Hogwarts…”

“Oh Merlin no, Durmstrang brood that filth.” Umbridge sniffed angrily. “Do let me know if
you ever see her again, yes Tom?”

“Of course Professor Umbridge.” Tom smiled, nodding pleasantly. “I don’t mean to keep you
all day-.”

“Oh, not at all.” The woman near beamed, waving him on joyously, “return if you have any
questions.”
Truly, what a vile toad of a woman. Tom couldn’t be more happy to slip out of the room, now
having an idea of where to search. The Triwizard Tournament was linked between
Durmstrange, and Beauxbatons. Both schools had an ample history- one that, with some
research, could be uncovered. Hogwarts had its own old roster, and if Tom was lucky perhaps
that year would have a tournament in which every student would be recorded within
Hogwarts’ library.

Until then, he had an idea of where to go and where to look. That, and Umbridge didn’t seem
too offended by his mere presence.

Tom made it to the main landing, waiting for the moving staircases when a portrait started
shouting at him. “Hey! Hey kid! You- yes, yes you!”

Tom looked at it, considered if it was worth it, and ultimately ignored it.

“Oi! No, look at me!” The portrait shouted. A rather annoyed looking man waved a spoon
threateningly. The three puppies gnawing on a loaf of bread- the original occupants of the
frame, looked at the spoon the man was holding with obvious glee.

“Oh, shite-” the man cursed, hurling the spoon. All at once, the three puppies took off,
running through attached paintings and nearly knocking one opera singer off her stage. “Boy!
Look at me! The Headmaster has summoned you!”

“I don’t especially care,” Tom informed the painting calmly. “Perhaps you should use that
spoon to beckon someone else who does.”

The man gaped, and Tom began to climb the stairs.

He made it to the next clearing before the man appeared to gather help, this in the form of a
detailed pack of lions gnawing on a zebra. A few choice words and gestures from his spoon-
less hands, and the lions were roaring so loudly three clearings above Tom students were
clutching their ears. The lions looked rather pleased when Tom admitted defeat and began the
long stomp.

The stone gargoyle spotted Tom long before he was at the stairwell. The guard didn’t seem to
care for a password; the moment Tom walked close it leapt aside and used one large feathered
wing to try and herd him up it. As if he’d escape now.

The gargoyle watched him manage the first few steps before it very hurriedly slid back into
position, trapping Tom inside the spiral staircase. He wondered distantly what on earth the
Headmaster has said to inspire such rapid paranoia, but he was far too petty and annoyed to
ever reveal that curiosity. The fact he threw Dumbledore under Umbridge’s bloodhound nose
would be enough amusement for a while.

When Tom reached the top of the stairwell, the door to Dumbledore’s office was already
open. His room vacant with the exception of the large gorgeous Phoenix roosting high above
the study. The tall skylights opened into what appeared to be an observatory long since
forgotten, decorated with dozens of picture frames and the occasional bird perch.
The Phoenix tittered to him, waving its long tail feathers contently. Tom did his best to ignore
such a thing, it reminded him of gemstones: the more you touch them to admire the more
tarnished they become.

Sitting on Dumbledore’s desk was a stack of books. Each interesting in appearance, some
leather and other thin wood. Tom knew it was not coincidence that such books were stacked
within easy reach. It was not coincidence that the Phoenix watched him, likely to see if he
stole something.

Perhaps another student would dismiss the bird’s eye, but Tom had long since learned the
value of an animal companion. Their abilities and knowledge were often underestimated, it
was far safer to treat the Phoenix as if it were a person.

Tom sat down on the stuffed chair, briefly entertaining the thought of stealing Dumbledore’s
own more comfortable seat. He didn’t, because Merlin knew what caramel or lollies were
hidden in the arm rest. The bird coaxed him with a chiming song, the books drove his
curiosity wild but his patience long since won out.

He sat there calmly, choosing at some point to simply cross his knees and close his eyes. He
could accomplish far more by napping then he ever could by staring down a magical chicken.
Said chicken, made a noise of vague offense at his snoozing.

Eventually the door did open- likely when Dumbledore grew tired of Tom’s rebellious streak.
It wasn’t often he managed to win, but he had likely counted on such a thing already.

“Hello Tom,” Dumbledore smiled, looking a bit tired under all the fake appearances. “I hope
you haven’t been waiting long.”

Tom yawned pointedly. The bird looked upset that Dumbledore had left it there alone for so
long.

“Right, straight to the matter.” Dumbledore mused, walking calmly over his room with old
soft leather shoes. The ground still creaked, purposefully Tom was sure. A subtle shift to try
and cause him to relax.

“I would greatly appreciate if you were to skim through these books here,” Dumbledore
patted the top cover fondly, “and ah, perhaps mention if any strikes your interest.”

Tom looked at Dumbledore before he yawned again. “I decline.”

Dumbledore didn’t frown. “I insist. I believe these books contain many subjects you may be
interested in.”

There was something in the phrasing that shifted the temperature of the room. The
subconscious mention, the subtle play on words. Subjects that he may be interested in.

“So that’s your angle.” Tom said flatly, unable to remove all the ice from his voice. “Using
me now, I thought you had gone past that.”

“Tom-.”
“Tell me, Dumbledore.” Tom said in a low voice, nearly a mutter with how casual and distant
he felt. “Are you looking for things I am interested in, or things I was interested in.”

Dumbledore’s face didn’t change. So his future self then.

Tom traced the cover of the top book. Knowing what sort of bastard Dumbledore was, there
was no way to win this. Either he read and found something questionable that interested him,
or he lied and implied that he was h trustworthy already. There would be no way to play this
in his favour-

Unless he utilized a third party that had an equal grudge and managed to tease all the fields at
once.

“Interesting idea of yours.” Tom said calmly, picking up the top book. It was never the top
one- it would always be the second one. Where idiots placed the things they wanted people to
see, but to hide the urgency in which they saw it. A leather cover, painted with fading ink
over, if Tom was correct, actual human skin. Dumbledore was getting far too foreword in his
age.

“Where was the professor who tried to give me detention for transfiguring a desk into a
crocodile?” Tom said, clicking his tongue scolding.

“You know as well as I, that you were punished for attempting to have such transfiguration
attack a classmate.” Dumbledore said.

Tom smiled thinly, distant in nostalgia. “Black had it coming, you know that as well. What
really do you want me to see in here?”

Dumbledore didn’t wait this time. “Take a look, and tell me what it is.”

A bold play. Unfortunate that Tom always tried to stay ahead.

“I request my right to contact and meet with my mental health care provider?” Tom asked
sweetly like acid pops, “you know, perhaps you’ve forgotten her Floo address?”

Dumbledore’s face stiffened like a rock. “I strongly advise against Crina Dimitriu being
within Hogwarts at this time-.”

“Ah, Umbridge is causing a fit isn’t she?” Tom asked, eyes gleaming. Oh the hell
Dumbledore would soon experience regarding Umbridge. “How convenient that Hogwarts
allows students to leave for medical aid.”

Dumbledore looked at him. The Phoenix made such a sad song above.

“Alright, Tom.” Dumbledore said slowly, “you know as well as I how this will play out.
Remember, all actions carry consequences we cannot foresee. You should do well to
remember this, more than any other.”

An ominous reminder. Tom’s thigh itched and the human skin book felt clammy in his palms.
A constant eye watching him- because he was a feral dog waiting to run wild with wolves
and other beasts. Who knew what they would do if unguarded.

“I will allow you to meet at the current base of operations for a temporary amount of time,”
Dumbledore said stonily, “and I will inform Crina of your request. You must return to the
castle by nightfall, as well as that book-.”

“I know.” Tom said. “How else will you find your secret weapon that apparently I am going
to use. Or, perhaps, you’ve forgotten that I am not Voldemort.”

Dumbledore looked at him sadly, and Tom wanted to scream.

Dumbledore flicked his wand, tapping a non discrete bronze globe that lowered the Floo
wards. A small reminder, a pointed look-

“Nightfall, Tom.”

And with a rush of green fire, Tom was gone.

The tension was not gone between them. Tom knew that, as did Crina.

She looked better, healthier and well composed. Her famous thick wolf fur cloak was pulled
off her shoulders to reveal a surprisingly modest outfit below. Trousers and a blouse, a rather
progressive look for wizards, and Tom who still balked at the idea of women wearing
trousers.

“I heard your call,” Crina said casually, settling on the couch. It felt like forever ago they
were in this room. An entirely different life, when Crina was a stranger drinking wine from
he Black Family cellar. It felt different, wrong and tainted. Strained.

“I was supposed to read this book, to find the section which, presumably, my ulterior self
fixated upon.”

Crina’s eyes flickered to the book, barely hesitating before looking back at him. Her hair was
done properly this time. Her makeup clean. She felt further away, distant behind it all. “Does
that bother you? You’re an important resource.”

“I don’t like being used.” Tom said.

Crina nodded, eyes landing on the book curiously. “Take a look through it. Find what it is
that draws your attention, and then I want to take you someplace. Irrelevant to what you
find.”

Tom felt nervous at the thought. It felt like a trap- like something waiting for him to trigger it.
At any moment, Mad-Eye Moody would run in and stun him, haul him off to Crina’s cells
where his life’s ambition would be becoming wolf food.
But that wasn’t..right. That was the irrational leap of a tired overworked brain. He had a
book, and he could read and think about its contents on his own.

It took a while, but Crina did not seem busy. She had her own work, papers and files that she
sorted and wrote in at a pace Tom would find slow. He supposed, that her work had less room
for error.

The book was...delightful. Horrible, vile but fascinating. Curses to boil all the blood in a
body in an instant- the most powerful form of the curse he already knew. Potions to force the
transformation of various dark creatures, from werewolves to bastets to even changelings.
Curses to transplant organs by tearing them out, rituals to leap from body to body through a
form of physical possession. Tom wanted to horde the book forever.

He stumbled over the chapter, the ritual which made his blood sing. Tom did not believe in
fate, but the old yellow pages lured him in better than any siren. Sweeter than any love
potion- it was liquid sleep woven in paper with promises of curing his every ailment.

Horcrux , the page said. Splitting your soul.

It detailed a ritual, violent and yet not. It was written as if the act of something was...a shock
to the world. It did not fit with what Tom knew. What could possibly be so disgusting and
revolting it defied nature and allowed you to split the bare essence of yourself? What was
yourself?

The best belief, was that a soul contained every portion of who you were. Your mind, your
memories, your emotions and aspirations. Your dreams, your personality- everything.

But...a Horcrux. You couldn’t die if you existed still, a paradox that made nature collapse on
itself. Tom would be able to live.

He could survive by tearing off half of himself .

The book had never specified which portion he could tear out. Could he alter it? Could
he...pick?

Imagine, a world with no nightmares. No fear, or hunger, or shaking hands or memories

uncontrollable behind his eyes. No more paranoia and anxiety, no rising stress or dependency
on a potion which left him defenseless and weak.

A Horcrux, it would function far beyond its intended purpose. A Horcrux was made so it’s
owner would live forever.

But Tom...a Horcrux for Tom, would ensure he would never ever die.

They appeared, standing on round river rock in the shade of sprawling leaves. Under an
archway of floral vines and creeping fingers all hungry for sunlight. The sight already
confused Tom, because it was nearing late November and yet the plants still grew tall. He
would have thought the leaves would peel off, hanging naked and bare in the weather.

Yet, he noticed instantly how the temperature did not reflect that of the season. The slight
haze clouding the distance, clear glass separating them from outside where acres of bare
finger twigs hung on trellis waiting for the warmer spring.

“We are in Burgundy,” Crina told him, her voice distorting into a strange mixture of foreign
language and her native accent. It created an interesting sound, inflections on vowels Tom
wouldn't ever have expected. “East-central France. It is ah, famous, for pinot noirs.”

Her lips quirked into a small smirk, an amused light burning behind the unassuming shades
of her eyes. “And ah, Beaujolais, perhaps that is more to your taste?”

He didn’t rise to her gentle barb, instead he let his eyes roam over the shaded path of
archways and expansive grape plants. They stood in the shadow of leaves, hidden from the
migrating geese and glass walls above them. It was calm and private, the river rock soft and
cool around his sock clad feet. It must have been quite a profitable vineyard to ever afford
such a greenhouse.

“Why are we in a grape vineyard?” Tom asked bluntly; the portkey lasted so long that it had
to be an international registry. Something not easily acquired, which meant that Crina was
well accustomed to visiting this one vineyard in particular. He should have expected it, that
she’d go to terrible lengths to hop over to a wine business at her leisure.

“To teach,” Crina responded simply, almost taunting. “We are not in season but I believe you
have things to learn in light of your actions.”

His actions, of hospitalizing Harry Potter. Tom felt his skin flush hotly in response. A rage
burned at his neck and his tongue itched to spit venom. It was the knowing look on Crina’s
face as the older woman walked to one of the trellises, tenderly caressing the wood, that
stopped him.

“It is a beautiful thing,” Crina spoke reverently, going so far as to gently lift the leaves back
into their ornate braid along the wooden frame. “Wine, and vineyards. A balance few know.
It is…” She trailed off, mouth twitching once more in amusement, “much like people.
Simpler, but still people.”

Tom rolled his eyes and walked over, trying not to bristle as she ignored him in favour of
caressing her damned plants.

“Look here.” She pointed to one leaf, along the underside.

Much to his surprise, clinging to the lightly furry surface was a large, ornate beetle. It was
white with silvery points, a gorgeous carapace made of woven silvery fibers arranged like
fine lace. It resembled a praying mantis, long barbed legs with clawed hooks and scarlet eyes
atop its ornate head. Tom wondered how such a thing could possibly manage its way inside
the glass walls. Another mystery, like how Crina could bear to wear that thrice damned fur
coat in such a high synthetic temperature.
“How I love and hate these little creatures,” Crina sighed fondly, stroking one of her fingers
along its shell. It flailed its little legs, twisting its head around in a dumb instinctual
movements. “They are scaraboris. Little scarabs.” She grimaced, then shifted into a fond
smile, “the bane of vineyards.”

Tom didn’t understand why they were there. The air was too floral and the start of a headache
were tickling behind his eyes. Nothing new, he got headaches often now anyways.

“These little insects will destroy this entire vineyard by next season.” She said. “And by the
following, all the neighboring vineyards will be destroyed as well. These little beasts are
magic, you see, and muggles for all their good wine know nothing of these monsters.”

Crina slowly set the leaf back in place, rotating her body to look at Tom fully. “Do you
believe we should stop them? They are repelled by a grass easy to come by.”

Tom looked at her incomprehensible. “You brought me here, to do pest control?”

“No.” She said, rolling her eyes ever so slightly. “I brought you because I am curious what
you think.”

Tom stared at her, she traced the leaves hanging low once more. Some were beginning to bud
small fruit.

“These beasts are ravenous,” Crina explained politely. “They suck the juice from plants and
destroy thousands of vineyards a year. Magical, but muggles know not how to beat them
back. They sit, and wait for ruin unknowing if their home and life will succumb next to a
small problem.”

“And here we are,” Crina used her hand to beckon to the both of them. “Able to prevent such
a disaster, yet I never would. The moment I ceased these little Scarabis, I would always claim
this vineyard as mine, and although I do not own it, I would become protective of it.”

Tom didn’t like the way Crina’s words sunk into his skin. “You see, Tom. Perhaps I can
prevent this vineyard from collapsing, but I choose not to. If I did not visit today, it would
have collapsed on its own. My intervention only changed what would have naturally
occurred, this does not involve me, until I make it so.”

Her eyes were sharp, and she began to pluck at the artistic laces around the collar of her
shawl. “My venture in life is to accept the disasters that come, even if I could have prevented
such, because it is not my job nor my duty. I am not responsible for the fate of others, despite
what I could have done. It is a tiring thing, to know what is and is not your fault, but I remind
myself of these Scaribis and I know my place.”

Crina finally untied the laces, managing to pull the collar of her shirt low; dipping below the
collarbone on her left side until the inked visage of an insect came into view. Lacy white,
delicate with a crimson head and the capability of ruining lives.

“I have this to remind myself I could have prevented many disasters,” Crina informed him
gently, “but I know for my own mind, I never will. Perhaps I am selfish, but I always view
my own health and life more important than the health of those a stranger.”

Tom swallowed a thick lump in his throat. “Are you telling me to not meddle with the
timeline? To not help with- with the fact I am a monster.” To not tell Dumbledore about the
Horcruxes?

“I am telling you, to prioritize your life over millions of people who have problems unrelated
to you.” Crina interrupted, lacing the collar of her shirt up once again now that the tattoo was
no longer on display. “If you would give consent, I would like to offer one of my abilities.”

Tom’s breathing was shaky but he gave a jerky nod to demand more information.

“The methods of mind magics is rather...unstudied.” Crina began with an air of disgust, “the
methods of psychology even lesser. I can work for all my life, years or decades to instill faith
of your own image, only two comments to unravel my work like a flimsy sweater. It
is...archaic, to use words to undo bias on your mind.”

“What do you suggest instead?” Tom asked sharply, spitting the words defensively.

“I am a master in the art of possession, yet not in the way most believe the art to be.” she
dismissively flicked one hand, “may I have consent, to enter your mind, to permit you to
view the world with my bias?”

Tom stared. She stared back.

“Possession is to take control of another person.” Tom stupidly countered.

“No,” Crina shook her head with a huff, “possession is to impose your mind on another. I
have learned how to leave autonomy, but assist in my own thoughts and perceptions through
another’s senses. You would retain full control, but feel and know how I interpret and view
what you think of as unimportant.”

Tom’s face twitched, “that is entirely asinine. It wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

Crina’s mouth twitched into an all knowing grin. “Aren’t you curious, Tom Riddle, to see
how others see you?”

A curious child, a beast in the making but no more of a monster than that a wild animal.
Treasured, precious. Something to adore and study because for everything Tom was, he was a
chance unlikely to ever occur again.

An opportunity in the flesh, a single spark in a field of boredom that could revolutionize the
world. Change it on its axis, create something so unquestionably raw.

She adored him, praised him like one would a dragon. Of course she was afraid of him, but
everyone feared another because people had a predisposition to hurt others. It was only
logical that she fear him, because Tom Riddle could hurt others like nothing she had ever
seen.

She wanted to nurture him, coax him down the path of his own making. Either salvation or
ruin she did not care, she simply wanted to see what he would do next.

“Okay.” Tom said, brain feeling so horribly overwhelmed and buzzing bright with light and
knowledge. “What do you know about Horcruxes?”

The Quidditch team was reformed, thanks to Angelina having a riveting discussion with
Professor McGonnagall, who in turn went to Dumbledore.

It was a welcome relief, to have that sort of permission back. Despite Umbridge’s best effort,
she wasn’t able to take away the school’s proudest sport.

It was a foggy cold day when Harry keeled, hissing out in pain as his scar throbbed. It seared
sharply, burning more painful than it had in months.

“What’s up?” Several voices said, looking quite alarmed by Harry’s sudden pain.

“Nothing,” Harry muttered, wincing as his head continued to pulse angrily. The many eyes
staring at him didn’t help either.

His ears rang distantly. His dismissal obviously wasn’t the best, since Neville hurried to help
him into a seated position. Harry was lucky he was in the common room at the time.

“I’ll uh, go grab Ron.” Neville stuttered, hurrying off frantically towards the boy’s dorms.
Lavender was whispering loudly, eyeing Harry with blatant worry. That was nice of her.

The more Harry thought, the more filtered broken images started to come to his mind. It hurt,
because...because he was angry.

Tom though? or...Or was it him? Where had Tom run off to- was he hurt or in danger or…

No, Voldemort was angry. He knew that without being able to explain how he knew.
Voldemort, wherever he was, was in a towering temper.

Ron appeared, looking pale and nervous. “Is it…”

Harry managed a single nod, groaning at the vertigo that spiked after his sudden movement.
“Yeah.”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to still the swaying of the world. The more he let his brain relax,
the more he began to feel the after-memory filter through. An echo, or an ink impression
seeping through the darkness. A confused tangle of shapes, a howling rush of voices…

“He wants something done, and it’s not happening fast enough,” he said.

Again, Harry couldn’t explain the words coming out of his mouth, but they were all true.

“But...how do you know?” said Ron.

Little stars erupted behind Harry’s eyelids, dawning from the abrupt pressure his palms
pressed with.

Ron looked in awe, gazing at Harry impressed. “Bloody hell, you’re reading You-Know-
Who’s-Mind.”

“I’m not.” Harry snapped out irritably, “it’s...it’s more like sensing his mood. Same with
Tom.”

“Blimey,” Ron breathed, “can you do it on command? Like when you made Riddle shiv
himself?”

Probably. Harry thought, and gave a shrug.

“Well, give it a go!” Ron urged, patting Harry’s shoulder eagerly. “Where is that slimy
bastard!”’

It felt oddly backwards that Ron was so gleeful for Harry to invade Tom’s mind instead of
Voldemort, but he couldn’t argue it too much.

He drifted, eyes closed. He felt like walking through a swamp, each step sucking and trying
to get his feet to adhere further to the ground. Wading through molasses, eyes blinded like
wind-rush and rain splattering his glasses.

It was hard to feel, through the numb detachment of it. Harry’s head hurt in a clouded way, a
fog slowing him down as he struggled to breathe under its oppressive weight.

What was that? Something different? Something new?

“No.” Harry said, opening his eyes with a wince. The room suddenly felt much too loud, and
much too bright. “No I can’t.”

“That sucks.” Ron winced, “ah well. I heard some bloody good news from ‘Mione about that
uh, a place we could... go. She was dropping off those hats for those elves, Merlin she’s been
frantic since Riddle showed her that knitting thing…”

They named it the D.A.

And Harry learned very quickly, that they had a lot of work ahead of them.
Harry dreamed he was back in the D.A. Room. he knew it well, having scheduled countless
lessons with the rest of their little group. He knew it inside and out, all the books by title.
Somehow, his dream was cloudy and vague with things he knew so well.

Harry walked through the D. A. room, and then he wasn’t. The ground shifted, the tone
became whispers. His dream change…

His body felt smooth, powerful and flexible. More than a Hungarian Horntail. Fitted with
confidence and speed. He was gliding between shining metal bars, across dark cold
stone...He moved with such agility it was as if he were flying.

It was dark, yet he could see objects shimmering in shades new to him. Colours he had never
seen before.

He turned his head, and the shape of a man lit up in ghostly heat he could smell more than
see. A man, sitting on the floor ahead. His chin drooping onto his chest, his outline gleaming
in the dark.

Harry could taste the man, his scent permeating the air. He was alive but drowsing, dreaming
in front of a door at the end of the corridor…

Harry wanted to bite the man, to taste blood on his skin. He could not yet, he had to obey and
not indulge...he had more important work to do…

But the man- oh the man was stirring. A silvery cloak fell from his legs and he lunged
upwards, towering so high he became a tree. He was a threat, a danger, and Harry had no
choice.

He reared high from the floor and struck once, twice, three times. His teeth split skin like
butter, burrowing and ripping over and over until he felt the warm gush of blood…

The man screamed, and then he fell silent.

Harry’s forehead hurt so terribly. He turned, eyes flickering along to see the colours he didn’t
know-

And then he saw Tom, staring with all the horror and revulsion through his own eyes- a
mirror copy watching this mess and-

“Harry!” Someone screamed, and suddenly Harry woke up.

He could barely breathe, it hurts so much and his skin soaked itself with sweat. Harry’s heart
raced, pounding through ribs as if he could shatter them.

“Your dad,” Harry panted out. “He’s been...attacked..”

“What?” said Ron uncomprehendingly.

“Your dad! He’s been bitten- we need to- to got to Dumbledore and-.”

Perhaps Ron could feel the urgency, because in minutes they were rushing and meeting
Professor McGonagall halfway in the common room. Harry had never been so pleased to see
her; it was a member of the Order of the Phoenix he needed now.

“It’s Ron’s dad,” Harry gasped out, “He’s been attacked by a snake and its serious, I saw it
happen.”

Harry blinked and suddenly, time slipped away. He startled, alarmed and confused and- how
had he gotten to the Headmaster’s tower? How had he- he was coming from the Hospital
wing not-.

“Oh, it’s you, Professor McGonagall ...and…”

Professor Dumbledore was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk; he leaned forward
into the pool of candlelight illuminating the countless papers spread over its surface. He was
wearing a magnificently embroidered purple and gold dressing gown, but he seemed quite
awake.

“Mr. Potter had a-.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” said Harry quickly. “Mr. Weasley...has been attacked by a giant
snake.”

The words seemed to reverberate in the air after he said them, slightly ridiculous, even comic.
There was a pause in which Dumbledore leaned back and stared meditatively at the ceiling.
Ron looked from Harry to Dumbledore, white-face and shocked. How had they gotten here?
Harry didn’t remember anything from the walk, only the common room and suddenly here
they were.

“How did you see this?” Dumbledore asked quietly, still not looking at Harry.

“Well...I don’t know,” Harry snapped angrily. It didn’t matter “Inside my head-.”

“You misunderstand me. I mean...can you recall the perspective or the position from which-.”

The door opened again. An alarming sound considering this entire visit was sudden and
unplanned.

Perhaps even more shocking, was Tom Riddle slipping into the room looking ashen and
exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, in fact, there were small specs of blood along the
straight of his nose as if he had tried to wipe it off. Tom’s eyes had been watering blood,
likely from a ruptured vessel.

“Dumbledore.” Tom said, voice hoarse and raw as if he had been screaming. His eyes slowly
flickered to Harry, pausing as he took in the picture of him. Harry’s face tickled- his scar was
bleeding.

“I saw you,” Tom said, hoarse and crackled. “I told you, to stay out of my head.”
“I wasn’t in your head!” Harry shouted, finally fed up with the slow pace of everything, “I
was in-.”

“Her name,” Tom stressed sounding so tired and weary, “is Nagini.”

“Ah, the snake.” Dumbledore said quietly, staring at his folded fingers. Dumbledore stood up
so quickly that Harry jumped, and addressed one of the old portraits hanging very near the
ceiling.

“Everard?” Dumbledore said sharply, “and you too, Dilys!”

A rush of movement-

What? Harry staggered, vision flickering. He was... sitting. When had he sat? What had been
said? How did- how much time did he just miss then?

Tom jolted ever so slightly next to him, sitting along a matching chair. Harry didn’t
understand what was going on.

Dumbledore swooped down upon a silver instrument and placed it on his desk. He tapped it
gently with the tip of his wand. The little device tinkled into life with a gentle rhythmic
clicking noise Tiny puffs of pale green smoke issued from the minuscule silver tube at the
top. Dumbledore watched the smoke closely, his brows furrowed. After a few seconds, the
tiny puffs became a steady stream of smoke that thickened and coiled into a small serpent. It
slithered through the air, pausing before it somehow split into two. Both coiling and
undulating in the dark air. Dumbledore gave the instrument another gentle tap with his wand,
the snakes vanishing.

Tom inhaled sharply from next to Harry, staring at the device with something like... fear?

Yes. it was fear, because Harry could feel it.

Tom, for some unknown reason, was terrified.

 Carpe noctem
Chapter Summary

Seize the night, hold her close.

Mourn the losses you will always have.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

They were staying in number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of light were the
fire and a few spluttering candles set around various shelves. Kreacher was disappearing
through the hall, staring back with a malevolent glare as they watched him lazily. Sirius was
there as well, looking anxious and nervous as no word came by.

Tom too arrived with them, sitting the furthest distance away from the small group. Ginny in
particular had a dark aura around her, looking ready to tackle him in only her nightclothes.

“What happened?” Sirius asked quietly, a faint smell of stale beer on his skin.

“I..” Harry trailed off, glancing at Tom for a short second before looking back. “I had a...a
kind of- vision…”

Harry told them all that he had seen, though he altered the story ever so slightly. Enough that
it felt like he had watched the scene from the side. He ignored all mention of Tom, although
Sirius’ eyes flickered to him as well.

Ron, who was still very white, gave Harry a fleeting look but did not speak. When Harry had
finished, Fred, George, and Ginny continued to stare at him. Tom thankfully stared off in the
distance, the blood from his face having been scrubbed off long before.

“Is mum here?” Fred asked Sirius.

“She probably doesn’t even know what’s happened yet.” said Sirius. “The important thing
was to get you away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect Dumbledore’s letting Molly
know now.”

“‘We’ve got to go to St. Mungos.” Ginny said quietly, sounding a bit in shock. “Sirius, can
you lend us cloaks or…”

Everyone was still painfully bare in their night clothes. Tom’s looked especially odd, the pale
white garb of the hospital. Perhaps he hadn’t the funds to buy proper sleep wear.
“You can’t go yet.” Sirius grimaced, “I know, but if you head off now it’s going to implicate
how you knew.”

Ginny glared sharper at Tom, who was still blissfully silent.

“We can’t let the Ministry know anything about Harry’s visions,” Sirius continued, managing
a small flicker to look at Tom, “and the Ministry can’t know about Tom at all.”

Tom laughed, a curt ugly dark noise. “Wouldn’t want to send me to Nurmengard, would we.”

Sirius’s upper lip curled ever so slightly, looking a bit irritated. “No. We need to wait,
Dumbledore will have helped.”

“Nagini’s bite makes you bleed out.” Tom spoke with that still half pondering half mad tone
of voice. He seemed oddly out of it, not quite all there in a dazed sort. Harry wondered if he
had taken a calming draught before bed. “Stop chattering. He’ll be alive.”

“Oh, so you know that-.”

“Ginny.” Harry said quietly, knowing somehow the topic was sensitive. Ginny fell quiet.

For a while, the only sound was the crackling of the kitchen fire and the soft thud of Ron
putting his head on the side of the chair.

Harry’s stomach was full of a horrible hot, bubbling guilt. They would not have known about
the snake if not for him, but Harry remembered that vicious hunger and the taste of blood in
his mouth. He felt the urge, he remembered feeling himself attack Mr. Weasley...He
wondered if Tom felt the similar regret.

Don’t be stupid, you haven’t got fangs, Harry told himself. Going so far as to chew on his fist
anxiously, touching each tooth to confirm there was no wicked point. You were sleeping, not
attacking anyone…

But he had, he knew it and he felt it.

Then, a burst of fire in midair illuminated the room. Tom flinched back so violently at the
light and noise, he toppled from his chair to the far side in search of shelter.

Everyone ignored him, expressions lighting in joy. “Fawkes!” Sirius shouted, snatching the
letter the large phoenix had in one large claw.

“Your father is still alive! Molly is on her way to the hospital- good news!”

A collective exhale of relief. Tom very slowly recovered and stood, stiff and disjointed and
still looking disoriented by the flash.

Sirius suggested they all go to bed, but without any real conviction. The Weasley’s all looked
at him in disgust, so they sat up waiting in candlelight for more information. Tom too refused
to go to sleep, but once he settled into the chair the strange bonelessness to him claimed its
victim, and he collapsed into a small dozing ball. Harry had never known that Tom could
compress so small and unassuming, shockingly white and pale with the single spec of dark
hair.

Fred fell into a doze, his head sagging sideways onto his shoulder. Ginny curled like a cat,
but her eyes were open; reflecting firelight like a kneazle. Harry could see them, and he
watched as Ron collapsed and fell victim as well.

Sirius kept looking from each of his wards to the next, taking guard for unmentioned
intruders who may intervene in the waiting grief...waiting...waiting.

At ten past five in the morning, when Tom started to stir the beginnings of waking, the
kitchen door swung open and Mrs. Weasley entered the room. She was extremely pale, but
when they all awoke and turned to look at her, she gave a small smile.

“He’s going to be all right.” She said, her voice weak with tiredness. “He’s sleeping, but we
can see him later. Kill is with him now.”

Fred fell back into his chair, hands over his face in wordless relief. Ginny leapt to her feet,
running to her mother to hug her tightly.

Tom stirred, waking with a foggy dazed expression. Harry could feel it tickle the back of his
head, that area of his head that he had tested before at Ron’s insistence. Flashes of memory,
and strange sensation that he couldn’t quite recall. Without thinking, he scratched his thigh
and blinked back the unexplained taste of beans in his mouth.

“Breakfast!” Sirius shouted loudly, jumping to his feet. “Where is that damned elf?
Kreacher!’

The elf did not come, so Sirius cursed and ran into the kitchen himself, drawing his wand and
doing a tally. “Lets see, seven then- Bacon and eggs, I think. Some tea, and toast-.”

“Do we have beans?” Tom asked sleepily, eyes foggy as he stretched his legs out like a
sleepy dog. “I’m craving beans.”

Harry ignored him, and busied himself with the stove. Tom from the other room began to
meander in, stumbling into the doorway but managing to get to the kitchen table. Tom always
was an early riser.

“Tea?” Harry asked Tom, trying to ignore the emotional Weasley reunion in the other room.

“ Please,” Tom said, voice a bit garbled.

Sirius snuffled, looking at Tom suspiciously as he slid the mug over. “You have this vision
too then?”

“Mm.” Tom hummed, sipping the scalding liquid. Harry couldn’t understand how Tom’s
tongue could possibly survive.

Sirius didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t push it.

They managed to prepare breakfast, laying it out informally on the kitchen table. Tom
commandeered an entire small plate of bacon and vanished back into the living room,
perching deep on a recliner chair to eat it enthusiastically with the still-sleep-fog.

Mrs Weasley in turn targeted Harry, pulling him away to enthusiastically bawl her gratitude
for saving Arthur’s life. Harry managed a few gentle pats on her back before it became a
Weasley crying fest all over again. Harry ran off to seek refuge with Tom, nursing his third
cup of tea and amusing himself with a stoic Sirius.

“Sirius,” Harry said, feeling uncomfortable with the vision still, “I- I think the vision is a
bit…”

He stilled, then he told his godfather everything. Sirius accepted it with a calm face, nodding
along deep in thought. He looked at Tom with a frown when Harry mentioned the end,
having seen Tom and knowing that both boys shared the same dream.

“Did you tell Dumbledore this?” Sirius asked quietly.

“Yes.” Harry said, “I think that…”

“You should get Crina here.” Tom suggested, voice slurring with his exhaustion, “she’d have
a blast.”

Sirius flinched, nose wrinkling at the thought. Harry felt the pit in his stomach drop out.

“I- I don’t want to talk to her.” Harry said. I don’t want to be experimented on.

Tom squinted at him, then snorted quietly. “Right, no we’re fine. She isn’t...playing with us.
Wants to watch us grow and mature, like bloody wine.”

Sirius looked baffled by Tom’s words, but somehow, it reassured Harry inexplicably.

“Crina is fine,” Tom dismissed lazily and blearily, “she’s helped.” My mind.

“ Crina,” Sirius mirrored in surprise, “ helped. I didn’t know she could bloody do that.”

Tom snorted and sipped more tea.

Everyone began to filter up to bedrooms. Harry didn’t, too nervous that if he slept he’d
struggle with dreams and come awake with a corpse on his hands. Tom somehow sensed this,
looking much more alert and awake as the day drew on. With a scoff, he grabbed Harry’s
shoulder roughly and dragged him up to his personal bedroom, stripped sheets and
nondescript pillow and all.

“Sleep,” Tom said, sounding much more lucid. “You’re not going to go on a rampage, boy
hero.”

“Don’t call me that,” Harry groaned, but slumped onto the mattress and felt himself drifting.
When he woke up, Tom was sitting reading a book that he had decided not to take with him
to Hogwarts. They met eyes, and Tom promptly looked away.

“Go eat,” Tom said dismissively, paying more attention to his book rather than Harry. “I’m
returning to Hogwarts to pack. Your trunks are being loaded for you by the House Elves.”

Harry tried to process that, but he was well exhausted by the day already.

Everybody except Harry was riotously happy and talkative as they changed out of their robes
into comfier clothing and into more suitable clothing. They greeted Tonks and Made-Eye,
who turned up to escort them across London. Remus appeared to take Tom by one arm, ready
to apparate him back to Hogwarts to sort out their materials and various necessities.

“It’s because he doesn’t follow the Hogwarts Ciricullum.” Remus apologized well meaningly,
“he has assignments I don’t know of, so he needs to pack himself.”

Tom waved one hand in a mock friendly way before they vanished away. Harry allowed
himself to be swept along with the Weasleys as Tonks instructed.

They arrived in what seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of witches and
wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly normal and perusing out-of-
date copies of magazines. Others sported disfigurements like claws or extra limbs protruding
from their face. A sweaty-faced witch in the center of the front row, who was panting heavily,
whistled steam out of her mouth like a kettle.

Witches and Wizards in lime-green robes were walking up and down the rows, asking
questions and taking notes that hovering quills jotted down quickly. Harry noticed the
emblem embroidered on their clothing; a wand and bone crossed over one another.

“Doctors?” Harry asked.

“Nah, they’re healers.” said Ron.

They didn’t look anything like Crina. They looked more like...like smiling poster women
rather than the prim proper official Crina embodied.

There was a floor guide written on the wall. Floors separated from all sorts of different
injuries. Cauldron explosions (Neville came to mind), broom crashes, dragon burns,
uncontrollable giggling, vanishing sickness-. Harry couldn’t explain why, but something in
his brain made his eyes freeze on the Potion and Plant Poisoning (rashes, regurgitation,
overdoses, inappropriate applications, etc.) Third Floor.

They followed Mrs. Weasley through large double doors and along the narrow corridor
beyond, which was lined with even more portraits of famous healers and glowing candles.
More witches and wizards in lime-green roves walked in and out of the doors they passed.
Harry couldn’t imagine Crina wearing lime-green.

They entered the “Creature-Induced Injuries,” ward, where Molly led them to the appropriate
ward and room. Mad-Eye growled his approval as they found their room, slipping inside
quickly.

The ward was small and rather dingy as the only window was narrow and set high in the wall
facing the door. Most of the light came from the candles floating near the ceiling. There were
only three patients. Mr. Weasley was occupying the bed on the far end of the ward beside the
tiny window. Harry was relieved to see that the man was smiling at him, looking pale and
exhausted but quite comfortable on the many pillows propping him up.

“Hello!” Mr. Weasley smiled, beaming despite his state. “Bill just left, Molly, but he says
he’ll be back later.”

“I’m so sorry.” Harry blurted, feeling horrible. “I...If it wasn’t for me-.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Weasley dismissed it, “thanks to you, I’m still alive. Truthfully, I owe you
so much.”

Harry couldn’t help but feel as if the entire ordeal was his fault.

They whispered it once, and suddenly everyone stepped aside and Harry felt his world
change.

Possession, the idea that somehow, You-Know-Who had possessed him.

Everything slid into devastating perspective, crude and sharp and Harry felt it like a
sludgehammer against his head. Piercing him, grabbing and pulling it out with a thrumming
truth of I’m the weapon.

He felt it like poison were pumping through his veins, chilling him, bringing him out in a
sweat as he swayed while standing. I’m the one Voldemort’s trying to use. That’s why they’ve
got guards. Its not for my protection. Its for other people, and its not working. I did attack Mr.
Weasley, it was me. Voldemort made me do it and he could be in my head-.

He felt it like static, a rubber band pulling taught before snapping cruelly against his brain.
An electric shock that left him twitching through the movements of the train.

Something washed through his skull, reassuring and amused and irritated all at once. A hazy
calming soothing feeling that Harry had felt before.

He gasped, audibly enough that another train passengers looked at him worried.

They were looking at him, watching him. Harry shook his head violently and touched the bit
in the back of his head, the soothing wash that left his thoughts slowing and fogging.

Stop thinking, he felt. No words, but an impression that was equally exasperated and tired.
There were no words, or clear concise language. Only emotions, impressions, and Harry felt
his brain slow down under the calming wash.
Strange, when had Tom been so... calm?

“Harry, are you sure you’re all right?” said Mrs. Weasley in a worried voice as they walked
towards Grimmauld Place. “You look ever so pale…”

If Harry hadn’t felt such a cool wash, he knew he wouldn't’ be able to answer. Now, he was
able to think things carefully. “I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley. Just tired.”

She nodded, still looking worried.

He was tired, deep in his bones. Tom’s little cabby in his brain had lulled him to relax, like
the siren song of sleep. He was barely conscious when he wobbled to a couch, collapsing
exhausted along the cushions.

The moment his eyes shut, his body drifted heavy and aching…

He felt as if he had traveled miles and miles...it seemed impossible that less than twenty four
hours ago he was still at Hogwarts. He was so tired- he was scared to sleep...and he sunk.

It was through a film in his head had been waiting to start. He was walking down a deserted
corridor toward a plain black door, past rough stone walls and torched. An open doorway
onto a flight of stone steps led downstairs on the left...He reached to the black door but could
not open it-.

Wake up. Tom said, irritated and a bit pained.

Harry woke up, flinching away.

He was alone on the couch.

Everybody else spent the following morning putting up Christmas decorations. Tom returned
as well, lugging not one, but all of the others trunks behind him magically. His own trunk he
hauled personally back up to the bedroom claimed as his.

Sirius ever being in such a good mood; he was loudly singing carols that Tom scowled at
with every opportunity. Harry could hear his voice echoing up through the floor in the cold
and empty drawing room, he could feel the little buzz of annoyance and haze that always
seemed present with Tom.

Hermione appeared once Hogwarts was officially released for Winter break. She appeared,
chewing on her lip and wringing her knitted mittens worriedly.

Harry didn’t want to see her, so he casually ran away.

Tom was curled up in the drawing room, reading a book and looking thoroughly unimpressed
when Harry stormed in. The fire nearby crackled merrily, and Tom sighed in impending
dismay. “Should I ask why you’re hiding?”
“No.” Harry huffed.

He wasn’t so lucky to stay hidden. Almost instantly after, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione drifted
into the room to seat themselves around Harry. He would have pouted, but Tom was prickling
in the back of his head, amused somehow by the sight.

“We want to talk to you Harry!” Hermione said, “Ginny and Ron said that you’ve been
hiding ever since-.”

“I don’t want to talk!” Harry snapped.

“Oh come off it,” Ron huffed, “so what if you’re being possessed-.”

Tom snorted ever so quietly, turning the page of his book. Something about history in
agriculture.

“So...do you think I’m being possessed?” Harry asked Ginny sharply.

“Well, can you remember everything you’re doing?” Ginny asked. “Are there big blank
periods where you don’t know what you’ve been up to?”

Harry racked his brains. Tom stilled, looking suddenly very intrigued.

“When I was possessed, I couldn’t remember what I’d been doing for hours at a time. I’d find
myself somewhere else and not know how I got there-.”

“You can stop.” Tom drawled lazily, although his tone and eyes sharp. “It isn’t possession.”

Ginny’s lip curled back, Harry knew that Tom was prickled by the rudeness.

“Well, how would you know?” Ron asked, huffing at the sight of Tom reading willingly.

Tom rolled his eyes, stared at Harry pointedly, and then-.

Harry slumped against the couch suddenly; entirely relaxed and boneless. Ginny and
Hermione gave a matching cry of surprise, Ron gaped and jerked his arms up to catch Harry’s
limp body.

“That’s how.” Tom said, although his one was noticably strained. He was trembling ever so
slightly, one nostril beginning to drip a mixture of snot tinged with slight blood. He looked
terribly exhausted; the strange relaxed feeling pulled itself away and Harry found himself
stiffening instantly.

“What the- the hell?” Harry gaped, looking at Tom in absolute bafflement. “What did you
do?”

“You needed to relax.” Tom clipped out, although the weakness in his voice didn’t entirely
come out right. It looked like the effort was incredibly taxing for the scant seconds it worked.
“Any tenser, boy wonder, and you could crack a walnut between your-.”
“Leave Harry alone!” Ginny shrieked, pulling a wand sharply. Harry could feel the sudden
burn of paranoia, adrenaline surging hard in his throat-.

“It’s fine.” Harry blurted hastily, “actually helped. He’s right, I’ve been bloody tense. Sorry
everyone.”

Tom looked down, reading his book. His eyes weren’t flickering across the pages anymore,
instead, he closed them quietly in rest.

From downstairs, they could hear Sirius singing loudly “God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs” at
the top of his voice.

It hit Harry hard, how much he missed Sirius. The man’s delight over Christmas Eve was
infectious, he was determined to make sure everyone was having a good time. Even Ginny,
who was bristling with fury cracked a laugh as Sirius spent an hour hunting down Tom to
throw a Christmas hat perfectly to land on his head.

The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and
gold and silver streamers; magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets. A
great Christmas Tree, obtained by Mad-Eye, sparkled with live little fairies.

Harry awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of his bed and Ron
already halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile.

“Good haul this year,” Ron said through a cloud of paper. “Thanks for the Broom Compass,
it’s excellent. Beats Hermione’s gift-.”

Harry sorted through his presents and found one with Hemione’s handwriting on it. She had
given him too a book that resembled a diary, except that it said things like “Do it today or
else you’ll pay!” every time he opened a page.

Sirius and Remus had given Harry a set of excellent books that covered an assortment of
topics, relating from curses to charms and defense. Each book had amazing colourful images,
showing better descriptions than any other book he read. He flicked through the first book
eagerly; he could see himself using it a fair bit. Hagrid had sent a furry brown wallet with
fangs. Tonks’ gift was a small working model of a Firebolt which Harry set loose around the
room. Ron had given him an enormous box of sweets, and on top of it all was the beautiful
hand knitted jumper that Mrs. Weasley likely spent weeks working on.

With a loud Crack! Fred and George apparatted into the room.

“Merry Christmas!” said George. “Don’t go downstairs for a bit, it’s a mess.”

“Why not?” said Ron.

“Mum’s crying.” Fred said heavily. “Percy drama.”

“Ah,” Ron said, diving back into his gifts.

They got dressed but without any ability to head downstairs, all that was left was to head
upwards. Namely, to Tom’s room.

Tom was awake, since he arose painfully early right around five in the morning. He was
reading again, something that Hermione was curious over but Tom was very careful to slide
his books away. He shrugged off her questions with a blank “Crina.” and the subject dropped
instantly. Harry wasn’t sure what Crina Dimitriu may send her patients for Christmas, maybe
she had saved Grindelwald’s tongue?

“Why are you here?” Tom said, sounding a bit miffed but accepting of it. Harry gave a small
nod to Hermione who stepped forward bravely.

“Here!” She said, thrusting out a package boldly. Tom blinked then stared at it with a peculiar
expression.

Ron shuffled unsure, Fred and George watched with excited faces.

Tom picked up the wrapped present, staring at it unsure. He peeled the paper back carefully,
not tearing it at all. He stared down at the knitted material, woven in unique but recognizable
lines. “This is a blanket.”

Hermione shifted on her feet. “I knitted like how you showed me-.”

Tom unfolded the blanket, it wasn’t Hermione’s best work but it was rather nice. A slate
grey-blue colour that rested oddly between all shades of Tom. If you took Tom’s eyes, hair,
and skin and mixed all of the colour together and then threw it into a blanket. He ran his
fingers over the lines, “Knit one, Purl two.”

Tom’s face twisted, contorting oddly like he didn’t know how to make an expression. Harry
had never felt so much turmoil in his life.

“Anyways,” Hermione said, shifting uncomfortably, “do you know where Kreacher is? I have
a present for him as well-.”

Tom nodded very slowly, still petting the blanket with that odd expression. “I...yes. Below
the boiler I belive.”

“Wonderful!” Hermione cheered, “shall you show us?”

Poor Tom looked incredibly overwhelmed.

They made their way downstairs, only to find what seemed to be more of a den. Most of the
cupboard was taken up with said boiler, but the foot’s space under the pipes Kreacher had
made himself a nest. A jumble of assorted rags and smelly old blankets were piled on the
floor and the small dent in the middle showed where Kreacher slept. Hermione pulled out
another package, setting it down right in the middle of it.

“There’s that.” Hermione said, looking around at the various photographs of unnamed
people.
Tom was staring at the nest, a small frown. Harry felt it as well, a strange alluring sensation
that made his skin prickle. Glancing over- Tom’s arms had exposed goosebumps.

They left the room, heading back to the main entry room where the Christmas morning feast
awaited them.

The day passed wonderfully, so spectacular in fact that Tom even laughed in good humour
twice. It was enough of an oddity that Tom himself looked alarmed; Sirius swooped forward,
transforming into a dog to lather his face with his tongue in enthusiastic congratulations.

Crina didn’t appear, but at the end of the day when Harry drifted back up to his bed, there
was another package on top of it. He undid the wrapping, pulling free a book.

He opened the cover, not spotting a title on the outer binding. Written in Crina’s decorative
handwriting she said: I have a feeling that Albus will abuse you most painfully.

There was nothing else, except a thin silver chain with a twisted coil around the length
affixed below the message. It was clearly a necklace, but not one that Harry recognized. He
was too timid to touch it, so he flicked to the first page and read the title.

Mind arts, Defensive Occlumency.

Snape. In the kitchen.

Harry announced his presence with a polite, “Er.”

Snape looked around at him, his face framed between curtains of greasy black hair.

“Sit down, Potter.”

“You know,” said Sirius loudly, reclined on his chair casually, “I think I’d prefer it if you
didn’t give orders here, Snape. It’s my house, you see.”

An ugly flush shifted over Snape’s face. Harry sat down in a chair beside Sirius rather
quickly.

“I’m here on Dumbledore’s orders.” said Snape, whose voice was waspish. “The headmaster
has sent me to tell you, Potter, that it is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term.”

Harry blinked in surprise, before he blurted, “mind guarding?”

This time it was Snape’s turn to look slightly surprised. “Yes. An obscure branch of magic,
but a highly useful one. Curious how you came to recognize its name.”

“Well I got a book for Christmas.” Harry said, using one thumb to jerk towards the stairwell.
“On Occlumency.”
“You got what?” Sirius gaped, “from who?”

Snape looked at him with a sneer. Harry felt almost smug as he said, “from Crina Dimitriu.”

Snape paled, and Sirius stilled in the terror that seemed to penetrate him so dearly at her
name.

“You received a gift…” Snape paused, “from Madam Dimitriu?”

“What can I say,” Harry said a bit sharp, “she likes me.”

“Madam Dimitriu does not like-.” Snape stopped, choking on his hissing with a curt inhale.
“Madam Dimitriu is a distinguished individual in the field of mind magic-.”

“Yeah well, maybe you should summon her. Tell her she’s got a new test subject.” Sirius spat,
glaring at Snape pointedly.

Sirius’ fear of her apparently was well formed, because even Snape looked intimidated by the
thought.

“I’m uh, reading about Occlumency already.” Harry said, feeling very uncomfortable, “I
mean, I don’t understand much but-.”

“I’ll get to the point.” Snape said. “I will expect you at six o’clock on Monday evenings,
Potter. If anyone asks, you are taking Remedial Potions. You are to learn Occlumency under
my lessons.”

“Right.” Harry said, feeling something heavy sink into his gut.

The door opened to the kitchen, and in walked Mr. Weasley shouting out a delighted,
“cured!”

Snape sniffed once before he stood, and walked out without a further word.

“So...you’re cured? That’s great news, really great…” Sirius said.

“Yes, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Weasley, leading her husband forward into a chair. “Found an
antidote to whatever that snakes got in its fangs. We should be able to celebrate the New Year
at the Burrow…”

“Oh, don’t worry! Dumbledore went around and reinforced some wards- you can come visit
too Sirius!” Arthur cheered in delight. “A new year surrounded with family and friends!”

“That sounds amazing Arthur.” Sirius smiled, looking relaxed and relieved for once. “It
would be wonderful to get out of this blasted house…”

With that, arrangements were made hastily with the wonderful prospect of returning home for
another celebration. It felt almost like another Christmas- the Burrow smelling and feeling
open and free.
Almost at once, the twins raced off to decorate the home in a way that everyone found
comfort in. Molly hurried with large hams, thick butter tarts and buckets of potatoes. Sirius
shifted into his dog form and took off in a dead sprint through the meadow surrounding the
house, returning only when he had lathered up a foam.

Tonks came, dragging along her mother and mentor on each arm. The winter air and snow
was a welcome fresh breeze to the musty stuffy air of Sirius’ home.

“Come inside!” Mrs. Weasley shouted, waving a pair of hat and mittens as if the sudden
clothing would help the new guests. “Oh, I’ve already called Albus, he says he’ll be right
along. A proper party tonight!”

“That sounds amazing Molly!” Tonks beamed, shifting her hair to a bold bright blue that
somehow fit in with all the snow.

Harry couldn’t help the excited buzz in his chest. Christmas was wonderful, but a chance to
celebrate the New Year would be something even more spectacular.

“I got Remus to come by later,” Tonks winked happily, “reckon we’ll get the whole gang.”

“Yeah,” Harry grinned, finally feeling free, “that would be amazing.”

Grimmuald place was empty, and Tom was enjoying it.

Everyone had left for the Burrow, apparently staying the night and cheering on the new era.

Tom didn’t care much for it. He never had- he had even told Dumbledore coldly that he
would rather stay alone in the large house. Crina had given him a new book after all, one that
felt old and rare with the parchment of its pages. Yellowed and in some spots, stained. Crina
must have rebound the cover so it didn’t reveal its title, even then the book seemed
completely normal if not for its contents.

The book related to soul magic, the concept of identity and soul itself. The emotions, the
thoughts and minds and cognitive abilities of an individual dissected and exposed through
systematic controlled experimentation over all of history. A horcrux, he found, was the
process of splitting said soul and storing it in another vessel.

When Tom had asked Crina what a horcrux was, he hadn’t expected her to look interested
and said “I don’t know. But I will find out.”

For Christmas she sent him a rather amazing book; he would much rather read all day then be
dragged to somewhere else to pretend to enjoy festivities.

He heard a door open nearby, a low rumble of voices. Likely the last of his ‘guards,’ talking.
Tom wasn’t so naive to presume he’d be left alone overnight in the headquarters of the
Order.
The window was dark, masked by falling snow. The house was cold, Tom had not lit a fire in
the hearths, instead bundling himself in the blanket Hermione had knit for him. It was warm,
nostalgic in its careful stitches.

Footsteps approached, Tom didn’t care enough to lift his head.

“Tom,” Dumbledore said tiredly, knowing that Tom would ignore him. “I trust you know that
I will leave you supervised.”

Tom turned a page, beginning to read at the top once more.

“A member of the Order has graciously agreed to watch you for the night. I must be off, the
Weasley’s are expecting me, you see.”

Tom ignored him. Dumbledore sighed sadly; disappointed in his failures.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, “thank you so much, I’ll be back tomorrow I believe after
lunch.”

“Of course, Albus. It is not a problem at all.”

Tom froze.

He knew that voice. The slight shifting on his words, the shape of his vowels. He knew it like
poison in his veins or fumigation burning out his eyes.

Dumbledore walked his way away. Tom and his guard said nothing until the house drew quiet
from Dumbledore leaving into the snow flurries outside the house.

They were completely isolated, alone, fo the entire night.

“Hello Tom,” Doge said, settling himself on a chair directly next to Tom. “How wonderful to
see you again.”

Tom’s vision was twisting. His breathing was shaking, he couldn’t focus or see and he was
too aware of the heat of Doge’s leg far too close and-.

“How?” Tom croaked out; his hands were shaking so violently it was obvious he couldn’t
read. “ How?”

Doge smiled, cruel and sharp and finally as malicious as everything Tom knew he was. “Oh,
my apologies. My family is friends of Albus, you see. O’m the largest financial contributor to
the Order.”

Tom didn’t stop himself- he flung the book to the side, bent over, and retched right onto the
floor.

It hurt, thick and stunk through his nose. Doge crooned something soft, raking his finger’s
through Tom’s hair. It was quickly becoming damp, plastered to his skull as panic left him
wheezing. He felt disjointed, not entirely there.
“How sad,” Doge clicked his tongue, “I hate when you make a mess.”

“Don’t bloody touch me!” Tom rasped out, all venom and no power. Doge kept stroking his
hair. His hand tightened, grabbing Tom’s roots and forcing his neck to arch backwards with a
sharp cry.

“Yes,” Doge hummed to himself, a monster in every way, “I think this is much better than the
Weasley’s little party.”

“I hate you.” Tom hissed, teeth bared sharply. He couldn’t do magic, the wards would clamp
down instantly and know that Tom had attacked an Order Member. He had no alibi, no way
to call for safety. Maybe he could try to summon Crina, but at this late on a holiday there was
no likely-.

“I know you do,” Doge smiled, other hand caressing Tom’s trembling jaw, “it makes it more
fun.”

Tom was thankful Doge ignored his book, instead standing to drag Tom by his scalp through
the room. He really was an Order member, because he appeared to know the layout of the
house well enough. Tom could barely keep his feet under him, panting for air through the
panic and horror. He tried to puke again as he was dragged, but there was nothing left in his
stomach- it was all on the floor near the couch.

“No,” Tom spat, although he lost venom and quickly began to sound pleading as Doge kicked
open the door to his room, “no no-.”

“It’s a Christmas gift,” Doge looked almost offended, “you should be thankful.”

“I hate you,” Tom bit out, hating how he felt the tears trailing down the corner of his left eye.
Everything had been going so well.

“I know,” Doge crooned, pulling out his wand to split the seams of Tom’s shirt. Hermione’s
blanket was shredded, falling to the ground in unraveling strings.

The bed was once comfortable, and now it was his cell. He could scream but nobody was in
the house to hear him- Doge knew and seemed to make a game of how loud could be make
Tom beg.

It wasn’t constrained by time anymore, not like the previous meetings. They had the entire
night alone and isolated, behind the strongest wards in the country and Tom couldn’t get
away.

His blood was tainted and sour and he wondered if Doge was trying to bleed it out of him.

I hate you. Tom thought, vomiting and retching over and over until his abdominal muscles
cramped at Doge’s light touch. I hate you. I hate this. I hate everything.

Over until something chimed happily, bright little bells of New Year.
“Oh right,” Doge said, finally finally finally, pulling away looking exhausted and content.
“Happy Birthday, Tom.”

He threw sickles on the bed. Currency, like Tom had wanted it for coins and was nothing
more than-.

Tom curled up, hurting and hating and through it his brain repeated everything over and over
until he wanted to claw his eyes out and turn his brain to pulp.

No more. Tom thought hours later, barely able to stand through the pain. He moved on
autopilot, not truly there as he went through the careful movements of stripping his bed,
throwing it into a laundry chute that Kreacher would likely burn all fabric. He sunk into a
bath shaking and bleeding and thought, no more.

He came back with pulsing eyes, blood soaking as he pulled on new trousers, foregoing
buttons because he wouldn't be able to push them through the holes.

No more. Tom thought, and dug through his trunk he packed hastily from Hogwarts. The
thick bottles of potion hidden at the bottom, a jar as large as one Mrs. Weasley stored jams,
and he unwound the top with hitching sobs.

No more. Tom thought, and he drank the entire jar.

Harry laughed, watching the fireworks Fred and George set off outside the Burrow, and then
felt something wrong.

It was hard to describe- almost as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over him in
that temperature. His fingers were numb, not there at all. His vision was twisting, the
fireworks emphasized the loud rattling of his heart.

“Harry?” Tonks asked, leaning against him worriedly. “You okay?”

“I…” Harry swallowed dryly, when had he started shaking?

“Whoa there,” Tonks steadied him with one firm hand. “Panic attack? It’s fine, breathe with
me-.”

It helped, and slowly the panic and haze began to recede. It lingered at the back of his heads,
through the fireworks and the games and champagne inside after. For hours it lingered,
buzzing like hornets suck in his skull-.

It drew back, and then Harry couldn’t feel anything.

It was...cold and broken and so far and- it felt like a Dementor had sunk into his skin and his
eyes were oozing out of his skull and-.
Harry bent over and vomited on the floor. Fred and George cheered, obviously thinking the
booze had gotten to him. Tonks cackled, banishing it away-.

Something was wrong. Something was so terribly wrong.

“You okay?” Tonks asked with a grin on her face.

“I feel like I’m dying.” Harry said.

Tonks laughed, and then Harry felt his mind disconnect. He went limp a second, Tonks
squawking in alarm as he slipped away.

“Careful, pup!” Sirius cheered, scooping Harry up in one tipsy coordinated movement. “Too
much alco-.”

“No, Sirius.” Harry said, staring distantly at nothing, he couldn’t focus but it was so wrong
and- “I feel like I’m dying.”

Sirius frowned in confusion, then eyes righting in concern. “Harry-.”

Harry’s back arched, and he seized.

Sirius shouted, a table was cleared. Harry lay on the surface contorting slightly as his mouth
moved through rhythmic chewing on nothing. Fingertips turning to claws as his eyes blinked
uncontrollably; he went limp with heaving air and heavy confusion and- “No more,” Harry
slurred.

“Whats wrong, Harry?” Sirius said, gently holding Harry’s shoulder and checking both eyes
for movement, “is it him?”

“No,” Harry slurred, wheezing out in pain. “I- I-”

“Give him some space, Sirius.” Remus soothed, using one hand to rub Harry’s back. The
festivities had turned into a quiet sad thing watching Harry scared.

“No I...Tom.” Harry choked out, trembling like a leaf, “we... Tom.”

“Pup-.”

Harry couldn’t understand, but a little space in his brain was fading and numb and he was so
afraid and- “something is wrong with Tom.”

Sirius and Tonks exchanged a look.

“I can go check on him?” Tonks offered, “a quick pop over…”

“No I…” Harry blinked. He paled, turning ghostly. He couldn’t feel anything anymore. “I- I
think he’s dead.”

A second of silence, then people jumped into movement.

“I’ll take him.” Remus said, using one arm to prop Harry as Sirius hurried back. Mad-Eye
was quick behind, as the trio of Sirius, Tonks, and Mad-Eye rushed through the floo.

Once Harry could stand properly, he surged forward and with combined help of Remus and
Mrs. Weasley, he managed through the floo.

When they arrived, Grimmuald was in chaos. The kitchen, the room with the largest table,
had been turned into something from Harry’s worst nightmares.

The table was cleared free and covered with a pale white cloth. On top, Tom was sprawled
out spread eagle with eyes half open and clearly seeing nothing. Sirius, Tonks, and Mad-Eye
were sprinting around, fetching water, sorting through a huge bag of Auror field medical
equipment, and working on conjuring enough bright light to turn the room into a hospital.

“Merlin’s Beard!” Remus gasped, “what is going on?”

“Poisoned!” Sirius shouted, hauling a bucket of water to the table. “By God knows what!
Bastard was seizing when we found him-.”

“Doge was reading and didn’t notice a thing.” Mad-Eye grumbled, looking displeased with
the man.

Harry couldn’t explain it, but he spat out a sharp “Liar!” and swayed where he stood.

“Careful,” Remus said, his hand a vice on Harry’s shoulder. Harry needed to sit down.

“That connection,” Sirius said, dropping to his knees next to Harry. Mrs. Weasley was
running off, hurrying to contact Albus. “That connection of yours- when did you feel odd?
When did this start?”

“I…” Harry choked, feeling the panic come back.

“He had a panic attack roughly four hours ago.” Tonks reported in a stone steady voice Harry
had never heard before. “Only started vomiting and swaying maybe twenty minutes ago.”

“Fast acting then,” Mad-Eye grimaced, “Panic you said? May have been standard anxiety…”

“Wish we had reports from that damned Crina.” Sirius said, “you thinking accidental
poisoning? He was stressed and found something in here?”

“For all intensive purposes, we need to count this as a suicide attempt.” Mad-Eye reported,
fussing with spells over Tom.

At some point, he paused in confusion then stuck his hand into Tom’s lax mouth.

Remus jolted in alarm, but Mad-Eye purposefully lifted Tom’s tongue through all the drool
and cursed loudly, roaring out, “Tonks!”

Tonks flitted over, taking a single look before she paled. It only lasted a second before she
practically pounced on Tom’s face, lifting his eyelids by ripping a few lashes out in her hasty
actions.

“Shite,” Tonks said, “ Shite. Get Snape here now- this isn’t poison its a bloody overdose.”

“What?” Sirius gaped, looking at the grim-faced duo. “On what?”

“Dreamless Sleep I reckon.” Tonks said, scrambling to cut Tom’s shirt off. She left his
undergarments on, but slit off his long trousers. Tom looked so pale and thin with the long
black boxers and the translucent skin.

Molly rushed back in, Dumbledore in toe. He looked a bit sleepy, but no less alert. He took
one look at Tom before his expression went grave. He swept past Tom and the bustling
aurors, instead coming to rest before Harry.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly, “are you alright?”

Harry stared at the floor, “I felt like dying.”

“I’m so sorry.” said Dumbledore.

Snape came in the room, looking thoroughly peeved to be there. He carried a thick bag with
him, looking unhappy enough to stab the nearest loud mouthed brat.

“Overdose,” Mad-Eye said to Snape, who stilled only a second when he noticed his patient.
“Looks like he was an addict.”

“ What?” Harry blurted in horror, “what- but-.”

Everything came together with shocking clarity. The hazy actions of Tom, the slurring and
confused disorientation in the morning. The adverse reaction to the Calming Draught. The
way he was so confused and slept like the dead when they held vigil waiting for Mr.
Weasley’s medical update.

“Stand back.” Snape said, nearly draping himself over Tom. He checked Tom’s inner eyelids,
the blue-silver shade of the skin there. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, clouded over like
cataracts. Snape checked Tom’s mouth, pulling up on his tongue to see what looked like
mercury painted all along the underside.

Snape grimaced, pulling back from Tom’s prone body. “Dreamless Sleep Potion Overdose.
He looks as if he’s been using for perhaps six months. Not severe enough to have developed
narcolepsy. There will be a withdrawal.”

“What do you need from us?” Tonks asked, and Snape passed her what looked like a
restraint.

They tied him to the table, layin spread across the surface. His chest was barely moving; he
looked like an animated corpse.

Snape shoved something into Tom’s mouth, a lump of rock.

Then he reached into his back, drew out a small knife, and slit Tom’s left wrist. Tom didn’t
react, even as his blood began to sluggishly ooze in rhythmic spurts.

“This will burn it from his system.” Snape said, passing Mad-Eye a large vial of something
mint green, “force it in.”

Mad-Eye did so, injecting it into the split vessel. Mint green and blood touched and hissed
and fizzed like carbonated pops Dudley liked.

A few minutes, then Tom ached, eyes coming back to life, and he screamed.

“Let me go!” He screamed, voice hoarse and raw already. The bezoar rammed down his
throat had done some damage. “Stop- stop touching me!”

“Hold him down,” Snape said without mercy. Tom sobbed, the skin all along his arm began
to bubble from the inside out, the potion being melted from within Tom’s body.

Tom kept screaming, babbling broken phrases. His body covered in a sheen of sweat, boxers
plastered wetly to his skin. Tom cried and begged, and then he stopped and went horribly
quiet.

“Is he…” Sirius trailed off nervously.

“Not unconscious.” Snape said. “The antidote prevents sleep until its metabolized. He’ll be
awake for twelve hours.”

“This can’t be ethical.” Remus whispered, but there was no complaint. Tom moaned quietly,
the skin of his throat bubbling violently and his mouth leaked blood.

No more. Harry felt in his heart and soul. No more.

“Can you stun him?” Harry croaked out.

“No.” Snape said, and didn’t look at him again.

Tom kept crying, and burning from the inside out.

It took until morning for Tom’s crying to go quiet. Dawn was rising, bright light upstairs
although the kitchen remained warm from the hearth.

Tom had sweated so much the white cloth under him turned grey. His temperature rose and
brought a sickly flush to his face and chest. His ribs heaved, stretched thin on his frame.

“Why does he look so small?” Harry asked, his knees drawn to his chest. He had tried, but he
couldn’t sleep.
“The potion addition,” Sirius explained quietly. “It...wastes parts of you. Leaves you starving
but you won’t gain weight.”

Tom whimpered quietly on the table. Restraints shaking as he tugged them. Harry felt that
noise deep in his gut.

“I never noticed.” Harry said. “I should have noticed.”

Sirius wrapped one arm around him, tugging him close, “you couldn’t have known, pup. This
isn’t your fault.”

No more, Harry remembered feeling.

No more, Tom felt, and moaned once again.

Crina Dimitriu arrived looking odd.

Nurmengard likely had a different staff change, or a shift in rules about who delegated during
the Holidays. Crina seemed that she had not been at work, for she arrived wearing an exotic
silk nightgown with a gorgeous outer robe with beetle shells sewn into the designs.

“Where is he?” She asked, voice quiet for once. Her hair wasn’t done, instead it hung loosely
around her shoulders and the top of her breasts. She walked in large boots, thick fur trimmed
with an accompanying large trenchcoat. It looked like caribou fur, but she shed it at the door
instantly.

“This way,” Sirius directed, shying away from her touch at first. After a second, he let her
wind her arm over his, gently guiding her through the house.

Tom looked horrible, still restrained but only on his arms. His legs hung free, curled up to his
chest as fetal as he could get.

Tom opened his eyes slowly as they entered the kitchen. He looked exhausted, the bags under
his eyes dark and purpling. A blanket lay over him, stopping some of the chill.

“Oh Tom.” Crina said at the sight of him. She looked horribly exposed, just as Tom was.
“How I have failed you.”

Tom had nothing to say to her, so he looked away and stay silent.

“We found him after midnight,” Sirius explained quietly. “Harry sensed something wrong, we
came over and found him seizing in his bed.”

Crina nodded, her hair swishing around her neck. Harry spotted what looked like a dark stain
on her collar- his first thought was that it was a Dark Mark; Crina shifted one arm and more
fabric fell away to reveal a carefully tattooed beetle along her skin.
 “Oh Tom.” Crina said, not filled with pity but instead a horrible sort of understanding. “Why
have you chosen this?”

Tom’s emotions spiked so loud, that Harry twitched as the boy burst out a hacking sort of
dark laughter.

It didn’t end, twisting upwards into hoarse hysteria as his eyes welled once more, legs
kicking under the blanket uncoordinated.

“You think I chose this?” Tom asked, sounding wild and feral.

Crina’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but by then Tom was laughing and sobbing and
speaking some sort of religious phrase with a keen cry of “You brood of vipers, how can you
who are evil say anything good? For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of. A good man
brings good things out of the good stored up in him, and an evil man brings evil things out of
the evil stored in him!”

Sirius looked at Crina apologetically, “he’s been...saying things like that a lot. I didn’t
understand it all.”

Crina looked at Tom pained, as if his very image was one of agony to view.

“Tom,” Crina said gently with the care of one on thin ice. “What have you decided then? In
that mind of yours-.”

“I have decided,” Tom laughed, hacking noises like a vulture over a new kill, “I am done.”

Harry looked up at breakfast, met the eyes of Doge- the man who had been watching Tom
when he overdosed.

Harry met Doge’s eyes, saw his polite smile, and something inside him welled to life.

Harry’s hand tightened on his fork and knife, rage sputtered to life like on of Mr. Weasley’s
salvaged muggle motors.

With a firm resolution Harry didn’t know, he promised, “I promise, I will kill you.”

Doge balked, looking baffled as he said, “whatever for?”

Harry didn’t know.

Chapter End Notes

End of Part 1
 Speak of the devil-
Chapter Summary

The interlude, where Tom realizes his priorities and his desire to survive

Chapter Notes

An interlude, to set the scene and begin the arc of the latter half of the story.
Hopefully, the shift in personality and perspective is obvious enough for all of you.
Enjoy this chaotic self indulgent chapter.

“I thought you’d like to talk this time.”

Tom scoffed. Air whistling through his nose lightly. Sterile, bored and dry. “ This time? Not
the other twenty?”

Crina Dimitriu smiled thinly. Her expression proper and clean, professional as it had been in
the last mandatory counseling sessions. “I thought we could perhaps try a different
approach.”

Tom Riddle in contrast, looked like shite.

It wasn’t easy to remain attractive in his circumstances. In fact, Crina was hard pressed to
find anything positive about his appearance. Tom Riddle’s hair was clean, granted, but he had
clawed out a good portion of hair from his scalp just above the nape of his neck. Those
bandages were secured and forced to heal the slow muggle way due to unfortunate drug and
potion interactions. The bags under his eyes were swollen and raw, minor bruising spanning
downwards like angry hives. Small burst vessels on his cornea gave one eye a permanent red
splash every time he looked to his left. His nose, inflamed and sniffling, was the least of his
worries.

“You look better,” Crina said, “how is your vision?”

Tom glared, cheek twitching at the question. It was a remarkable blow to his pride, the entire
situation. Crina did the best she could, but even she couldn’t intervene and get him softer
clothing.

“Fine.”
“That’s good to hear. It would be much easier if you consented to a brain check, that level of
potion use could have severely damaged-.”

“I said no. I refuse.”

Tom had been one of Crina’s worst patients. The boy was far too educated for Crina to sneak
any sort of compliance out of him; he refused every test back and forth beyond the original
check which affirmed that yes, he had somehow been an extensive user of Dreamless Sleep
Potions. She wasn’t naive or gullible to think that there was nothing else wrong with Tom.
The boy continued to prove that he was inconceivably stubborn.

The Dreamless Sleep Potion was a remarkably useful tool. Unfortunately, due to its fame and
multi purpose use, it rated high statistically for dependency, and addiction. Crina couldn’t
fathom how the boy had access to such high quantities, she was adamant that he be given less
than the standardized prescription so many months ago, but Tom was resourceful.

Detox had not been pretty. Crina knew that she could not handle a medical emergency of that
caliber on her own. When he found Tom, having gone through a first seizure, she instantly
took him to the single medical facility that ran concurrently to Nurmengard. The
documentation files could be dismissed as an international hassle, procrastinated long enough
so that Tom would be discharged before the facility ever learned he technically never existed.
Tom was her client; Crina had the forms and registry accurate to how the facility normally
saw her inmates and personal clients. In their eyes, Tom was another experimental study for a
possible new publication and happened to need detox. The running rumor likely implicated
her for giving Tom said addiction, but the facility had never publicly announced anything yet.

“I want to talk, Tom.” Crina said. “Just talk.”

Tom glared at her, crossing his arms. He was so thin, so malnourished. The addiction had
wrought his body but he had disguised it well.

“There are...numerous theories in my field, generally applicable to all stages of cognitive

abilities. I find myself...struggling, in circles over the rationale as to why.”

“Why what?” Tom said, voice remarkably flat. His skin prickled with goosebumps. Crina
would have requested a blanket but she knew Tom would storm off offended if she did. He
was a very fragile client. “Why did I become an addict?”

He stressed the word viciously. Disdain and hate souring his tone. His lips curled disgusted-
they were chapped and bleeding from the edges. Crina knew he was malnourished and
dehydrated, but she was desperate for another medical examination.

“I think…” Crina paused, “I think that you are...unsure of yourself. Your concept of identity
was still in the making, and your appearance here halted that development and threw you into
a state of distress. Chaos, emotional imbalances, and you used the potions as a crutch for
your trauma instead of healthier coping mechanisms.”

Tom looked at her, and crossed one leg. Heel over knee, the write trousers riding up over his
white wool socks as he watched her impassively. “Tell me more.”
“I believe that you refused to search for healthier coping mechanisms, because that would
require consulting an external force. It would mean validating your trauma and requiring
input or a different way to express yourself. You didn’t want anyone to know you were sick,
so you self medicated as a way to remain functional.”

“Who says I wanted to stay functional?” Tom asked, eyes glassy but still containing every bit
of venom as if he shouted.

“The choice in potion. If you...Dreamless Sleep Potions don’t create sensations of extended
euphoria as other addictive substances do. In exception to your religious devotion, you’ve
displayed no other signs of physical self destructiveness, however you display numerous
symptoms of extended religious…”

“You can say it.” Tom said. “They tried to carve the devil out of my back.”

Crina’s mouth tightened. Tom looked at her, intrigued and furious but calm. Remarkable self
control, despite the sweating and fever and the very sporadic seizure as his body acclimated.

“Yes. That.”

Tom smiled, his teeth white but tongue swollen and raw. The silvery skin had sloughed itself
away painfully. “I’d dare say it worked. That, or the whipping. Or the burning-.”

“That aside-.”

“Does that bother you?” Tom asked. He looked at her, head tilted ever so slightly. He hadn’t
blinked. “You seem... tense.”

Crina was tense. Everything about Tom felt unusual, completely different than before. It was
possible his psyche was fragmented after an accidental overdose, but even then small tics
gave themselves away. He seemed too calm, too at peace. He appeared, almost as if the
original trauma which inspired the addiction had somehow resolved itself. Tom smiled, cruel
and predatory, but entirely lucid. After the original detox began to wane, and his begging and
screaming quieted- something new had crawled its way out of his flesh.

“I am uncomfortable.” Crina admitted with grace. “This conversation is...peculiar to me. I

don’t entirely comprehend your perspective.”

Tom hummed flatly, rubbing one bony thumb over the protruding knob of his ankle. He
wiggled his toes, shifting on his chair just enough to let it squeak. “Who was your first
patient, Madam Dimitriu?”

Crina stilled, then slowly closed her file. She had no further need to be writing, this
conversation was one where no new notes would be made. She set her folder down, wishing
beyond words that alcohol was permitted within the building. “Why do you want to know?”

“I find it interesting how you came to be.” Tom murmured. “You speak so much of identity
and I’ve come to realize I know so little about yours. Your first patient...would he perhaps be
the one within your first article?’
“How flattering, that you’ve researched me so.”

Tom smiled, fake and plastic. “I like to be informed. What was his name? Daniel? David?
Darius?”

Crina hummed, nodding slowly. “David. He was held within the Romanian Department of
Muggle Majik, or farmece. His court sentencing allotted a lifetime imprisonment, however
upon agreement he consented to my research.”

Tom didn’t look surprised in any way. He had read the article, she knew this. It was not her
finest work, but it was her stepping stone into qualifications that led her to where she was
now.

“And if you would be so generous…” Tom said, “what was the purpose of your study?”

“The article detailed my research as to psychotic episodes in muggles due to magical

presences.”

Tom smiled. “Would you tell me your article?”

Crina looked at him, considered his request, and began to talk. It had been a long time since
anyone showed interest in her starting case. She had thought it drifted out from memory by
now.

“David was imprisoned in a prison within Romania. A ward dedicated to squibs and Muggles
involved with wizarding affairs. David had been found guilt of murder, of his wife Maria- a
witch. He had killed her through strangulation and assaulted her post-mortem.”

“How tragic.” said Tom. “this muggle, it was a...lapse of sanity?”

“To a degree.” Crina said slowly. “The article and my research primarily focused on the
behavioural motivation, the question of why, not what. ”

“And why was that?” Tom asked, “why would a muggle strangle his wife to death? How long
ago was this?”

“Nearly thirty years ago.” Crina said after a small moment of pause. “I conducted my
research and interview approximately fifteen years ago. My findings were that muggles pose
no instinctual psychological threat to wizarding society. David was a single exceptional case.
My work then gained attention-...”

“ How was David exceptional?” Tom said, musing in thought. “Of all ways, strangulation.
Intimate, a loving way to kill.”

“Well…” Crina paused, “there are numerous theories-.”

“No Madam Dimitiu, I want to hear your thoughts. What did this man tell you? What demons
did he hear whispering in his ear?”
“I wouldn’t know. I was unable to confirm any solid rationale. David committed suicide in a
tragic accident after my article was published. I met for a follow up interview and he agreed
to explain at a later time, but he passed shortly afterwards.”

Tom smiled, and slowly uncrossed his legs. “I would have loved to hear what drove that man
to such actions.”

Crina said, “so would I.”

“You told me once that your mother enjoyed wine,” Tom said, breaking the silence sharply
with a single sentence. “When you took me to visit a vineyard.”

“Yes,” Crina agreed. “My family enjoyed wine a fair amount. My mother taught me how to
drink it properly.”

“I never knew my mother.” Tom said. “Apparently, she was an addict.”

“Genetic predisposition- a hereditary factor is common. I myself inherited a few as well,

alcoholism, dementia. Modern magical medicine has done wonders in the presence of
disease.”

“Except it appears potions created me.” Tom said dryly. “Do you think highly of your family,
Madam Dimitriu?”

Crina paused in thought. She folded her hands carefully, Tom watching her with an
intelligence only found in others of her field. He was a genius, but he showed aptitude
beyond her. She had little doubt he would struggle with Legilimency, of other mind arts. He
seemed keen to it, innately understanding others before they knew themselves.

“I owe much to my family.” Crina admitted. “I love them very much.”

“Some people imagine that I am beyond love.” Tom said, “that I am incapable of it. I believe
the idea was...those conceived under a love potion cannot love.”

“Ah,” Crina said. “You found that article as well.”

Tom hummed flatly. “You were proven wrong quite terribly so, Madam Dimitriu. All those
years with those poor children, far and few between. Was it the first time you’ve been
wrong?”

“I wanted to determine the effects of love potions on emotional abilities. Hormone regulators,
other chemicals. The opportunity revealed itself and the theory at large felt reasonable.”
Crina admitted with the smallest flare of guilt. “I was wrong. The evidence suggested
otherwise. Love potion conceptions had no altered fetal development.”

“What a relief.” Tom said flatly. “I was feeling so worried.”

The room had a faint atmospheric chill to it. An illusion sensation brought on by chronic
sanitizers, and synthetic menthol cleaning agents. Clean, organized, it felt in every way a
hospital no matter how they tried to disguise it. Tom had just graduated to obtaining a plastic
knife with his meals; it had taken many psychological evaluations to determine that the
overdose was an accident. The magical adjusting shoes were a nice touch, much better than
muggle slippers or Velcro with no hazard to oneself. Tom didn’t like it, the stagnation and
white cloth. He didn’t like many things.

“You’ve read quite a few of my publications.” Crina said. It was a question, implied by its
bluntness. Tom recognized and read it as such.

“I wanted to know your credentials.” Tom said. “I had heard of your reputation, and wanted
evidence before forming a bias.”

“Ah,” Crina said, “that hassle of supposedly being under arrest. Human Experimentation and
all.”

“How pesky, ethical concerns.” Tom sniffled. “In my time, we would ship off the re- the
afflicted by the train car. Send them off to split their skull.”

Crina remarkably didn’t react. “Is that a concern of yours? Being here? In the wake of the
atrocities of your time, the world developed the Nuremberg Code of medical ethics.”

Tom smiled, and tilted his head. His skin pale, but slowly gaining colour. His mind, quicker
and faster despite the occasional incidents where unconsciousness lulled him to collapse.
Spontaneous, random, on par with narcolepsy due to residual trauma.

“I once met a man who thought my brain was unique. Special.” Tom said, hissing the word in
a contrary loving way. “I once believed that being recognized would be good. He told me
how he would love to see my brain, inside and out.”

“That must have been terrifying.”

“It was my life. I was different, and they wanted to see why. We had rumors of course, of how
the Nazi’s would slit your skin like a fish, and pour metal inside of you to watch you cook.”

Tom leaned forward, eyes gleaming and sharp and he whispered to her almost consolingly, “I
drowned once, on holy water. For days. And I did not succumb to that madness.”

Crina watched, as Tom’s mouth curled into an adoring smile. A freakish ghastly expression,
paralleled with the bandages wrapping thickly around his skull. “Tell me, Madam Dimitriu,
why you think a place such as this will break me after that?”

“The purpose isn’t to break you. It is to heal you, aid in the fissures of your psyche.”

“I am not normal. If I were, you would have ignored me in favour of your wolves. I do not
require standardized care. I am not healing when treated like the others.”

“I have begun to realize that.” Crina said, eyeing Tom with a frown. “I see that you’ve come
you a more agreeable situation, one feasible. I can remove you from this hospital and place
you under my personal guidance, however you understand this will be within Nurmengard.”

“Lock me away, sweet warden.” Tom laughed, “I am the most dangerous beast within your
castles. Do your best to remember that.”

Crina eyed him with a cold sense of finality in her heart. “I have never forgotten.”

Tom walked on his own free will. He wore one of Crina’s cloaks, given to him selflessly due
to his lack of apparel. The scratchy white cotton of the medical facility had been discarded in
favour of the thin sleepwear that Tom had arrived in months ago. The vomit stains had been
cleaned as well as other bodily fluids; they were still thin and useless against the frigid late
January air.

The cloak trailed low on him, nearly brushing his ankles. On Madam Dimitriu it came to her
thigh. Tom had yet to hit his growth spurt that he knew would come, but with his medical
history now he wondered if it would be delayed even further.

They entered the front door of the castle, locking the winter chill and snow outside. The
secretary glanced up, sitting perched behind the front desk. “Oh! Hello Madam, I thought you
would be gone longer.”

“Regretfully not.” Crina said, not caring to unfasten her cloak. The secretary beamed, giving
a small cheery wave to Tom. He distantly remembered her, she was their guide the last visit
to the ominous castle. Her hair curled and conformed into ram horn braids, nestling secured
just above her ears. “This is Tom, if you remember him.”

“Yep!” She cheered, already pulling out a thin ancient registry book. Crina waved one hand
dismissively. Without losing stride, the secretary then selected a much thicker book, bound in
some sort of hard wood. “Want me to sign him in?”

“Please,” Crina said, “his papers should be arriving soon. Copy only the recent reports, not
the original information from the last year.”

“Okay madam!” She chirped, far too energetic for the gloomy ancient castle. “You received
four more summons from the British Ministry of Magic when you were gone! What a mess,
it looks like they really want to execute you!”

“Just one overconfident woman.” Crina corrected. “You know the sort.”

“Oh do I.” The woman rolled her eyes, holding out three howlers and one letter for Crina.
Tom watched as Crina wrinkled her nose, and accepted the letters. “Oh! The international
board also wants your official statement on the matter. They also are requesting someone
from the ethics committee drop by to check the prison again. Likely want to make sure you
aren’t torturing someone in the cellar.”
Crina snorted softly, accepting a few other things that had come. The girl began to scribble
furiously into the thicker registry, using a thin stemmed pen with a fluffy feather taped onto
the tip. She winked at Tom once when she caught him watching the feather jerk about. He
caught only a short glimpse of what the woman was writing, enough to settle his mind. She
was filling out his patient information, transferring it into the documentation needed to be a
ward of Nurmengard. Essentially, one file in the hundreds of other inmates of Nurmengard-
although he walked on the other side of bars this time.

“Oh yikes.” The woman said, looking through the more recent notes. “An addict, huh? I hate
rehabilitation places. They always smell like ...like a boiled Mandrake!”

“You’ve been there?” Tom asked flatly. There was no reason to deny what she knew, based
on the discharge papers in front of her.

“I worked in one for a while,” she said, “hated the place. So much drama- I don’t care if a
mediwitch got stabbed, no I won’t work overtime for that.”

“Stabbings.” Tom said.

“Pretty often.” She said. “At least here, the biggest worry is that a Lupescu eats someone, but
that’s like, half a page of paper to fill out. Much nicer.”

Tom shifted slightly, the fur coat brushing his ankles heavily. “Why, precisely, are you here?

“Oh,” she said, blinking quickly. “I’m Adi. I’m an intern- well. I think I’m hired here by Frau
Dimitriu. Mika went back for her school- so I'm here now! I handle all the mail and handle
the public relations when an inmate gets eaten. Italy is really sensitive to that.”

“She is working on her own research,” Crina said, walking back into the room. She had
exchanged her fur cloak for a larger one- her warden uniform. She stared at Tom with a small
frown. “Do not underestimate her. Adi is resourceful, she is a sensory empath.”

The woman, Adi, frowned. A large childish pout that matched her blonde ram horns and big
blue eyes. Tom could scarcely tell the difference between this one, and the one before her.
Perhaps they were the same being after all. He would not doubt it, within the walls of
Nurmengard. “Only a little! I just have a good feeling about what to say when people keep
annoying you, Madam Dimitriu! The book is on the side, honest!”

Crina looked at Tom, and he understood her unspoken order.

He had no belongings to lock away, his wand had been transferred to her possession upon his
discharge. He had no doubts it was hidden somewhere, stored in the large aviary where birds
hide magical weapons far out of reach of any escaped inmate. Tom walked behind her,
mindful of the many unseen eyes pressing on him with every step he took. The continued
down the halls, ignoring the lit lanterns that glows slightly from pixies flickering about.
Occasionally, a wrinkled hand would reach out from the bars of a cell before curling
backwards in on itself. Tom didn’t dare look inside, lest he identify the source of the moaning
and pleads.
“The inmates here are not to be interacted with.” Crina said, advancing higher as they
wrapped around a spiraling stone staircase on the western tower. “This will be your room.
Please keep in mind I do not live within the castle, but the Lupescu will guard everyone. You
are not to leave.”

“I understand.” Tom said, waiting as Crina unlocked the large door and let Tom investigate
his new residence. It was nothing special, better than the Order if only in shape and size.
Larger, the walls were made of thick carved stone and an unoccupied hearth lay silent.

“You will need a fire some nights.” Crina warned him, eyes flickering to the large fur pelt
that occupied the bed, and the thin fur rug made of some sort of sheep. “It will be cold, but
you will be here. There is no escape from Nurmengard, Tom Riddle.”

‘Good,’ Tom thought, ‘this is where I want to be.’

Grindelwald paused on the third day since the wolves began to shift at something new in the
castle. Something that threatened the casual normality of the castle, the repetition
Grindelwald had come to know as home.

He was not surprised, when on a normal walk through the lower cells, a shadow tore free
from a wall and out walked a boy.

“Hello.” Tom Riddle said, the bastard boy with eyes too large for his well being. “I would
like to talk, Grindelwald.”

Grindelwald would have responded happily, perhaps with violence or curses, if his tongue
had still existed. Instead, this child had tore it free like lightning and fed it to his warden. He
wished this child rotted where the buzzards ate him alive.

“I know you can’t talk anymore,” the boy said calmly, rolling his shoulders one in the
flickering shadows of the lantern light. “I don’t need you to. I want to ask you a few
questions. You were defeated by Albus Dumbledore, were you informed at all about the rise
of Lord Voldemort in your captivity?”

Grindelwald stared, and considered his actions carefully. The boy kept staring at him, rigid
posture except the minor uncontrollable tremors racing down his arms. Was he sick? Had he
injured himself in some way?

Very slowly, Grindelwald nodded.

“Excellent.” Tom Riddle said smoothly, dismissive with his posture loosened casually. “I take
it that you have heard rumors then, of his abilities. You are a realistic perspective to translate
what rumors are true, and which are exaggerations.”

The boy wanted information, and in this pit of pus and rot, Grindelwald was all he had. How
had the boy gotten here? Walking the walls when the warden was not here implied he was
now a resident- but there were no new faces in the cells. He was existing in the castle for his
own amusement. To talk to him.

Grindelwald, feeling much better, nodded stiffly.

“Wonderful.” Tom said. “I’ve been looking through Crina’s books. The receptionist is
researching, and tends to leave her reference material lying about. What do you know about
mind arts?”

‘Ah,’ Grindelwald thought, feeling a low rumble of delight and dark amusement. ‘He has
been looking.’

Salazar Slytherin was infamous in his time for his ability in mind arts. Perhaps a hereditary
link, a predisposition for those of his blood to find it easier to know the mind. It was no rarity
to find such fascination, the field often allured to many. Few could stomach its horrors, the
emotional weight and distorted freakish nightmares that lurked below the subconscious.
Crina Dimitriu had been weak- learning to leave her body in astral projections and muggle
psychology, but not dare touching Legilimency. Relying on muggle textbooks and questions
when magic always provided a better answer.

Grindelwald knew mind arts, but he could not use them without a wand. Even nonverbal,
without a proper conduit he could not spearhead directly through barriers as those with
predisposition could. He knew a few, remembered them distinctly in his youth. The woman
who floated between dreams and subconscious, answering questions unspoken as she
glimpsed in minds as if an art gallery. He always had hated her.

Grindelwald nodded, masking his smile. ‘Yes boy,’ He thought delighted, ‘fall into its allure.
Those who look too deep will lose themselves.’

Tom Riddle stared at him, and then reached for the hanging lantern. It swung, dancing lights
along the walls as he beckoned for Grindelwald to lead.

They walked, through the halls and past glittering canine eyes. One growled, a low rattling
snarl as drool trickled from its maw. The Lupescu, filthy bastard animals.

The secretary’s desk remained neat and orderly. She was competent, despite her airhead
appearance. Her book or research was on par with an older student, still a child in the eyes of
the world.

Grindelwald nodded to one book, one focusing on legilimency, and watched with withheld
glee as the boy fell for his movement, and opened the book.

“Legilimency.” Tom read out loud, “the mind art of revealing mental layers and images
within a subject’s mind. The interpretation of these images then correlate to the function of
memory and thought-.”

Tom’s head snapped up so quickly, Grindelwald wondered if he had heard the bones snap.
The boy’s face shifted subtly to that of greed, of ravenous awe and near sadistic delight. The
ominous glow of the lantern cast a shade of red and orange over his eyes. “Mind reading.
This is how to read minds.”

‘Yes boy,’ Grindelwald thought, ‘throw yourself adrift, and succumb to the madness.’

Tom looked down, flipping quickly through the pages. The chapters were bold, easy to read
and detailed with instructions. Madam Dimitriu kept only the highest quality literature in her
presence.

“Leave me.” Tom said distracted. All but consumed by the options of the text. Most seemed
to be, until the effort and damage revealed itself later on. Grindelwald knew that the boy
would ignore it in favour of proceeding onwards with a weapon. A sort of weapon that could
not be taken from him.

The boy was terrified of trusting liars, and now he would drift apart in his desperation to
never be betrayed.

For days, Grindelwald watched as the boy sheltered himself away, hiding in the furthest
reaches amid quiet moaning and heavy paws. The Lupescu watched him, growing weary by
the repetitive rhythm in which he read. He chewed through the book, engulfing it in record
time with a feverish quality to his desperation. Remarkable, in all ways. Grindelwald
mourned for the past, and wished more than anything he wielded the child during his reign.

“The book says I need a wand.” Tom said, low whispers of delight that sent goosebumps
along his arms. “I don’t do I? I have aptitude, It said in the book I do. I show the signs of it. I
don’t need a wand, right?”

‘You foolish boy,’ Grindelwald thought as he nodded, watching delight fill Tom’s eyes. ‘Go,
practice your efforts. The only subjects here are the insane.’

The inmate lay on the ground of his cell, cheek rubbing against the ground. He had been in
such a state for a while now, for all the skin on his face had been sloughed off and now he
ground bone against rock.

Tom sat outside his bars, trying to calm himself. The steady grating of face on rock became
background noise, a steady sound he used to calm his heartbeat. He had no illusions that
Grindelwald had been genuine, but the book spoke of countless Legilimens which implied
the art was not malicious to the user.

The inmate moaned guttural, eyes open and drooling. A disgusting worm in Tom’s eyes.

“Okay... “ Tom breathed, calming himself. He didn’t need a wand- he had focused his magic
enough times in the past to know how to roughly spearpoint it. ‘I can do this.’

The man's eyes were easy to meet, because they refused to look away. Tom did not know if
he was blind, or absent. He was a tool, no matter how the concept twisted his gut.
“Legilimens,” Tom practiced, forcing his tongue to roll in the proper pronunciation.
“Legilimens.”

The spell was not hard, which was why nonverbal casting became near standard for it.
Shaping his magic, using the pronunciation to shape it into the proper configuration.
“Legilimens. Legilimens.”

The man, moaned and ground his face and Tom could not fight off anxiety of preparation. “...
Legilimens!”

It built and shifted, surging sloppily like that of a bird in a canvas bag. Spear Pointing it was
hard without conduit, for his magic surged and fought and wrestled dangerously so.
Attempting to direct it bore no fruit- it recoiled back with such whiplash Tom slumped to the
ground heaving against the pain. The inmate showed no signs- Tom hadn’t managed to exert
his magic beyond his very body.

He couldn’t scream or curse, because the Lupescu prowled the halls and would be far too
curious. He had felt it, his magic straining to fight free. It was possible, he knew that-.

“Once again,” Tom said, reassuring to himself. A soft whisper to soothe his burning
frustration. “ Legilimens!”

A surge, a boiling ball as it surged and fought, straining to get free. Outstretching one arm
helped- the distance stretching and creating a more uniform point. He could do it...he knew
he could…

A snap, a recoil, and Tom jolted so far he near collapsed on stone.

He was closer, although not by much. It felt painfully similar to sinking ones hand through
cold butter, the freezing waxy resistance that made his fingers ache and wrist crack from the
strain.

Tom wasn’t an idiot- he knew that. He tended to think and problem solve far faster than
others, he didn’t forget things he read. His magic was struggling to stretch away from him, so
he would shorten the strain.

The bars were narrow, impossible to slip through. Tom didn’t want to enter the cell anyways-
but he could reach one arm as far as possible to the sniffling husk of a human. He didn’t
know the man’s name, or what had condemned him here. He was now going to help Tom,
because this man had nothing left but Tom had everything.

He stood, walking closer until his hips brushed the metal beams. Settling to his knees, he
stretched one arm through the gaps until his shoulder pressed uncomfortably hard. He
reached forward, contorting to lock eyes with the man.

“‘ Legilimens!” He hissed quietly, grunting under the strain and prickling burning of pushing
his magic outside his body. Closer...closer, so close that his fingers felt numb from it.

The man seized, Tom inhaled sharply-

Itchy itchy it’s so itchy need to scratch need to scratch so itchy-.

Tom collapsed to the ground, hands clawing at his face from phantom desire and the all
consuming itch. It was deeper than want, he needed to scratch he needed to- there was
something in his head there was something in his face. They were spying on him the whole
world was spying on him. At some point they must have...have cut him open and slid it in his
face and he needed to claw it out-.

“Shite.” Tom gasped, nearly keeling over. He sat crudely on his hands, the quickest solution
to prevent his fingers from gouging out his eye. “ Shite.”

That was a concern then. To touch someone's mind meant that you became them- you were
them, in that precise moment. To dig deeper in memory was the only way to avoid the altered
perspective, the shift in identity.

‘I can lose myself,’ Tom thought, ‘That bastard of a man. He knew I could lose myself in
this.’

That was why he had offered the book so calmly. Why he had answered Tom’s questions-
because Tom’s efforts could result in adopting the madness he had been so careful to avoid.

“Shite.” Tom repeated out loud, far too aware of the near chronic tremble in his hands as he
clutched his hair. He would not tear it out again, but he tugged on it until his eyes watered.
“Okay ...again .”

It didn’t get easier, but he began to feel it. The shifting under his skin, the bubbling pressure
he could direct and coax along his skin and through his eyes.

The Lupescu came, watching him with glowing eyes. He stank of sweat and vomit, muscles
and brain screaming at him as blood trickled from down his nose. He heard that was a
symptom of mind magics, the nosebleeds.

“I’m fine.” Tom assured the wolves, his voice hoarse and crackling.

They watched him, hungry curious things. Long tails brushing the floor and teeth longer than
a crocodile. They watched him from the shadows, as Tom hunkered inwards on his knees
repeating whispers over and over, a mantra of ‘My name is Tom Riddle. I will survive.’

Crina Dimitriu worked from nine in the morning to seven at night. Her pretty little office
stayed in operation as she filed evaluations and checked on every inmate. They didn’t have
the high numbers like that of Azkaban, or America’s Alcatraz, but still they ranked high.
Madam Dimitriu worked herself through a system of checking information, and patrolling the
hallways to conduct evaluations through the bars. The Lupescu were her eyes and ears, but
without words they never spoke their voices for what Tom did during the hours after the
doors locked.

The woman, Tom’s newest practice participant, sneered at Tom through her walls. Both her
hands lacked fingers- as did many of the inmates. Reaching outside during Lupescu patrols
fed them snacks on severed fingers. This woman learned after seven digits were snapped
free- or perhaps she never cared at all.

“Go ahead, little boy!” She laughed, wiggling her bisected tongue at him before winking
dramatically. Some sort of freakish human experimentation- she had several crude
modifications that left her actions odd and unexpected.

Tom ignored her, barely reacting to the spittle she managed to spray in his direction.

The woman laughed, contorting around on the bottom of her cell. Her joints mangled and
bent backwards like that of a large spider.

“Oh, little boy.” She laughed, managing to twist her neck until it cracked and right sided. A
nightmare based around her own vertebra. “Do you know why I'm here?”

Tom said nothing. He tilted his head ever so slightly, matching her feline orange eyes.

“I stole little girls and boys like you,” she said, grinning wide. Her mouth seemed normal,
except for the thick white scar tissue that suggested at one point her mouth extended like a
snake. “I peeled them open to make them better.”

“How original.” Tom said flatly. “I presume you then modified yourself to peak condition.
Fittingly, you’re now vermin.”

She screeched in fury, slamming herself against the bars with a rattling bang! Tom didn’t
smile, even as she regressed to animal snarls and spluttering hisses.

“It’s a trend…” Tom mused quietly. “That those here lose themselves. Drifting apart...from
others.”

“Oh you’d like that,” the woman hissed, lunging and sprawling herself across the bars with
reptilian traction, “I am better, I’m perfect now!”

“Of course you are.” Tom said, “legilimens.”

She jolted as Tom sunk forward, sliding over her skin. Slow enough she trembled, snarling
and spluttering before his claw dug deeper.

“There you are,” Tom said, smiling and unblinking as he pierced slowly through her eyes into
her skull. He could feel her trembling- feel her fluttering awareness like reaching into a jar
full of butterflies.

“Stop.” She spat, vibrating so hard she began to slip and slide down into a heap. “ Stop.”

“No.” Tom said, exhaling in a rush. “You do think you’re perfect. You’ve dissected every part
of boys and girls and transfigured yourself into something new.”

“No!” She screeched, gasping before seizing and curling on the ground of her cell. Inside her
mind, unable to lie, she whispered, ‘yes.’
“Madam Dimitriu found that special- no…” Tom breathed, staring sightless into the dull
gloss eyes. “No- she was... interested in you. Fascinated, because why- why would anyone
embrace being a mindless animal?”

‘Yes,’ the woman whispered in the language of mindless animal, ‘she could never
understand.’

“Why was she so fascinated?” Tom whispered, “why has she wasted her life trying to
understand insanity?”

‘Because she doesn’t understand.’ the woman thought and the woman knew, ‘and she never
will.’

“Crina Dimitriu” Tom Riddle mused, retracting his talons from the beast woman, ‘“you’ve
wasted your life in the pursuit of animals.”

‘Yes.’ The woman thought, painful and desperate as she seized from Tom’s poor approach.

She retched, gagging on her own bodily fluids as Tom withdrew and left her shivering on the
floor of her cell. With a shudder, she died.

“My name, is Tom Riddle.” he said, hands gripping the bars of the cell. “And I will survive.”

“They all believe that,” the inmate said. A wry grin pulling back on his lips as he lolled his
head casually. “Not much dying ‘ere is there?”

The man was Egyptian, based on the tattooed lines running thick along his eyes and near his
chin. He had a beard braided low, twisted into a black rope brushing his collarbones. Tom
knew that all new inmates were shaved; the beard signified history better than any document
could.

“Have you known Crina Dimitriu for long?” Tom asked, sitting cross legged just outside the
cell. The inmate tilted his head, arcing his thick brows and pale waxy skin.

“Ah... Crina.” The man said, voice low and gravely, “how is the warden? I haven’t had
company in so long…”

“Busy with her new experiments.”

“Is that you then?” He asked, looking decidedly unimpressed with Tom’s appearance. “What
are you- a vampire? A cannibal? A monster cast aside like the rest of us?”

Tom shrugged one shoulder, “I imagine I am just like you.”

The man stared at him, frowning ever so slightly. “I raided the tombs of Ancient Egypt, stole
and used artifacts I found. I stole souls, possessed goblins. Rained gold down the Nile and
turned the river to blood.”
“I’m from a place out of time.” Tom said, “a...misstep, along the time stream.”

“No wonder the warden likes you.” The man smiled with a low chuckle. “A boy out of
time...and with those eyes I wonder how many lives you’ve ruined. Or will.”

“Does it matter?” Tom asked.

The man said, “only if you regret it.”

Tom didn’t, he knew he didn't, because he was not Voldemort. He was not Voldemort. He had
spent far too long spiraling circles, plummeting into a pit of loathing for a creature who was
not him. He was forced to accept the guilt and burden, taking on shame for actions he never
committed. He was not Voldemort. He was himself, and he would survive.

‘You’re determined.’ The man thought, sitting leisurely on the floor of his cell, within
touching distance to Tom if he cared enough to reach out through the bars. ‘Legilimency takes
a strong sense of identity to perfect.’

“You aren’t supposed to feel my approach.” Tom said, stomach twisting in frustration over it.
He hadn’t done it correctly- he had failed in some step along the path.

‘Do not whip yourself, boy.’ The man thought, far too amused for the coldness of the prison.
‘You are young still. I wonder....who directed you to this art? Surely not the Warden, or you
would not be hiding in my cell-block.’

Tom broke eye contact quickly, tracing the cracks in the floor of the man’s cell.

“My name is Bastet.” The man said, quirking his lips before rumbling a low grumble of a
chuckle. “Or I’ve picked that one for now.”

“I don’t care for your name.” Tom said.

Bastet smiled. “I know. You’re mediocre at Legilimency, and I am quite bored.”

Tom stared, and found a flaw in the discussion. No person would willingly indulge or permit
a stranger to comb through their mind. Even this man, who seemed quite at ease in the prison
behind bars. He had been here for a long time.

“Legilimens.” Tom said, and stretched out as far as he could to slip through the man’s pupils,
piercing his nerves and drilling into his brain. Bastet smiled, a curling of his lips.

“Why would you let me see?” Tom asked.

‘You must have learned this art from someone else.’ Bastet thought, far too curious and
somehow already so certain. ‘A...certain man, who is far too confident with his position
outside these bars.’

Tom said nothing. His face did not move, or express an emotion. Despite this, Bastet did not
blink and his low rumbling chuckle echoed around Tom’s brain. Tom could taste it, a thick
exotic spice and smooth impenetrable glass of the man’s mind. He doubted if he pressed, he
would find any traction to break through it.

‘Yes,’ Bastet thought calmly. ‘The walls have ears, although the warden’s lapdog has no
tongue left to wag.’

“Grindelwald.” Tom said. Bastet smiled.

‘The Great Lord Grindelwald. Armless and Tongueless, and still he thinks himself better. Do
you think he is better, boy? You walk outside these bars just as he.’

Tom tilted his head slightly. “You have a grudge.”

‘Of course I do.’ Bastet thought. Brief flashed, deep overwhelming disgust that left Tom’s
teeth itching. A bone throbbing itch for violence, to see that man’s face split apart-.

‘See?’ Bastet thought, and slowly, the hate and disgust withdrew itself. ‘The opposite art of
Legilimency is Occlumency. You feel that now, the barrier. You don’t need that here.’

Tom leaned forward ever so slightly, fingers touching the cold bars. Bastet, old and leisure
grinned at him with dark stained teeth. “Tell me.”

‘You lose yourself when you sink into minds, you feel what they feel.’ Bastet thought, voice
slow and thick like sweetened honey. ‘Here, surrounded by madness and rot...do you believe
any outside these walls can tolerate this? Do you believe that any could stand in your
memories and survive this place?’

Tom stiffened, because he understood. Constructing Legilimency already rivaled his abilities,
not counting his forced efforts to maintain academic grades. Sometimes his mind rebelled
and turned sluggish, refusing to operate for the simpler assignments. Sometimes the nights
turned him feral and left him screaming and pacing anxiously, clawing at his scalp because
his body itched wrong.

Constructing an entirely new mind art was beyond him. Not now, not when he was short on
time and desperate for everything he could. If what Bastet said was true, then Tom did not
need to learn a new art. He could turn his weakness into a strength- a venomous barb for any
unassuming foe. He didn’t need to shelter himself, to protect himself from weakness when he
could turn such into a trap.

“What do you suggest?” Tom asked slowly. Words feeling slurred and wrong on his tongue,
agreeing with anyone tended to do as much. “And I will deal with him.”

Bastet stilled, then looked at him. Truly looked, with strange rimmed eyes that looked feline
in the dull lighting. Perhaps he was such a beast, part cat part man. Perhaps he was something
different, a dark creature wandering aimlessly before eventually it was imprisoned.
Something with so many names, it chose new ones when the mood struck.

“Look at me,” Bastet rumbled, “do it.”

Bastet could not do wandless magic, and Tom could. That was something that left him smug,
delight twisting as he stared pointedly and muttered a careful, “ Legilimens.”

A wash of emotion, waves of sensation and feelings drifted along Tom’s skin. A cool breeze,
like soaking hands in a wash basin. It had gotten easier the more he practiced, until he could
stretch within reason and remain lingering like a strong smell.

Bastet rumbled around him- in his eyes and in his mouth, and carefully flashes unfolded.
Shaky sepia tinted images like a Polaroid. One of the moving pictures on hand wound tapes
Tom heard of.

‘I hate that man.’ Bastet said, honesty in his rumble. Voice distorting low and stretched like
something strange; the images of Grindelwald walking past, sneering and armless with
Lupescu flanking his every step. Wandering around the castle, shouting barbs and insults
through the cages as if he were better. Bastet hated the man, and Tom hated him too. ‘I want
those wolves to eat him.’

“I know.” Tom said, his eyes rolling back into his skull. Images, flashes, of places he had
never been. The hot expanse of desert, sand burning and heat waving high over a distant
foreign land- a cat sphinx carved from stone being built by men and slaves. He stepped
deeper, tasting foreign bread and feeling sweat against burning skin-.

‘You’ve drifted deeper.’ Bastet rumbled all around him. ‘Let me show you how to pry out the
scars.’

A switch, a twisting presence before Tom could feel something shifting against his feel.
Sandpaper against his skin, and the glass melted away to expose shattered bedrock. Tom
brushed against, and he began to pry.

The secretary Adi hummed. Elaborate unwanted music that Tom didn’t know. She wrote
quickly, managing files and folders before steadying down to read and work on her
assignments. The spiral horn braids were to prevent her hair from catching fire, with how
close she brought a candle to her thick books.

“Oh hi there!” She chirped happily, giving a small ink finger wave towards Tom’s direction.
“I don’t think you want to go outside! It’s quite cold out, and the Frau hasn’t brought any
cloaks so…”

Tom ignored her, and stared further. She beamed, smiling so wide her eyes shut into a small
squint. She must have been older, graduated from a magical school if she was in an
internship.

“Do you want a book?” Adi asked, tilting her head curiously. “I have seven, but the one is a
romance fiction because I like reading them to the Lupescu when they get cranky about going
outside. You can read it if you want!”
“I don’t want your book.” Tom said flatly. “When am I going back to Britain.”

Adi hummed, looking through her desk for a thick file Tom knew as his. She flipped through
it, sticking out her tongue slightly as she traced something written in medical code words. “It
says here that you just need a school clearance. That’s just one more evaluation by the Frau!
You can take this to her if you’d like, she has a clearing tomorrow afternoon where she could
handle your evaluation if you’d like. You’ve sent off all the schoolwork! Good for you!
Better than me, manuscripts are the worst-.”

Tom ignored her, and took the paper. It was a single leaf of parchment, blank in all areas such
as discharge plans, signature. Dates and time, final thoughts.

Adi had a book next to her, but Tom knew that the standard content couldn’t compare to the
collective arsenal he had been carefully gathering. He hadn’t slept in days, but this was
nothing new.

Tom left, holding the form carefully between both hands. Frau Dimitriu was on her rounds,
her office locked and empty. He slid the paper under the door, already padding his way to a
hallway of his choice. The screams and moaning had grown silent in his presence, too aware
or too absent to ever shriek in his presence. The first few inmates were the unlucky ones- the
ones that passed from unknown cause beyond that o finally expiring. The animal-woman,
with spider legs and feral thoughts, had been the first on the list.

“Hello.” Tom said, looking into a cell on the left. The inmate shrunk back, cowering near the
small bed that all cells had. The inmate stared firmly at the wall, refusing to speak.

Tom didn’t smile, but his chest did warm in satisfaction. Finally, finally he had gained a
reputation he thought he had lost. The same looks and expressions that Abraxas once had-
that Cygnus had. The fear and respect, the careful words and averted eyes. Tom had missed
this, grown complacent in being domesticated.

“Hello,” Tom said, moving to the next cell. This one screamed in his face, shrieking in horror
and wide eyed terror. This one was something impossible to identify, a gender or species Tom
did not recognize. It had no fingers, all ten and four toes bitten clean off by Lupescu. It was a
vacant mind then.

“Legilimens.” Tom said quietly, staring through the bars to the wild mind. It was a curious
sort, locked in a basement or a trunk for years. For so long it forgot sunlight, forgot clean
water or fresh air. Alone and trapped, fed occasionally and left to grow. Isolated, the mind
crippling nothingness…

“Yes.” Tom whispered, jerking, twitching and vibrating under the weight of it. The pain, the
agony...let him out, let him out, let him out, let him out-.

Tom inhaled and exhaled sharply, bowing his head. He pulled free, recoiling with a soft touch
that left his prey shuddering and whimpering. Such nothingness, but Tom would survive.

He wondered, if perhaps Albus Dumbledore could bear such agony when he pressed for
answers.
“I prefer to use transcribe quills when conducting evaluations.” Crina said, late in the evening
the following day. She eyed him, a small frown of suspicion and knowledge that something
was different, yet nothing proven to be unhealthy. Tom’s skin had stayed pale, stained by the
shadows and the lamplight of the castle. The bags under his eyes had smoothed out, the
gouge where his scalp tore free had healed with lumpy skin and the prickling beginnings of
new hair. He had taken to wearing a hood up when he could to disguise the obvious. His nails
were a healthy length, no marks of anxious gnawing. His lips were chapped from chronic
vomiting and bowel issues that refused to leave- but he had acclimated well to the sickness.

“It makes it feel less ...stiff.” Crina said, setting the quill on its tip. It jumped, spiraling itself
over to one of her unmarked journals, preparing over a new page. “These things are always
uncomfortable for both parties.”

“Why, Madam Dimitriu,” Tom muttered, playing with one of her decorative desk objects. A
perfectly carved sphere out of some unidentifiable bone. “It sounds as if you’re bored of our
discussions.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Riddle, your progress is astronomical. If I hadn’t seen firsthand, I
wouldn’t have believed your state merely a month ago.”

“Drugged so high my teeth heard music?” Tom asked dryly, tossing the ball from one hand to
the other.

Crina smiled ever so slightly. “In your terms, not mine. It was quite an ordeal, I’m constantly
surprised with your recovery.”

“Recovery is inhibited only when you lack motivation.”

“Then tell me, Tom. What is driving you now?”

Tom Riddle smiled and placed the ball back on its pedestal. He exhaled smoothly ,and
crossed his ankles. “I miss the outdoors.”

Crina didn’t react more than an understanding nod. The quill flitted about, tracking all
dialogue like that of a court hearing. Tom watched the quill, the hypnotizing twist of the top
feather vanes.

“That’s something realistic to miss. I could have arranged time outside if you so wished.”

“Permitted time outdoors is different than freedom.”

“Do you wish for freedom then? To walk unhindered? Bound to no man and at the mercy of
none?”

“Oh Madam Dimitriu, we are all bound by one hand or another. Limited by our own
capabilities and skills. I want to walk unhindered. I am not a dog to be leashed.”
Crina did not miss the barb. She did not respond to it, even as the Lupescu outside the door
growled so low Tom could feel it shake the stool he sat on.

“To find meaning in the world and slot yourself into its machine is not domesticity.”

Tom smiled, sharp and cruel and said, “is that the excuse for what you have told yourself?”

“No.” Crina said, tilting her head ever so slightly. “I find personal value in my work.
Meaning, in the minds of lost souls. Perhaps orthodoxy is not for me, so I carved my own
path just as I know you will.”

“Dumbledore and the Order have blocked my future in all means possible.”

Crina rolled one shoulder, glimpsing at the quill. A pause, then the quill lifted and lowered
itself to the side. Crina then looked back calmly; everything now off record.

“I am a hypocrite to...scold you for where your interests lie.” Crina said slowly, “given the
majority of my inmates- of who are imprisoned for a varies means. I have looked into your
inquiry about horcruxes, and if necessary, I am willing to aid you in this venture.”

Tom stilled. His eyes flickered to the floor, refusing to lift to where Crina Dimitriu was
evaluating his mental state.

“I think that...it is a reasonable area of investigation. We tend to fear areas of magic we know
little about- horcruxes is one such area where the taboo is present.”

“I was under the belief that horcruxes are dark magic-.”

“Necromancy is dark magic, yet it is taught in Chinese institutions.” Crina said quietly.
“Curse marks and blood warding is dark magic, yet it is still an area of practiced magic in
African tribes-.”

“Then tell me about Horcruxes.” Tom challenged quietly. Fingers twitching and tapping
along his chair.

Crina breathed quietly through her nose. “It is European. An art to split the soul and secure it
within an object. I’ve located numerous books on the topic- it is not an easy subject to find.”

Tom shifted, finally feeling the early pangs of discomfort. How he wished he could lock eyes
and sink into her skull- see what her true thoughts were with no lies of words or dialogue.
“Dumbledore would not approve.”

“Secrets are healthy, necessary for any boy your age. Without such, you would find difficulty
in basic cognitive development. That, and the man irritates me.”

Tom’s face contorted slightly into the barest glimpse of a smile. It existed, then vanished like
a breeze. “Why?”

“Because you’ve fallen apart due to causes beyond my knowledge.” Crina said honestly, “and
you are building yourself back together again through means I haven’t understood. I am
afraid of your isolation, and want to help you grow in a healthy environment.”

“A healthy environment including dark magic.”

“Dark magic only in certain areas of the world. In Magical Britain, I believe I’m wanted by
the law, whereas here I am honored and held in high regard.”

Tom tapped his finger, twitching uncomfortably. Crina’s eyes did not miss it.

“I am concerned for you, Tom, but I know your perception and cognitive abilities far surpass
those of others your age. If you were older, I would hire you in a heartbeat for my institution.
Adi holds you in high regard.”

Tom couldn’t imagine that. The woman was wild, chaotic in her energy and blatant lack of
morality. Anyone within this hell needed it.

“I want you to be healthy,” Crina stressed, “if you believe that Hogwarts is where you must
go, then I will back you in your venture.”

Tom could barely breathe. “Just like that.”

“Just like that.” Crina admitted. “You know who you are, who am I to claim you are
something different?”

“Okay.” Tom said, unable to hide the slightly strained pitch of his voice, “I want to go back.”

“Alright.” Crina said, smiling contently. She reached behind her, pulling open one of the
many unlabeled books to fish around the various markers. She plucked an unremarkable
bookmark from the crease. Dull green, faded and peeling apart around the fringes- made of
canvas. “This is for you. I’ve had this made a while ago, it is a direct portkey to Hogwarts
grounds, however you will have to walk in through the front door. Albus and I have already
established this agreement, so the wards will have no difficulty with allowing you inside.”

Then, on cue, the wolves outside the door began to howl.

Crina’s head jolted up, staring at the door with an unreadable expression. She plucked the
quill, transferring notes and lines of script as if peeling tape and plastering them on the form.
She scribbled more, signing her name with flourish before the paper rolled itself up and
vanished in a cloud of dark smoke.

“Your papers for discharge have been filed.” Crina said in a quick voice, “I have been
summoned for evaluation of a recent prisoner taken into custody. I will be back at the soonest
convenience but I apologize, I must be going-.”

Crina hurried to her feet, sliding the bookmark portkey to Tom with a pointed look. He took
it, sliding it into his front pocket. Crina gathered books, plucked two more pens and one
decorative knife from her third desk drawer. She secured the knife in her hair, sliding it into
the elaborate bun until the blade was entirely obscured.
“I am so incredibly sorry,” Crina said, bustling about quickly. A Lupescu on guard outside
the door hurried into the room, escorting Crina pointedly while throwing a glare at Tom. With
a flicker and a flash, Tom was sitting alone in the office. A remarkable sign of trust.

The piece of parchment attached to the tassel marked the trigger word for the portkey,
cabernet. So painfully fitting.

A moment, and Tom was alone in a too large castle amidst other monsters.

A moment, then Tom realized what opportunity presented.

He stood, picking the marked three books on the other side of Crina’s desk. The books set
aside and marked with Tom in her script. He gathered them, paying no mind to the unmarked
books that were likely written in code. He walked quickly through the halls towards where
his spiraling tower held his things. He didn’t have his trunk anymore; it had been searched
thoroughly upon his overdose. Now, he had new contents which would be suspicious if not
for the academic titles.

He put the books in his bag, a much larger style of knapsack. The weight was not
overwhelming, since Tom had little clothing brought with him now, even fewer objects in his
possession. His sanity had been deemed recovered. It was a lapse of judgement, now cured
by medical marvels.

He stepped into the hallway, walking quickly down the corridors towards where the front
gates loomed-

A Lupescu very calmly stepped out from the shadows, and blocked his path.

Tom stilled, coming to a stand in the hallway. The wolf stared at him with gleaming angry
eyes, its lips curled back to reveal long curved teeth larger than any animal.

“Hello.” Tom said, unable to stop the quick fear that made his heart beat frantically. “I am
leaving.”

The wolf growled low, prowling slowly forward with large clawed paws. Tom carefully lifted
his hands, showing he was unarmed. The Lupescu did not care.

“I mean you no harm.” Tom said, then breathed out, “ Legilimens.”

The wolf stilled, perhaps recognizing in a moment that it was no longer alone in its head. Its
thoughts existed in the world of impressions, emotions and wordless language more
advanced than anything Tom could imagine. More human than every inmate behind bars.

“Hello,” Tom said, feeling how irritating it was to hear the same words, the same desperate
greeting repeated as if it would make a difference. “I have permission from Frau Dimitriu to
leave Nurmengard.”

Frustration, itching teeth and the urge to sink them deep in warm meat. The pent up energy
and hate, the desire to sprint and run and hunt. A name, a familiar name of the Lupescue
given to her by the warden- Aegis.
“I know…” Tom said, smiling and shivering under the alluring thought of blood spilling over
grass, “I...Aegis, would you like to kill the man?”

The man? Which man? They would...there was no escape from Nurmengard-.

“I know.” Tom agreed, smiling wide and somehow the twist of emotion flickered through.
Interest, desire, a wordless mental image of a crippled man running to his death…

“That…” Tom said, smiling and shivering under it, “I think that...that if he goes outside
he…”

They wanted him dead, just as Bastet wanted him dead. Greedy disgusting man, filthy rotting
husk of a human who was more cripple than ability. He deserved to die long ago- you could
not abandon revenge when it walked beside you and treated you like a dog.

“I know.” Tom said, “you are not a dog, or an animal. You are intelligent and wild, and
should not be caged here. You are not the guards, or warden. There should be no leash on
you.”

Aegis tilted her head, and perked her ears. Tom didn’t need language to know, that it was
asking what Tom wanted from it. What it would have to do, to finally kill their sire.

Grindelwald woke up to starlight. He hadn’t seen the full moon in years it felt. Her celestial
presence left him in awe, lying prone on damp soil. Frozen ground, it was quickly
approaching February, wasn’t it?

The air was moist and fresh, the oncoming whisper of dew. If he had to guess, it would be
nearing dawn but what purpose did his dreams have for time?

He could hear the owls hooting from the forest, the crunching of animals walking on dead
leaves. He realized, coldly and horrified, that this level of remembrance could not be a dream.

Grindelwald struggled to sit upright, peering through silver light to spot the boy, sitting
casually on what appeared to be a stool. His stool, with its high back and three spindle legs.
Slightly lopsided under the natural undulations of the grass and ground.

“It’s a beautiful night.” The boy said, musing calmly to the sky. A sharp juxtaposition to
earlier, where Grindelwald felt the copper curled maggot of the remnants of his tongue. It
twitched feebly, he knew only gurgled and animal moans would part from his old teeth.

“I like the full moon.” Tom said, tapping his fingers against the stool casually. “It’s easier to
sneak in places. The same casualness of night. The same disregard for theft and robbery.”

Tom’s eyes flickered to him sharply, appraising him. The prison garb, the long stems of grass
crushed under his thighs. It had been a long while since he felt grass.
“When I was thirteen,” Tom started, looking off to the trees, bored. “I already spent my
summers alone. The draft and war- well. You know all about that.”

Grindelwald bared his teeth in a silent snarl, lips pulling back. Tom smiled, amused by the
expression.

“There was a man in the estate on the corner of Baker Street, he had tuberculosis but only the
start. His family had left, so he sat in his carved chairs and fancy clothes and ate like the fat
pig he was.”

Tom looked back at him, eyes silvery blue under the light of the full moon. “He had so much
food. Your war took so much, but survival is survival. I thought, if a fat pig wants to eat when
he’s already doomed, then he should share with the starving.”

Tom smiled, bright teeth straight like a wolf in front of a kill. He stood, smoothly and fast.
His shoes crunched on grass, on the cricket corpses frozen in the ground around them.

“I thought, it wouldn’t be murder if he could smell it.” Tom confided without emotion. “If he
knew, it would be suicide. So a poor orphan boy walked into his palace and I swapped his
brandy for wood alcohol. Furniture cleaner. He drank it like a fat pig and I stepped over his
melted eyes and ate his pantry dry.”

Grindelwald stared at him, tracing the youthful bones with his eyes. Tom Riddle, basking in
moonlight with a thin smile far beyond apathy.

“When I was fifteen,” Tom said, stepping forward towards him. He bent his legs into a
crouch, curving his spine humbly. A scant distance drew between them, Grindelwald could
feel the warmth of the boy’s breath on his face. The night air was cold in comparison.

“Your sirens woke me up.” Tom said. He smiled, a friendly cruel expression that revealed no
mercy or fond memories. Grindelwald didn’t twitch, but he felt the night cold permeate him
ever so slightly more.

“My orphanage had been evacuated, and I returned to London alone in the middle of a war.
Your sirens woke me up, from my little hellhole and I had nowhere to go. Do you know what
it’s like... to fear for your life every night at that hellish screaming siren?”

Grindelwald felt sweat down the back of his nape, softening the corners of his hair. His face
twitched, his legs flexed and for a scant moment he had the brief thought of kicking the boy.
Over and over, until his feet crunched cartilage and he bashed the boy’s face into the soft
morning dew.

Tom could see it, his smile softened mocking, and he reached out boldly to caress the stubble
of Grindelwald’s chin. He had half the heart to bite him.

“No, I don’t think you know what that feels like.” Tom whispered, voice hot and breathy and
humid. “Don’t worry. The Lord believes in fairness and kindness, and what cruel monster I
would be to withhold such an experience. We live through our generosity, Grindelwald.”
Grindelwald inhaled sharply, so sudden he knew the boy heard it. Tom Riddle’s eyes
widened, his smile a bit wider. His face scrounged by shadows and moonlight and his touch
came ever so gentle.

“The Lord rewards those who tread with mercy and kindness,” Tom said knowingly, “I have
brought you a gift. I don’t have sirens but well, Aegis has agreed to help with your
repentance.”

Grindelwald tried to talk, a wet gurgle that broke scabs and pulled a muscle. Tom smiled,
breathing heady as slowly he stood. His tall lanky body looked more like a skeleton.

In the distance, a shrill lonely howl grew in sound until it reached vibrato not unlike that of a
siren. A high loud siren in the moonlight that drew forth a chorus of other nearby wails.

“Do you hear the sirens, Grindelwald?” Tom crooned in exhilaration, “You should start
running! You never know when the bombs will tear you limb from limb!”

Grindelwald scrambled. Rolling and jerking his torso with no disguise of grace. He was an
animal, struggling with stump cut arms and bruised aged legs as he scurried to his feet. Tom
kept laughing, delighted and amused beyond words. The howls didn’t let up, their noise
liquid adrenaline in Grindelwald’s blood.

There was no way Crina would have agreed- but the beasts of man and wolf had always
wanted his blood. They gnawed his arms and crunched through bone and watched him with
hungry eyes. Crina wouldn’t have agreed but she had little say against the damned monsters.

And this boy- this boy was the worst of them all.

“Do you know fear?” The boy shouted at him, voice cracking on occasion with the octave he
shouted. Grindelwald ran, thin slippers a poor barrier between rocks and branches.

“I hope they tear you apart muscle by muscle!” Tom screamed, distant but far too loud for
comfort. “I hope your mistakes chew you bone by bloody bone!”

Grindelwald ran, tears and blood from his thrashing tongue and sweat trickled down his
spine. There was no escape from Nurmengard. There was no escape for him, and the boy
knew it as well.

Violence and murder at a distance. Hunted down like a goddamn bloody rabbit. Nothing left
of him- his pride, his legacy, his power-

The boy kept laughing, over the high howling of the wolves that came closer with every
fumble.

“Keep running!” Tom laughed, “the great Gellert Grindelwald! Hunted like a bloody rat!”

He felt teeth close on an ankle, another swipe past his front. A second and he fell, sticks
impaling his thighs as sharper growls and fangs bit through tendon and muscle. He couldn’t
scream without his tongue, he couldn’t drown out the noise of hungry wet chewing.
He felt them and heard them bite through his ankles. Devouring each foot bone like it was
candy to suckle on. His Achilles fraying like ripe fruit, bones peeling apart like old wood. He
gurgled on his vomit as his knees clicked apart, rattling to bits as his kneecap rolled away.
His femur gave with a mighty crack, a long tongue lovingly cleaning the wound of his body.

He screamed in his head as they chewed through his stomach, eating his lungs; he screamed
in his head as he had no air left to scream.

Above all else, Tom Riddle kept laughing.

 Crown of Thorns
Chapter Summary

Where Tom returns in glory and in triumph.

Oh, and it seems that chaos follows him everywhere.

Chapter Notes

Alright! This chapter took quite a while to write.

I've been working on a lot of personal projects, trying to get things officially published.
Hopefully, you all enjoy this chaotic chapter- it certainly was delightful to write.

Thursday evening, just before the quiet hour set in over the Gryffindor dorms, the painting
swung open and permitted three bodies to enter.

Such a late hour generally prevented people from coming and leaving already. The common
room tended to have a few stragglers, clinging to last-minute assignments or reading sleepily
on the couches. The presence of three people instantly demanded attention.

Professor Dumbledore’s robes, a cheerful lavender with little sheep around the hems, caught
the eye first. Then the tall second, and finally the calm boy who looked dwarfed next to the
faculty.

“Headmaster Dumbledore!” Fred cheered out, surprisingly alert given the late hour. “What a
wonderful surprise! And by wonderful-.”

“Weasley,” Professor McGonagall warned. She looked exhausted.

“No worries,” Professor Dumbledore said, shrugging off the concern. His stance was slightly
stiff, uncomfortable or perhaps pained.

George, slowly managing from his cat sprawl across two armchairs and one corner table,
spotted Tom first.

“Blimey,” George gaped, staggering on one step. “They let you back?”

“There wasn’t a reason to stay away.”

“Really? You looked like-.” Fred paused, keenly aware of the curious eyes watching them
from the furniture. “...you looked ill.”
Tom looked amused, almost delighted with such a fumble.

“Bastard,” Fred grumbled quietly. Dumbledore’s lips twitched ever so slightly.

“Mr. Riddle here has been brought into the Gryffindor House for the duration of the year.”

“Oh hell,” George said.

More curious eyes and faces poked up from around the room. A first-year set his book to the
side with a heavy thump, rattling the tiny table. He had the decency to look a bit sheepish
when eyes flickered to him.

“No worries, Mr. Weasley. All of Tom’s things have been taken by the house elves.”
Dumbledore assured, “he’ll be staying-.”

“Well, with Harry, right?” George said. He squinted a little at Tom, who still looked amused
by the situation. His face pale, slightly gaunt, but overall...healthy.

“That’s the idea.” Professor McGonagall said dry. She didn’t seem that enthusiastic.

“So, err.” Fred paused, staring openly at Tom. “Is he...a Gryff now? One of us?”

Tom’s small smile spread dangerously into what could have been interpreted as a smile.

“He will attend all of your classes, but has work of his own as well.” Professor McGonagall
explained. “ Please, keep him out of trouble.”

Tom held one hand out patiently. Dumbledore casually dropped Tom’s wand into his
outstretched hand. It wasn’t normal to take another wizard’s wand, in fact in most cases it
was considered quite rude. Tom didn’t seem bothered by it.

“We’ll be off now,” Dumbledore said cheerily. “I bid you all a good night. Don’t stay up too
late, it wouldn’t do well to be so sleepy tomorrow for your classes…”

Tom turned, blinking slowly as he called out smoothly: “Sleep well, Professors.”

Dumbledore paused half a step, then left as if there was never a blunder at all.

“So,” Fred said bluntly. “You’re living here with us now? In the boy’s dorms? I thought you
had uh...hospital wing?”

“A bit touchy,” Tom said without inflection. “It seems most hospitals are quite sick of me.”

George twitched, wincing quietly.

Tom took the spiral staircase with grace. Fred and George escorting him on either side. The
doors into the boys’ dorms swung open on easy hinges, magically silent as they filtered in.
Normally only the residents really entered each of the towers, it was quite odd to have so
many visitors.
“Oi, we have a surprise!” Fred hollered into the room.

Someone groaned, pulling back thick drapes. “Leave us alone, we hate your surprises- oh.”
The boy paused, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry about that mate, you need something?”

More bed curtains slid back, sliding smoothly to their resting positions. One bed was firmly
shut, likely the Weasley considering there was a lack of shouting.

“Dean Thomas, nice to meet you.” The first boy said, hopping down and padding over. He
wore socks, deciding to sleep in them. Tom met his hand, clasping it politely before his eyes
slipped aside to take vantage over the room.

“Tom.” Harry Potter said, sitting in his bed and looking very baffled. He gaped, jaw
floundering for a few moments before it settled shut. He blinked, glancing around the room
unsure. Tom smiled when the boys caught sight of the newest bed; the room shifted to
accommodate it so well it was difficult to imagine the room without.

“You’re moving in with us?” A boy gaped, looking nervous at the thought. “I mean, of
course, you can, but isn’t that...against the rules or…”

“Nah, Headmaster himself cleared it,” Fred said, giving two heavy pats to Tom’s shoulder.
“We’ve got ourselves a new lion.”

“Blimey, the Slytherins are going to throw a fit,” Dean said, looking thrilled. “I heard you
were a legend at essays. And that was from Hermione.”

“Really?” gaped one with an Irish accent. “Oh yeah, reckon this is a good one. What did you
do now, Potter? Things always are involving you.”

Harry, for the first time ever, said: “I have no idea.”

“I’m Neville.” Tom couldn’t help but feel his gut twisting at the clashing patterns of his sleep
clothes. “You can..uh…”

“Don’t mind Neville there, bit of a scaredy-cat. I’m Seamus, pop on over. Nice to meet ya,
help us stir trouble with the pink toad?”

“Trust me,” Tom said. “That wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“You summoned the wrath of the Weasleys, eh?” Dean teased, shouldering Tom pointedly as
the Gryffindor fifth years walked towards the breakfast hall.

“Apparently,” Tom said.

Both Ron and Ginny had bonded in mutual distaste of Tom. The fit Ron threw in the morning
when he learned that Tom Riddle had moved in with them- Tom was delighted to learn that
the bed curtains were spelled to prevent anyone from forcing them open from the outside.
Watching Weasley struggle to do so in a shadowed form left him nearly smiling.

“So,” Dean Thomas said. He flung one arm around Tom’s shoulder, keeping it loose and
casual. Tom didn’t react. “You were the ah, special student, yeah? Fancy private lessons and
all. You finally come down to meet us, commoners?”

“Something of that sort,” Tom said, face oddly animated as he interacted. It felt...odd. Strange
and absurd somehow that Tom Riddle would be capable of teasing. Dean Thomas clearly
hadn’t known, because he laughed right alongside.

“This is weird.” Ron huffed, sulking moodily. “All of this. I thought he was locked up!”

Harry thought so also. Something must have changed.

The Great Hall was alive and bustling with activity. The Gryffindor students had a habit to
slumber in, snoozing through the very start to stagger in before the post. Tom didn’t seem the
slightest bit alarmed. Harry would have gaped at the sight of Tom easily incorporating
himself into the normal morning bustle of Gryffindor.

“I heard the news,” Hermione said, speaking in a hushed voice. Occasionally, she’d throw
small glances in Tom’s direction. “Ginny told me last night.”

“Bastard managed to weasel his way- ouch!”

Harry offered no sympathy to Ron, who had been smacked fairly hard from Hermione’s
textbook of magical fungi. She looked worried.

“Harry...be honest…” Hermione's voice dropped to a murmur. “How is he? He

seems...different.”

“I know,” Harry admitted. “It’s...different.”

It reminded him of the diary. The tall thin Tom Riddle with an ego and confidence. Harry
could see more and more of him, fleshing out and filling out where he used to lack.

“Well, hopefully, he did get some help.”

The post arrived in a flurry of standard owls. Each shrieking and hooting loudly, stealing bits
of food. One Hufflepuff boy tossed bits of toast straight into the air, watching the ravenous
birds descend on it with a poof of feathers.

“At least he can help us with our House points…”

Behind them, over near the Ravenclaw table, someone dropped their plate with a clatter.
Utensils rattled around, juice nearly thrown from the force of their surprise. Then, a low roar
of hundreds of whispers descended on the Great Hall. An overwhelming presence of shock,
fear, and confusion.
“No way.” Neville breathed, clutching the Daily Prophet between both hands. “Grindelwald
is dead?”

“What?” Hermione gasped, reaching one hand into the air. An owl swooped over to her,
depositing the prophet into her hand. She tore the twine binding it shut, tearing into the paper
like a ravenous hound. The front cover read the same.

Gellert-Grindelwald-Discovered-Dead-Amidst-Animals!

Harry very carefully, did not look over at Tom.

“This is ridiculous.” Hermione gaped, face pale in shock and horror. “The...the paper says
that he was found in pieces. Some parts of him haven’t been recovered- he was eaten by
wolves!”

“How did wolves get into a prison?” Neville asked rhetorically.

“How did he get into wolves?” Ron countered, shoving a buttered roll into his face. “Sounds
fishy to me.”

Hermione’s eyes flickered across the page. A few classmates paused their reading simply to
stare at her. They waited patiently, knowing Hermione would summarize everything of
importance.

Dramatically, Hermione huffed and smashed the paper into her poor oatmeal. “This is
ridiculous! The Daily Prophet is phrasing it like...like some sort of conspiracy! The warden
here stated and provided evidence that Grindelwald left the castle under his own power! He
escaped and knew he would be killed yet he did it anyway!”

“Azkaban has a warden?” Lavender asked, trying her best to peel an orange with her fake
nails.

“No, he’s not in Azkaban.” Neville corrected, flushing nervously. “He...he was over in
Europe. The worlds worst. Nurmengard.”

“ Worse than Azkaban?” Dean repeated, whistling a low tune.

“Well it is!” Hermione huffed, grimacing as she pulled out the oatmeal covered prophet
simply to flip the page and keep reading. “The warden here is Cri-.” Hermione’s voice
dropped off sharply.

The table leaned in, eying her excitedly.

“The Warden is Crina Dimitriu.” Tom Riddle said, buttering both sides of a piece of toast like
an animal. “Frau Dimitriu is her title. Nurmengard has strong defenses. Grindelwald found
his moment to escape, he tried, and he failed.”

Tom Riddle took a single sharp bite out of his breakfast. Teeth crunching loudly, eyes
blinking innocently. “That’s all there is to it.”
No, Harry thought. That isn’t it.

Harry had met Grindelwald. He...he would never forget the experience. The sour tainted
feeling to his memory still left him twitching. Grindelwald would never flee like that, not
when it was equivalent to suicide. Grindelwald wouldn’t do that, but nobody else knew that.

“Oh, I love her outfit,” Lavender said, tapping on the moving picture. “Really, why couldn’t
we have her as a teacher instead?”

Crina Dimitriu looked shockingly the same on her printed canvas. She didn’t smile, don't fret.
She stood tall and firm outside, thick leather boots and her classic fur coat. It was unfastened
in the front, permitting the camera to glimpse her formal professional black attire. The
wardrobe of someone in power and knew it.

“Look at the dog next to her!” Seamus whispered, tossing one paper to Dean. Tom
intercepted it, smoothly unraveling the paper to look at it with his own eyes.

Crina Dimitriu did not smile, but she did not look afraid. Eyes sharp, left hand resting gently
on the large furred skull of Aegis the Lupescu.

“Yes,” Tom agreed calmly. “An impressive dog.”

Hermione jerked her eyes up, staring questioningly although he ignored it. The Lupescu was
clearly no dog or wolf, but the world was filled with idiots that would trust anything anyone
said.

“Well, whoever that lady is, the Defence teacher doesn’t seem to like her,” Neville
commented.

Umbridge, rather viciously, was burning a small fire on her dinner plate. Every paper she
snatched from an own she threw right into the inferno, looking smug.

“Wild, that.” Ron nodded to the paper. “Big bad dark lord, eaten by a wolf.”

“Hip hip hurray.” Dean cackled, lifting his goblet in a mock toast. “I vote we get rid of Miss
Norris and put a big shaggy wolf in the castle. Maybe it’ll eat the toad too!”

Grindelwald wouldn't have died by running. No, there was something else to it.

“When does it say he died?” Harry asked, fishing for the paper. Hermione obediently passed
it over, pointing out where on the page.

“He was found this morning,” Hermione said. “The undertakers said that he showed signs of
dying only hours earlier.”

Long after Tom had arrived last night. Grindelwald had died after Tom arrived, which meant
Tom had no way of being in the same location.

The Lupescu walked the halls of Nurmengard alone, moving on prowl. They didn’t speak
English, just howled and snarled. Grindelwald also walked the halls- but why would they turn
on him so sharply? What had he done?

“He was found outside,” Harry said, repeating the single line of text over and over. “He was
found outside.”

“Yes?” Ron asked. “He was trying to run?”

Crina said, that nobody escapes Nurmengard. Harry remembered. If he tried to run, he would
have gone for the portkey zone. Not the forest.

Harry set the paper down, then slowly looked to the left.

Tom Riddle finished his toast, licking off the shining grease from his fingertips. Clean,
unblemished fingertips. One by one, he licked off the melted butter- a portrait of decadence.

“Well, it must be nice now, Harry.” Neville tried to comfort. “Knowing there isn’t a... another
dark lord out there.”

“Yeah,” Harry said numbly. Tom ignored him, fishing for a glass of dark red cranberry juice.
With how it stained his mouth, Harry could have imagined it as wine. “It’s really nice.”

Over Tom’s head, Harry locked eyes with an equally blank-faced Albus Dumbledore.

Harry didn’t miss the way Tom’s mouth twisted into the smallest of smiles.

“How are your Occlumency sessions coming along, Harry?”

“Not...the best, Professor,” Harry admitted with a small wince. “It’s...It’s hard.”

Dumbledore nodded, pensive as he stared out the window. It was rare to catch the man
outside his office. The moment Harry had been dreading heading to Divination, Dumbledore
appeared near the main clocktower, watching the gears spin and whirl. From there, the
conversation came easy and their burdens lay flat over the clock face.

“Sir?” Harry said, quiet as he struggled for words. The clock ticked four times, counting as
he wrangled together consonants and vowels. “Does Tom seem...odd?”

“I find many things odd and peculiar to me, Harry,” Dumbledore said in a single exhale.
“But, to answer your question...I am worried about Tom.”

“He’s changed,” Harry said.

“He has, and I have not yet determined if it is for better or worse.”
Harry scuffed his shoes on the stone. Dumbledore watched the large clock spin and whirl. It
ticked, deep vibrations of its second hand sliding over old wrought iron. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Sir…” Harry paused. Tick. Tick. “With...Grindelwald…”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said. He wove his fingers together, resting them in front of his abdomen.
“I wondered when you would ask. Yes, Harry. I do not believe that Gellert died of natural
means. The man was...stubborn. Perhaps to a fault.”

Gears and metal slid together. An organic mixture of steel and iron, shaped and bent by tools
into the perfect composition and orientation. The minute hand slid, adjusting the smallest of
notches as it settled in its new home. The second hand began again.

“Gellert Grindelwald was a friend of mine, Harry,” Dumbledore confessed. “I will not lie and
say he was a good man, but he was my friend.”

Harry nodded, looking down at his shoes. He felt as if he had intruded on something special
and private. “Sir do...do you think Tom…”

“Oh Harry,” Dumbledore sighed. “In all of time...in every possibility of everything we could
ever be, we find ourselves treading into deep water of impossible speculation. We can
wonder and regret and find yourself mad with our grief. Our questions of what we should
have done could have done otherwise. At times like this, I like to reflect not on myself, but
others. I do believe that Gellert was misled. His suffering and battles left him lost and weary,
but he was my friend. Even mad with power and filled with unspeakable hate...he was family,
Harry.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“I don’t know what to do about Tom, Professor.”

Dumbledore did not turn away from the clock. He watched it in quiet vigil, counting seconds
and minutes, memories and potential. “That, Harry, is how you know you still care.”

After the sun had set, and the common room fireplaces were lit with golden flame, Harry
jerked near violently from the piercing burn of distant fury.

“Ach!” He cried, dropping his quill to press one hand across his face. Ink smeared along the
arch of his right brow, clotting in the hairs.

“You alright?” Ginny asked, voice hushed and worried. Behind them, across the room,
something fell to the ground in a muffled sound.

Harry twisted, craning to peer over the back of the chair. His face burned readily, a heavy
weight right behind his eyes. Foreign anger corkscrewed through, digging deeper and
meaner.
Tom Riddle stood stiff, frozen in mid-stride. His right hand clutched the side of a bookshelf,
knuckles white from the strength of his hand. His left hand fluttered uselessly, fingers
twitching through a spasm as he stared forward sightlessly.

“Whoa there,” Fred muttered, reaching out to help steady Harry as another wave bashed
through his skull. Almost in synchrony, Tom let out a low hissed breath and clutched the
bookshelf tighter.

“Is it...you know,” Ginny asked in a hush. “Like... that time?”

Harry felt the urge to shout, because what other possibility could this be. It wasn’t as if he
had rammed his toe into a wall.

“Here, got him,” George said, hauling over a lanky stiff boy. Ginny instantly curled her
mouth into a snarl, sniffling angrily. Tom ignored her, eyes glazed in clear pain.

“Last time they had a link or something,” Fred explained apologetically, steadying Harry with
one arm. “Want us to get the professor?”

Tom exhaled in a rush, slowly uncurling from his rigid stance. The emotions and pain washed
out not a second after, leaving Harry inexplicably exhausted.

“ Bastard.” Tom spat, vibrating either from anger or pain. “Throwing a- a spat.”

“Really riled him up.” Harry gasped, rubbing both palms into his eyes. “He’s mad.”

Over Grindelwald, that he had died. He hadn’t wanted Grindelwald to die, which made
Harry’s stomach twist.

“Breathe through it,” Fred advised, watching as Tom continued to twitch in irritation.

It was odd to have Tom in the tower. Even odder to now know that he also felt Voldemort's
emotions. Clearly they pained him just as much, which cheered Harry up on a vindictive
level.

He was fiercely reminded of Tom’s position the next morning when Slytherin sought revenge
over something and let loose two dozen conjured snakes from a cleverly placed treacle tart.
Neville had fallen fool to it, accidentally letting the little reptiles out in the common room.

“Harry!” Hermione screamed, standing on top of a table. She was careful to not step on her
stack of textbooks, now dangerously close to toppling. “Harry!”

Neville was apologizing frantically, somehow hanging from the lamp fixture suspended from
the ceiling.

Harry raced down the stairway, Tom close behind at a more curious speed. Three first years
were screaming bloody murder while a seventh year was casually using a shielding charm
and a silencing charm to continue scribbling an overdue essay.
The snakes were frantically zooming around the room, dancing along the carpet and wiggling
closer to the walls. One zoomed right into the fireplace, burning up on contact.

Tom watched the sight, rolling his eyes at the chaotic mess that descended over the room.
Somewhere, Trevor the toad gurgled loudly.

“They’re conjured,” Tom said flatly, staring at Harry with something close to exasperation.
“They aren’t sentient.”

They weren’t talking, not like the Basilisk did or like the snake Malfoy summoned had back
during the dueling club.

“Accio snake!” Harry tried, ducking quickly as the twenty-three snakes shot up from the
ground straight towards his head. He dropped to the floor, trusting his quick reflexes to save
him from a flying reptile. They had helped him out in a similar situation before.

“This is pathetic.” Tom sighed. “Incendio.”

The charm caught the wriggling mass of snakes, vanishing them all in one moment. The
conjuring hadn’t been strong enough to cause property damage, instead, all of the snakes
disappeared.

Tom looked over the room, shook his head slightly in disgust, and stormed back up the steps.

Hermione stared wide-eyed from her perch on top of her table. Nobody had made motions to
lower themselves again.

“I’ll just…” Harry paused, before chasing after Tom.

The boy wasn’t hard to miss. The rest of the dorm had vanished, leaving Tom and Harry in
mock privacy. Tom had shucked off his shirt, dressing quickly. Harry spotted only a flash of
skin before Tom was once more clothed for the day.

“Thanks.” Harry blurted. Tom looked like he wanted to bang his head against the wall. “How
do you know so much about snakes?”

Tom’s face shifted into something remarkably flat. A small furrow formed between his
brows, his hands stilled on the comforter of his bed. Clearly, he seemed torn.

Harry had begun to admit defeat when Tom talked. Stilted with small pauses, like he didn’t
comprehend why he was talking either. “I...had a snake.”

“Nagini?” Harry guessed, already knowing some truth to it.

“Yes,” Tom confirmed quietly. “Nagini. She was my companion.”

“What happened to her?” Harry tested, sitting down on his bed. Tom didn’t follow suit,
instead, he traced his fingers over the ripples of his blankets. Harry wondered distantly, where
the blanket Hermione made for him had gone.
“I left her at Hogwarts over the summer. A spell to keep her sleeping. When I returned, I
woke her. I presume she…”

He didn’t finish his sentence, Harry felt guiltily enough that he didn’t bother asking.

“The first time I heard someone else use parseltongue, I was in the Chamber of Secrets,”
Harry confessed. “It... sounded weird. But I could understand it. I used to listen to the garden
snakes in my aunt’s garden.”

Tom smiled slightly, a little uptilt to the corner of his mouth. “You killed the basilisk, you
said. With a sword.”

“The one in Dumbledore’s office.”

“Could you take me to the Chamber? I want to see the basilisk.”

“What?” Harry blurted, feeling very unsteady. “I- I don’t think that-.”

“I just want to pay respects.” Tom soothed him with a mumble. A clarification for his request.
“Cremate her properly.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling very dazed by the odd request. “I...okay then.”

They descended after lunch, during the free hour. Harry couldn’t find either Ron or
Hermione, and he felt too guilty to admit to Ginny where they were going. Tom seethed in
quiet rage when Harry directed him to the loo. Myrtle suspiciously absent when the pipes
shifted and ground and gave them entry.

Harry thought that Tom would look terrifying in the gloom of the chamber. He thought the
memories would pour over him, threatening to tug him down in the riptide. He had no reason
to fear because Tom’s face shadowed all wrong. Too gaunt, too sharp. Too pale and observant
and quiet in his respects. The body of the basilisk rest in a putrid mixture of decay and rot.
Bacteria consuming it alive, since no flies could manage through the chamber warding.

“Do you want me to say something?” Harry asked, feeling very awkward. The statue of
Salazar Slytherin looked strange with broken portions. Large chunks of broken rock, patches
of snakeskin shed throughout the tunnels.

“No,” Tom said quietly, voice smooth and soft as he looked at her corpse.

“Er- be careful! Her teeth are still dangerous.” Harry warned him.

Tom stood, miniature in wake of her large body. Something sad had happened here.

“I want to burn her,” Tom repeated quietly. He held his wand more secure, tight in his grip.
Harry followed him to the entry of the chamber, where the snake faced statues held vigil over
them all. Just beyond, the parseltongue gate would seal shut behind them.

“I’m going to set this chamber on fire,” Tom said far too contently for what he was
suggesting. “It will be a crematorium. We will leave, and not come back.”
Harry couldn’t argue because Tom had already taken two steps forward. The chamber had
always felt wrong- a sick plague that pressed a bit too close to the mind. Tom began to very
carefully move his wand through ornate systematic movements. Practicing twice before he
started to cast a spell Harry had never heard before.

The chamber pressed heavier, nearly suffocating in its presence. It felt like smoke, swaddling
his lungs and forcing its way down his throat.

Tom finished saying whatever incantation, and from his wand burst a plume of fire so bright
and hot, Harry feared they would both burn alive.

Harry had heard that basilisk scale and bone were impervious to magic, but clearly it was a
lie. The carcass burned in flashes of emerald, its venom catching light before sputtering out
in shades of fuschia and lime. Tom stood, watching impassively as his wand spat out more
fire than a Hungarian Horntail, brighter and hotter like a supernova. The weight of the
chamber didn’t leave. It pressed harder, dizzying until Harry felt near drunk under it.

Tom broke the spell, and the fire burned and raged bright and violent. Harry’s vision swam;
for a second he imagined seeing the large furious skull of a dragon made of flame.

“Let’s go,” Tom said, gripping Harry’s arm sharply. Tom staggered, swaying near drunkenly
under the heat and smoke of it. The fire crackled on bone and venom so loud, it almost
sounded like a roar.

Tom woke up to something smacking him across the face. He flinched, recoiling back with
one hand sliding under his pillow. It took him an embarrassingly long time to find his wand,
disorientedly fumbling with the handle.

The room felt odd, a strange atmosphere settling over the morning. Harry was sitting across
the room, back flush with the headboard. He looked pale, queasy and ill.

“Damn that’s creepy.” Dean Thomas said, squinting in Tom’s face. “You with us now?”

Emotions flickered through him. Too quick for him to categorize as normal. Sheer delight, an
overwhelming sense of joy that nearly left him writhing under its rawness. A low simmering
rage, bottomless loneliness with monochrome shores of hopelessness.

No, those were his emotions. He knew these waters and knew how to wrangle them back into
their proper places. The laughter, the keen sense of joy had been foreign.

“I’m fine,” Tom said, sitting up slowly. His head and vision swirled, eyes drifting as they
unfocused slightly. “Just…”

“I know,” Harry croaked across the room. “He’s...he’s really happy.”

“You-Know-Who is?” Ron asked, posturing defensively over his friend.

“Something good happened,” mumbled Harry. He was shaking quite violently, enough that
Tom could spot it across the room. The happiness lingered on the periphery of his mind, so
potent and strong that even fading he felt tempted to smile.

Harry took a few shaky breaths, forcing his body to still. Dean looked at Harry nervously, one
hand clasping Tom’s shoulder in a piercing grip.

“Something he’s been hoping for…” Harry mumbled, swaying and wincing ever so slightly.

“How did Tom get hurt?” Neville asked, worrying with his blanket. It seemed that they had
woken the entire room. “He was...he was laughing too.”

All eyes drifted to Tom, watching him. Emotions swirled, the tide rose and tugged cruelly at
his skin. Somewhere distant, he felt the prickle of a mad animal woman spitting through the
bars.

“Family thing,” Tom explained through a pounding headache. “Claircognizance.”

Seamus’ eyebrows rose as he whistled low. Ron scowled, while Neville exhaled in a rush.

“A bloody clementine?” Ron demanded angrily.

“It’s a thing you know,” Neville said quietly, flushing slightly. “Like...seers? They’re
uh...empaths?”

Through Harry’s dark hair, Tom managed to spot a very unimpressed expression.

“You can feel people’s emotions?” Dean asked, looking almost in awe with the concept.
Romanticized then. He had selected a feasible story from Crina’s collection of books.

“No,” Tom deadpanned, stretching lazily while Harry swayed still from his place in bed. “It’s
clear-knowing empathy. Intuition.”

“What am I thinking right now?” Seamus blurted, looking far too giddy with the realization.

“It doesn’t work like that! It’s...intuitively...feelings?” Neville defended lamely. “Gran had it
a bit with hearing...never managed to get away with anything…”

“You aren’t buying that rubbish are you?” Ron squawked, looking frustrated with how easily
the dorm room accepted Tom’s supposed inherited trait. “I mean, read feelings? Really?”

With one hand under his bed covers holding his wand, it wasn’t necessary to speak an
incantation. Either holding a wand, or verbally speaking- Tom could cast either way.

He looked subtly, sliding up from freckles to lock eyes with Ronald Weasley as he shifted his
wand ever so hidden.

...Far too worried over his friend. Wondering when Harry would attack him in his sleep,
spitting out words and spells. You-Know-Who, back from the grave. He was terrified of Harry
but loved him fiercely. He wondered when he would talk to his friend and be forced to dodge
a curse or-...

Ron Weasley flicked his eyes away, looking down at Harry with a tight grip.

“It isn’t rubbish,” Tom said flatly. His improvement with the spell pleased him, it wouldn't be
long until he could cast it with no wand movement or with only a whisper. “For example,
right now I have a good feeling you’re afraid Harry is going to curse you.”

Silence descended on the dorm. Neville cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Never mind me,” Tom said in a murmur. He grabbed his clothes, preparing for the day.
“Afterall, I’m just talking rubbish.”

The dorm had the decency to prepare for the day quietly. It was a curious thing, Voldemort
being happy. He hadn’t believed the creature capable of it, but clearly something had
remained. He doubted Voldemort felt such joy often, it would explain why he still found such
emotion possible.

When Hermione received her post, she unwrapped the cover and gave a yelp so loud
everyone turned to look.

“What?” Harry asked, still looking pained.

Tom paused, evaluating the state of his eggs. Voldemort had sent emotions before, in the
wake of Grindelwald. To feel emotions in advance to the post suggested the man had known
or perhaps had a way to obtain the mail earlier.

Either way, the prophet appealed to Voldemort for reasons beyond Tom’s knowledge.

Hermione spread the newspaper on the table in front of her, pushing plates and cups aside to
make room. The table turned into a mirage of movement, black and white ink dancing in
mugshots. Nine wizards and one witch. Some of the people in the photographs were silently
jeering; others tapping their fingers on the frame of their pictures.

“Antonin Dolohov,” Hermione read in a quivering voice. “Convicted of the brutal murders of
Gideon and Fabian Prewett. Augustus Rookwood, convicted of leaking Ministry of Magic
Secrets to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…”

He knew those names.

Tom stood, joining the small collection of people looking at the spread. Aristocratic faces,
thin scars over cheekbones. One woman with heavily lidded eyes shared all but gender with
one Orion Black.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Tom read out loud in a near whisper.

“You know her?” Harry asked in an equally quiet voice.

Tom stared, tracing the line of her nose. The shape of her brow and the unique arrogant turn
of lips. “She looks like someone I knew.”

Hermione ripped open the newspaper and began to read the report inside. She would likely
give an abridged summary at the end. Harry looked around the Great Hall, grimacing at the
nonchalance of other students. They had reacted more the other day to Grindelwald.

The staff table, much to Tom’s suppressed glee, told another story. Dumbledore and
McGonagall were deep in conversation, both looking extremely grave. The herbology
professor had the paper open propped against her drink. Professor Umbridge was tucking into
a bowl of porridge, she had no attention for students. Every once in a while, she glared
towards the headmaster.

The ten Death Eaters were fascinating to Tom. He hadn’t known where so many of his old
classmates went. The unfamiliar names told him that they had carried on their legacy. Malfoy,
Black, Lestrange, Dolohov. All names he knew, all faces that bore no familiarity.

Rumors were flying through the castle that some of the convicts had been spotted in
Hogsmeade, that they were going to break into Hogwarts just as Sirius Black had done.

And didn’t that prompt more questions.

Umbridge responded in threat, creating a new Decree that Tom found frustrating.

Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related
to the subjects they are paid to teach.

The decree had been the subject of some jokes. Fred and George took this in stride, ending
with more detentions.

The breakout from Azkaban humbled the woman to some degree, although it nurtured the fire
of her furious desire to bring students under her control. Tom, an unwilling bystander to her
brutal grading, watched. She seemed determined to manage firing someone, it was a race to
see if the familiar Care of Magical Creatures teacher would leave or the Divination teacher.

Tom’s studies hadn’t fallen. Crina became more strict, more demanding of him. Assignments
built on each other, compounding into overwhelming clusters of assignments and study that
occupied all his academic time. The teachers had accommodated his unusual circumstance,
rarely interacting with him in class.

Umbridge, of course, was an entirely different story.

She hadn’t managed to remove a teacher from their post yet, which left her with a much
easier target for her efforts.

Tom Riddle was something of a secret weapon to Gryffindor. Since he joined the house, the
amount of points gifted had nearly doubled. Slytherin was seething from the sudden lapse of
house points, but Tom appeared almost annoyed with the constant questions. In all lectures,
Tom would know the answer. Even the challenging near impossible questions could be
answered after a moment of thought. Snape himself failed to triumph over Tom’s knowledge
more than a handful of times.

Tom Riddle was the second coming of Hermione, revered and hated by all. Nobody hated
Tom Riddle more than Umbridge.

She had been tense, stressed and vicious in class. Tom turned the page of his book- a different
one than the class textbook- and her restraint broke.

“Mr. Riddle!” She said, standing tall in her squat glory. “Where is your textbook?”

Tom paused. He slowly set the book down on his table, lifting his head with the grace and
care of a bothered cat. Dean Thomas mentally, thanked the day Tom Riddle entered their
lives.

“I’m reading, Professor,” Tom said.

“That is not adequate reading material,” she said happily. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you in
this class before this week at all.”

Tom blinked owlishly. He squinted at her slightly, then very calmly closed his book.
Hermione gasped ever so quietly, tugging on Ron’s sleeve to prod him out of his near sleep.

“That’s because, Professor, I was recently added to the Gryffindor class schedule.”

Professor Umbridge hummed, pulling her legs in to supposedly tower over his desk. “How
unusual. You will see, Mr. Riddle, that missing two of my classes results in an automatic
suspension. Continued absences results in expulsion.”

‘Can she do that?’ someone hissed in the front. Umbridge didn’t turn to look.

“I am an international student.” Tom flatly said. “Class syllabi only apply to individuals
actually taking the class.”

“You are within my class schedule, thus you are taking my class!”

Tom nearly gawked. “I...Madam. I am an international student. By order of International

Educational Accommodations and Disabilities, I was permitted to leave due to medical
circumstances.”

“Ah, but this is Hogwarts!” Professor Umbridge beamed. “International legislature do not
apply!”

‘Yes, they do!’ Hermione hissed from the front. The two ignored her.

“...Then I have permission from the headmaster.” Tom said.

“Overruled!” Umbridge near crooned in glee. “Headmaster permissions are overruled

according to the Ministry of Magic!”
Tom’s lip twitched ever so slightly. “Isn’t that convenient.”

“You, Mr. Riddle, are expelled according to the Ministry of Magic!”

Tom didn’t react. In fact, Harry had never seen Tom so carefully blank before. Something
about his eyes or face rubbed him wrong. His personality shifting, receding behind a mask of
anonymity.

“Madam,” Tom said. “Thank you for your inquiry. According to the British Ministry of
Magic, discrimination due to medical limitations is not permitted. Under the second sub-law,
instances of institutionalization are not sufficient for the termination of educational,
professional, and social institutions.”

Umbridge’s hand curled into a small pudgy fist. “... institutionalization?”

“If you would like to expel me, you best do so,” Tom said quite pleasantly. “I’d hate to find
your license revoked due to violation of a Ministry law.”

Umbridge’s pudgy jaw trembled. “Institutionalism is not a medical practice used!”

Tom breathed calmly, a lapse of words stretching just enough that Harry had time to think oh
no.

“Substance Dependency, Madam,” Tom said nearly cheerful. “By all means, if you would
like to expel me, go ahead. I believe the International Board of Education would be invested
in the court proceedings.”

Umbridge flushed red, then darker in rage. Hermione vibrated in barely withheld awe.

“He told her!” Hermione whispered, looking at Tom as if he put the stars in the sky. “Harry!
Harry, he’s untouchable!”

“Yeah but now everyone thinks he’s a druggie,” Ron said, not looking that upset by the
discovery. “Look at Lavender, she’s freaked.”

Not only Lavender. The majority of the class looked at Tom unsettled, leaning away from
him. .The connotations of Potions Addict had the same connotation as Dark Wizard.

Tom Riddle had secured his place within the school, but only through the circulation of
rumors. If Harry thought his fourth year had been rough, it was nothing compared to a
confirmed potions addict.

Even Dean verged away from Tom for a while, only managing to fake cheer when Tom
managed to secure an OWL level charm when the class floundered.

Requests for more D.A. meetings flooded through the castle, either on scraps of parchment or
pointed looks. The recent breakout in Azkaban...a confirmed prior potions
addict...Umbridge’s new oppression. Everyone felt the stress and fear, and if they couldn’t
rely on him... who could they trust?
 Forgive us our Trespasses
Chapter Summary

Where Tom rejects all advancements; both of mind and of body.

Chapter Notes

Hi there!
Sorry it's been so long. This chapter is designed to come out on Halloween to keep a
little tradition of mine alive- but due to schedule, I decided to post it today. I hope you
all enjoy it- this story is now mapped entirely to the end and should follow the plot quite
closely.
The story will deviate very very sharply quite soon from Canon.
You're going to hate it~

Rita Skeeter was feeling incredibly off balance.

She was contacted only a few days prior by- much to her surprise, Hermione Granger. The
girl had implied heavily that she was being offered an exclusive once-in-a-lifetime interview
with the elusive Harry Potter.

Hermione however, was not a woman to be reckoned with.

“Harry!” Hermione waved, drawing attention through the crowd to redirect the boy in
question to the specific alcove of the pub.

Harry made his way towards her through the crowd, trying his best to avoid any rude
shoving. It took nearly the entire way before he realized that along with Rita and Hermione,
sat the two most unlikely drinking partners.

Harry paused, double-checking that he hadn’t fallen prey to a bafflement charm.

Luna Lovegood waved politely, both her hands wrapped around a glass tankard of something
green. Tom Riddle looked somewhere between exasperated, and incredibly unsettled.

“You’re early!” Hermione beamed. She shifted along the booth seat, pressing slightly into
Luna who casually clambered onto Tom’s right leg to accommodate Hermione’s movement.
Tom inhaled sharply, stared sightlessly at the wall across from them, and ignored the blonde
girl perched on his thigh. “I hadn’t expected you for another half hour!”
“So, what’s going on?” Harry asked slowly, feeling very overwhelmed. Tom looked like he
wanted to be anywhere but trapped in a booth between Luna Lovegood and Rita Skeeter. At
least the woman didn’t know who he was- otherwise she would be lethal with her pen.

“Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you arrived,” said Rita. She took a loud
slurp of her drink. “I suppose I’m allowed to talk, aren’t I?”

“I suppose you are,” Hermione said coldly. Luna took a large gulp of her drink, ignoring the
green foam that painted her upper lip. Tom hadn’t touched his drink, he looked pained by the
entire situation.

Rita scowled, looking very annoyed. She took one more gulp of her drink, near the bottom.
With a bit of venom she said: “You haven’t mentioned any deal yet, Miss Prissy, you just told
me to turn up. One of these days…”

“Yes, yes, one of these days you’ll write horrible stories-.”

“If we could shift to the matter at hand,” Tom said flatly. Luna turned to look over her
shoulder at him, nearly smacking his cheek with her blonde hair. He ignored her and
continued: “It would be greatly appreciated.”

Rita snorted. “Who is this one? Your guard dog?”

“Bark,” Tom said deadpan. Rita paused and looked at Tom with clear surprise. Her eyebrows
rose above her horned classes, her lip shifting into a crooked smile. Tom stared at her blankly.
A mutual kinship passed between them- then Rita downed her glass, lifted her wand and gave
a whistle.

From the bar area, two new glasses came soaring over. Tom’s eyes brightened slightly,
evaluating her before he huffed a small sound that could have been a scoff. He accepted the
glass without word, taking a sip while Rita did the same.

“Oh,” Luna said dreamily. “You’re underage, but I won’t tell.”

“If you take this from me,” Tom said in a calm voice. “Someone will be grievously
wounded.”

“Huh, I like him,” Rita snorted, taking a sip from her own drink. They both smelled strong
and foul, enough that Hermione gaped, speechless.

“I- you-,” she floundered. “Tom Riddle! You are underage!”

Tom rolled his eyes tiredly, then pointedly took a fair swig of whatever alcoholic beverage
Rita had brought. “Terms. Discuss.”

Luna hid her laugh into her green monstrosity.

Hermione flushed red but stiffly began her negotiations. “I want you to report the true story,
all of the facts from Harry himself. Exactly as he says them. He’ll give you all the details,
he’ll tell you the names of the undiscovered Death Eaters Harry saw, he’ll tell you everything
you want to know about Voldemort…” Hermione paused before throwing an unimpressed
look at Rita’s gaping. “The Prophet wouldn’t print it. Which is why I brought along a friend.
This is Luna Lovegood, her father is the editor of The Quibbler.”

Rita burst out laughing so loudly, she had to use one hand to muffle her guffaws. “You think
that- that people will listen to The Quibbler?”

Luna hummed contently, finishing her strange green drink. She pushed it to the center,
adjusting and causing Tom to flinch against the back of the seat. “Oh, sorry,” Luna
apologized. “I’m a bit heavy.”

Harry noted, that Tom’s lower lip had turned white from how tightly he was pressing his
mouth together. Surely it couldn’t be that awkward.

Sorry mate, Harry thought, taking a sip of his butterbeer.

“The Daily Prophet’s version of the Azkaban breakout had some gaping holes in it. I think a
lot of people will be wondering whether there isn’t a better explanation of what happened and
if there’s an alternative story available, even if it’s published in an...unusual magazine, I think
they might be keen to read it.”

Rita tilted her head slightly to the side. “Fine, I know why you three are here. But you…”

Rita turned her body, staring pointedly at Tom. The boy in question shifted his gaze and
stared at Rita with the emotions of a corpse.

“You’re interesting, aren’t you?” Rita mused with a foxy smirk. “Why would the boy-hero
bring along a... charming young man with him…”

Tom lifted one eyebrow and gave the impression of being incredibly unimpressed. “Rita
Skeeter. You are a very desperate woman, aren’t you?”

Rita’s smile shifted into a pointed frown. “You’re rude, aren’t you. Tom Riddle, was it?
Strange, I haven’t heard about you before…”

“You wouldn’t,” Tom said. “I’m an international student under the educational overseer of
Crina Dimitriu. I don’t frequent Hogwarts often.”

Rita leaned back slightly puzzled. “Dimitriu, huh? I know that name…”

“Oh, she’s a very interesting lady,” Luna said pleasantly. “She’s the Warden of Nurmengard. I
do love her cloaks, a pity where she gets the fur…”

“Nurmengard,” Rita said frozen. “ Nurmengard. As in-...”

“Yes,” Tom said, knocking back the very last of his drink. He looked very tired. “I would
appreciate discussing terms, I have more important things to get to.”

“Like what?” Rita snarked a bit salty. She shuddered with her entire body, before nodding
jerkily and fishing out a quill. Hermione looked the faintest bit pleased with herself.
“How much will I be paid for this?”

“This is out of the kindness of your heart,” Tom said flatly. “Otherwise we will have a...
situation, it seems.”

Rita’s hands stiffened slightly before she breathed and nodded. Tom sent one bored look at
the Quick-Quotes Quill, and it was swiftly packed away in favor of another quill.
Fascinating, what the threat of imprisonment can do.

“Fire away, then, Rita,” said Hermione serenely, fishing out a cherry from her glass. Rita’s
lips tightened slightly.

“We’ll start with the basic,” Rita said. “Describe him to me.”

Harry twitched slightly, ducking his head with a grimace. “He’s...disgusting.”

“If that’s all you’ve got for me,” Rita said flatly. “I’ll be needing another drink.”

“Seconded,” Tom said. Luna twisted to smack him gently- Tom shuddered a full-body flinch.
He said in a very calm voice. “Lovegood. Stop moving, or I will stun you.”

“That’s not very nice,” Luna said without any indication his threat affected her.

“He’s all...snake,” Harry described limply. “All snake-like. He has no nose-.”

“No nose,” Rita repeated flatly. “I’m expected to believe this.”

“He has red eyes,” he continued without paying any mind to Rita’s disdain. “He...he talked in
this...shrill voice like a bird. Or a mandrake. Paperwhite skin…”

“Right, well, this was fun,” the reporter said exhaustedly. “This all sounds positively like a
firewhiskey dream, not like what I wanted as a story-.”

“This is pathetic,” Tom muttered. “Potter, look at me. I’ll do it for you.”

“Oh, so he’ll do it-.”

“Rita, shut up,” Harry growled. He...hadn’t really used the weird link between them. Tom
already looked a bit uncomfortable, but that may have been Luna’s literal seat on him. Tom
stared at Harry with tired eyes- when had he developed bags?

Tom twitched slightly, and Harry felt everything jolt like one of Dudley’s pellet guns right
between his eyes.

“Ah!” Harry hissed, smacking one hand up against his forehead- and Tom continued to stare
right through him.

“He’s tall, likely 184 centimeters…” Tom mused with flat glassy eyes. Harry felt his
headache burn entirely different from every time Voldemort tried to mess with his skull. Tom
felt like a poker, pressing and jabbing in but not necessarily agonizing. “Emaciated,
byproduct of the ritual used to resurrect him. I’d suggest rune work as well as dark blood
magic- yes you can imply he murdered children.”

“I love you,” Rita said awestruck. “How are you doing this?”

“Claircognizance.”

“Oh, I love your type,” Rita beamed, hastily scribbling. “You all have the best
information...go on, you’re getting to the good stuff.”

Harry had not found the idea of recalling the experience of Voldemort enjoyable. Rita pressed
for everything he could remember- which somehow was filtered through by Tom’s own
invasion into Harry’s head as he critically surveyed the same gap of knowledge but detailed it
much more...eloquently.

Harry could see why Tom had expert marks in all of his classes. His descriptions rivaled that
of authors, much better than Gilderoy Lockhart. Tom had sat there calm and glassy-eyed as
he explained everything Harry wished he could say, in better words.

The headache didn’t fade, but it didn’t grow. It maintained at a steady irritating burn between
his eyes, something that went away with the curtains drawn and an hour in quiet. His entire
body buzzed a bit- but more startlingly he felt flashes and drifting flares of foreign concepts.
Touches of emotions that didn’t feel like Tom, but certainly weren’t his either.

It was... scary. A sort of fear that drew on his worst ideas of going insane. There was a part of
him, as Tom droned flatly about Death Eaters, who felt an all-consuming compulsion to take
an empty glass and eat it. It vanished, only for another strange compulsion to claw his own
lungs out.

There also existed a deep pressing ache, like a soreness that hadn’t faded. A bruise on his
brain that throbbed and made everything taste ( feel? ) sour.

His legs hurt under a significant weight, his hip socket, and bone ground together like
tectonic plates. What was that?

It wasn’t an embarrassing situation of slight discomfort which Harry first imagined plagued
Tom. It felt...serious. Like a sickness.

Was that the issue that Tom still struggled with? That?

“I can’t wait to see what Umbridge thinks of you going public,” said Dean, sounding
awestruck at dinner on Monday night. Seamus was shoveling down large amounts of
chicken-and-ham pie on Dean’s other side. Both boys were listening, although Tom wasn’t
from where Dean had obnoxiously thrown his arm around the boy’s shoulders.

“It’s the right thing to do, Harry,” said Neville who was sitting to Harry’s side. “It must
have...been really tough talking about it.”
“Yeah,” mumbled Harry. Tom had done all the work. “But people have to know what
Voldemort is capable of.”

‘That’s right...people should know…”

Seamus looked up and caught Harry’s eye. A second and ahead jerk in Dean’s direction gave
everything Harry needed to figure out what the boy was asking. What’s up with them?

Tom looked horrible. Ever since Harry felt it, he could see the signs in Tom. The shadows in
his eyes, the slight lull before he moved. The way he would twitch and take slightly longer to
stand than others. He was...different.

Harry didn’t know what to do about that.

Harry slept with an assortment of dreams and visions. He dreamed that Neville and Professor
Sprout were waltzing around the Room of Requirement while Professor McGonagall played
the most horrible shrieking bagpipes. It was an absolute disaster- one reminiscent of the Yule
Ball. He watched them happily for a while, deciding to venture outside.

Harry stepped out of the door in his dream and found himself facing a dark black door.

He walked towards it...a sense of mounting excitement shifted through him. Buzzing like
liquid adrenaline, bubbling like a pepper-up potion.

No, better. So much better. The instant euphoria and relief of silvery-blue shifting down his
throat. The haze and lull of something tugging and twirling...Harry was sinking through
water into a bottomless depth and he felt so wonderful…

He jerked, shrieking and burning and he needed to get to the door- He stretched out his hand
to push it wide and--.

I am not in the mood.

What? Who had said-

You’re not the audience.

Bugger off, bastard.

Harry knew cockney. He knew cockney and that accent and-

And then everything was on fire, and everything hurt, and somewhere over his screaming, he
heard the repeated terrifying words in an unfamiliar voice: lovely, lovely love.
 By Order of The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts

Any student found in possession of the magazine The Quibbler will be expelled.

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-seven.

By the end of that day, though Harry had not seen so much as a corner of The Quibbler
anywhere in the school, the whole place seemed to be quoting the interview at one another.
Whispering it before classes, discussing it over lunch- even the owlry filled with whispers.

Meanwhile, Professor Umbridge was stalking the school, stopping students at random and
demanding they give her every paper for inspection. Of course, the students thought ahead
and Professor Umbridge found not a single paper anywhere in the school.

The teachers were, of course, forbidden from mentioning the interview, but they found ways
to express their feelings. Free points, wide grins, Professor Trelawney broke into hysterical
sobbing and let them all out early.

The true cherry on top of it all was Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s reactions. They hid together
quietly in the library, whispering furiously to one another. It was easy to understand why;
Harry had listed all of their father’s as Death Eaters.

“And the best bit is,” whispered Hermione gleefully as they left the library, “they can’t
contradict you, because they can’t admit they’ve read the article!”

Harry was claimed the hero in the Gryffindor common room that night. Food and drinks all
smuggled in- although Hermione confiscated all alcohol well in advance. The party raged on
well into the night, festivities and fireworks popping around from both Fred and George’s
new inventions. Harry couldn’t remember feeling this happy in quite a while.

“Ach,” Harry winced, stumbling slightly. His head hurt, a crippling headache that almost
instantly washed aside with vertigo. The room tilted concerningly, then repaired itself as if
charmed.

“You alright?” Fred asked, gripping his arm carefully. “You good?”

“Yeah, I...don’t know what that was,” Harry confessed. “Really sudden. Not like...before.”

Fred looked at him worried, but let it be as another cake appeared on a platter carried by three
house-elves.

The vertigo stuck around slightly, twisting into nausea. Harry couldn’t describe it, but
something felt a bit off. Had he eaten a puking pastry by accident? Had he drank too many
butterbeer and his blood sugar was taking a break?
Dean Thomas looked ill himself, with red-rimmed eyes and Seamus talking to him worriedly.
Maybe something was going around…

Harry’s stomach twisted, his head buzzed. To disappointed moans from the many people
sitting around him, Harry said his goodnights and made his way up the stairway.

The dormitory was empty when he reached it. His head buzzed, eyesight blurring slightly
with a barely restrained agonizing gap - then nothing. Completely normal again.

“Tom?” Harry blurted, spotting the boy in the furthest corner of the tower. “You alright?”

Tom curled up, his face down into his knees and his back flush against the stone wall. Tom
said nothing.

“Tom…?” Harry asked, closing the door behind him quietly and locking it for good measure.
If Tom was upset, he didn’t want anyone accidentally barging in. Harry took a few steps
forward, feeling more shaken the more he could see of Tom.

The boy had lost his outer robe somewhere, his clothing a bit rumpled from his awkward
curl. The boy had a white knuckle grip around his knees.

“Tom, are you okay?” Harry asked. He settled into an awkward kneel right in front of the
boy. He touched him, shaking his shoulder gently. “Are you okay?”

Tom’s entire body shuddered- arching conflictedly into the touch and further away. After a
second with shaky breathing, Tom lifted his head. He looked...vacant.

“You don’t look good…” Harry said. “Are you alright?”

Tom said: “Did Dean send you?”

“Uh, no?” Harry blinked quickly. “I can go get him? You alright?”

Tom closed his eyes, inhaled with a large shuddering gasp of air, and said: “Why are you
here?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but something in Tom fractured before he had a chance.
Tom’s expression shifted into something wild, fringing on panic and anger and devastating
vulnerability. He flinched back from Harry, while also curving forwards and accusing:
“You’re just like him, aren’t you? You’re here for that- everyone, everyone wants...wants…”

“Whoa there,” Harry said, placing his other hand gently on Tom’s other shoulder.

Something died in Tom’s eyes; Tom wildly lunged forward and clamped his mouth over
Harry’s.

Harry couldn’t think. His head shifted with sickening vertigo and horrible panic and a
disgusting filthy sense of acceptance. A violent sickness that made his throat tighten. He
didn’t know what was going on and felt an all-encompassing need to sob hysterically.
Harry realized that Tom was still there only after a sharp pain in his mouth. Harry jerked back
violently, shoving Tom off of him who instantly shuddered and fisted his hair tightly. The
other boy looked on the verge of some sort of breakdown.

Did he just bloody kiss me? Harry thought, cupping his mouth only to yelp as his hand came
away blood coated. He bloody bit my lip in half.

Tom meanwhile, mumbled something like a shaky polite excuse, then fled from the room
stumbling.

What the hell?

Tom didn’t come back, he vanished somewhere in the chaos of the party downstairs. Harry
was exhausted, cripplingly exhausted. He collapsed and dreamed of pain and disgust. A
crippling acceptance of absolute self-loathing.

Aren’t you a pretty thing.

Harry screamed and gagged and couldn’t think or shout because there was nobody and- and
he needed a potion. He needed a potion-

Then Harry woke up.

Tom hadn’t returned all night.

A week after Tom’s inexplicable behavior, things appeared to smooth over. Dean still
hovered with an air of uncertainty, much more aware of his often he had thrown his arm over
Tom’s shoulder. Tom ignored him stiffly, blatantly uninterested. Seamus tried his best, but
there was only so much one could do when a friend faced visceral rejection. Tom smoothed it
over slowly- he didn't mention 'That Night' once.

Classes were difficult, Harry received two D’s on his essays, and Snape had lunged back into
his skull with the determination of Fang trying to get to a bone.

“Get up, Potter.”

‘Why don’t you bite me?’ Harry thought angrily. He kneeled on the floor of Snape’s office,
trying to clear his head once more. He hadn’t realized how many memories he had that
contained Dudley and his gang humiliating him.

“That last memory,” said Snape. “What was it?”

“I don’t know,”’ said Harry. He climbed wearily to his feet, knees shaking. It was getting
increasingly difficult to disentangle separate memories from the confusing mess of sensory
input. A collection of thoughts and dreams and sounds that couldn’t be deciphered.
Harry realized tiredly, that in the last collection of mental images, it features a high pitched
voice that haunted his dreams.

“Remind me why we are here, Potter,” Snape said calmly.

“So I can learn Occlumency,” said Harry. He stared at the wall pointedly. He remembered
that eye contact was important for legilimency.

“Correct, Potter. I would have thought that after two months’ worth of lessons you might
have made some progress. How many other dreams have you had involving the Dark Lord?”

‘Involving Tom also?’ Harry wondered tiredly. “Just the one.”

“Perhaps you actually enjoy having these visions and dreams, Potter. Do they make you
feel...important?”

“No, they don’t,” Harry said tightly. His hand itched to draw his wand- he wasn’t stupid
enough to actually do it.

“That is just as well, Potter. You are neither special nor important. It is not up to you to
determine what the Dark Lord is discussing.”

Harry couldn’t help it, a low tide of anger washed across his consciousness. Without
thinking, he said: “No- that’s your job.”

For a moment, both Snape and Harry stared at each other. Snape’s face calm, and blank. Dark
eyes glittering before he tilted his head ever so slightly. “We will start again.”

Harry felt another surge- the rage tugging downwards in a suffocating grip of riptide.
Instinctual terror washed over him, and Snape said: “Legilimens!”

It stabbed into him- and then from somewhere between Harry’s ears, something prodded back
curiously.

Visions washed through Harry, tugging him into a disorienting swirl. The sensation of his
arm snapping and the gore-agony of the bone grinding in his muscle. A million firecrackers
across his skin, the way his throat rasped as he screamed reflexively.

The prodding ventured deeper, brushing behind him comforting and fascinated. It said
without words: What is this?

Harry grit his teeth as a hundred Dementors swooped towards him. He felt cold, so terribly
cold- he couldn’t imagine what joy or love or compassion could ever feel like. The rattling
breath, the stink of decay and rot…

Help! Harry wanted to scream. He knew that Snape would not withdraw, not so easily given
that he sunk into Harry’s memories like a knife into pudding.

Tom gazed down at them with sightless eyes and gave the impression of a smile.
Hello there, Tom said calmly. Isn’t this a surprise.

The dementors lunged forward, shrieking and draining…

...And then they vanished and left behind a corridor of iron cages with a freezing draft
washing over them all.

“What is this, Potter?” Snape asked him, standing across from him in his office. The walls on
the shelf were melting, glass oozing and shriveling before the animal parts began to wriggle
on their own. It felt like a fever dream, a hallucination brought on by a dark curse.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, he looked at his hand and saw the flesh melt away like candle
wax. He wriggled his skeleton fingers, spotting the joints articulating.

Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me, they heard without words. Tom felt
and seemed in all contexts, amused with them. He appeared like a mirage on the horizon,
gazing at the melting clocks and jars and wriggling pickled eels at their feet. The desks
morphed with a hellish howl into iron bars. Tom said entertained: “I was in prison, and ye
came unto me.”

“Potter-,” Snape started. His words choked off when his lips began to melt away just like
Harry’s hand. Tom smiled at the sight.

“Or rather,” Tom mused openly. “Perhaps you should say...And forgive us our trespasses,
Professor.”

Harry swallowed dryly, marveling over the strange sensation of not having a throat. “Hey,
Tom.”

“He’s in your mind,” Tom said curiously. The walls were flickering into large slabs of stone-
portions destroyed by an unseen explosion. The cages were rumbling like muggle engines-
the hallways snarled like dogs. Tom grinned- both Snape and Harry watched as the boy’s
features rearranged grotesquely into a dozen different strangers. “He is a legilimens,” Tom
said with the voice of four people screaming.

Snape looked appalled, physically (mentally?) recoiling from Tom’s monstrous appearance.

“He’s teaching me Occlumency,” Harry explained. The living eels writhed on the floor,
flopping about until they transformed into a collection of severed tongues. “Shielding my
mind.”

“Oh,” Tom breathed with discolored eyes and the look of a feral animal. “You should know,
Professor. I do not take kindly to spies.”

Tom’s smile widened to impossible proportions- splitting his face gruesomely until his face
elongated into a wolf. It lunged forward- the walls melted and Harry found himself crawling
across the ground.

He couldn’t stop it, the all-consuming need. He climbed about the walls, fingers peeling and
breaking from where he lodged them into the cobblestone- he but off the nails and ate them
like candy. He needed more, he was so hungry…

Then eat, Tom whispered bemused.

He was fishing along the banks of a river. The sky was grey, spotted with dozens of vultures
swooping high over broken buildings. His lure floated, stinking of decomposition. He held
the thin twine tightly, knife ready to slash any fish that took a bite from the flesh he tore from
a festering corpse.

You wanted to see, Professor?

He knew the feeling, the weight of a brick in his hand. The edges bit into his scab crusted
fingers. He lifted the brick, rotating it in the light to marvel at the brain and bone coating a
corner. The man’s skull had crunched too easily.

Then take a look.

Their mind crumbled and broke apart. Bang, they smashed their skull against the ground.
Bang, skull crunched above their ear. Bang, they couldn’t stop it. Bang.

“Enough!” Snape screamed.

Harry collapsed to the ground- he felt as if his head had been placed inside the bell
clocktower. Everything rang in a nauseating twitter- the ground refused to lay flat.

Snape took several staggering steps backward, his back colliding into his shelves and
knocking the jars to his feet. They broke wetly, the eels remained dead.

“I…” Snape said shakily. His skin looked pale, and his body vibrated in tremors.
“What...what was…”

Harry did not speak, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to. Everything felt so real- so...present. Even
when viewing his memories, he existed cognizant of his own body. His own self and
existence. Just then...there was no Harry.

They both struggled to recover, shaking through the aftershocks.

Fourteen minutes later, according to the clock on the wall, the door to the office opened. Tom
Riddle staggered in, his cloak thrown on inside out in his haste. He looked weak, exhausted
and tired with dark bags under his eyes. He slumped in the doorway, resting on the wooden
support and rasped: “That was rude.”

Snape flinched away. The man composed himself, dragging his feet ad body into an upright
position. Tom sniffed wetly, he wiped his nose and smeared about fresh blood.

“What was that?” Snape asked in a quiet voice. “That was not…”

“Occlumency?” Tom asked. He grimaced at the blood on his hand. “No, it isn’t.”
Tom said nothing else, looking very annoyed at the disruption itself. Harry staggered to his
feet, falling into a nearby desk.

“Tom,” Harry whispered. “Those weren’t...your memories, were they?”

Tom didn’t blink. “No.”

“They were memories,” Snape said horrified. “The...partition between the owner…There is
no self within your mind- there is no self.”

Harry didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded horrible given by Snape’s voice. He had
never heard the man’s voice waver before.

Tom tilted his head, looking at Snape with the smallest spark of curiosity. “But Professor- I’m
standing here, aren’t I?”

Snape stared at Tom as if he were the accumulation of all his failures. “Get out.”

Tom smiled politely, grabbed Harry’s arm with a bloodied hand, and hauled him from the
dungeons.

“How did you do that?” Harry croaked tiredly. Tom flung one of Harry’s arms over his
shoulders. He dragged the boy up the stairwells.

“Creativity,” Tom avoided. “You should not go back there.”

“Yeah, I’m getting the same feeling,” Harry agreed.

They walked slowly, lumbering along. Harry was thankful whatever troubles Tom felt prior
had resolved themself in the week away. According to Hermione, the boy had been hiding
about in the library studying the concept of emotions and light magic philosophy near
religiously. Harry hadn’t the mind to follow such a trail of thought.

They neared the upper landing when a high pitched scream echoed along the corridors. Tom
paused- consequently Harry too paused. The portraits reacted far faster, rushing along from
frame to frame towards the sound. One painted tiger used a quidditch post as a springboard in
its path.

The screams were coming from the entrance hall; they grew louder the closer the two drew.
When they reached the top, they found the entrance hall packed.

Students had drifted and rushed to the noise, now they gathered curiously in a great circle
near the marble staircase. Tom dragged Harry through a collection of Slytherin students.
Professor McGonagall stood directly opposite Harry on the other side of the circle; she
looked as though she were faintly ill.
“Professor Trelawney…” Harry recognized. She stood alone in the middle of the entrance
hall with her wand in one hand, and an empty sherry bottle in the other. She looked utterly
mad; her hair sticking up on end and her glasses lopsided. Her shawls and scarves trailed
dangerously behind her, looking like a raggedy old doll falling apart at her stitches. Two large
trunks lay on the floor beside her, one of them upside down. Trelawney stared upwards at
something Harry could not see.

“You didn’t realize this was coming?” Professor Umbridge said. “Incapable though you are
of predicting even tomorrow’s weather, you must surely have realized that your pitiful
performance during my inspections, and lack of any improvement, would make it inevitable
you would be sacked?”

“You can’t!” Trelawney howled. “You can’t sack me! I’ve been here for sixteen years!
Hogwarts is my home!”

Harry felt Tom shudder, he heard the breathy scoff. Tom had a keenly focused gaze
somewhere into the crowd. His nose had stopped bleeding although the stains made it seem
as if he were a particularly messy vampire from a witch’s teen novel.

“What?” Harry whispered.

Tom looked at him with one slightly bloodshot eye. His complexion pasty, with little black
scabs near his cheekbones. “Regardless of feelings, Hogwarts is only home to those who are
given permission.”

Harry felt cold at the thought and the blunt implication that permission was not guaranteed.
The oak front doors swung open- Dumbledore appeared in the entrance. What he had been
doing outside was a mystery, but his entrance was certainly dramatic to draw attention.
Leaving the doors open, he strode forward to Trelawney and offered her his hand.

Tom shifted again, body tensing in agitation. Harry heard not what Umbridge and
Dumbledore were saying. He only had eyes for Tom’s narrowed eyes and downward mouth.
He never had liked Dumbledore.

“He kicked you out?” Harry whispered horrified. “He wouldn’t let you stay at Hogwarts?”

The war occurred in Tom’s time. The blitz.

Tom said nothing.

Through the misty archway of the front door, a large creature strode forward calmly. Hooves
clicked softly over the marble floor, white-blond hair and tail swished about.

“This is Firenze,” said Dumbledore happily. “I think you’ll find him suitable.”
 Your Cross to Carry
Chapter Summary

Where Tom has his burdens he will always carry alone.

And Harry provides him the means to take flight.

Chapter Notes

Hello everyone!!
With the change of the plot and how I'm structuring this story, I have finally decided to
lower the Chapter Count.
This story is now 25 Chapters .
I hope you all enjoy!

Classroom eleven situated itself on the ground-floor nearest a courtyard exit, that connected
itself to a winding path out to the Forbidden Forest. The classroom had never been used
regularly. Instead, for as long as Harry knew it, it served as a storeroom for extra cauldrons
and pots used by the House Elves every feast. The room had a slightly musty smell to it- of
industrial iron polish and pine-sol used on the floorboards.

When Harry entered the room with Ron close behind him, the floorboards only existed for a
handful of strides before they gave way to soft soil. A dozen varieties of moss thrived in the
dim lighting of an artificial clearing, bordered by oak trees and elms and the occasional large
boulder. Slanting beams of light trickled through a high canopy of leaves, giving the room a
mystical feeling to it.

Students were already sitting on the ground with their backs resting against tree trunks or
their bags. In the middle of the room stood Firenze.

“Harry Potter,” he said smoothly once Harry entered the room. He gave a nod of foreign
greeting, one which Harry wasn’t sure how to reciprocate. “It was foretold that we would
meet again.”

“Nice to see you,” Harry said with a weird feeling smile. The room smelled a bit like flowers
that made him sneeze.

“Professor Dumbledore has kindly arranged this classroom for us,” said Firenze once
everyone settled down. “It is imitation of my natural home. I would have preferred to teach
you in the Forbidden Forest...but this is not possible.”
Firenze took one step forward, his hind left hoof crushed over a small rock with a loud
clicking noise. A few students looked in awe at the horse body. Firenze’s eyes slid to the
door, waiting patiently as his tail swished around his hind ankles.

The door opened and shut in a single movement of unhesitating intent. Tom Riddle strode
forward, looking enlivened at the spelled room. Firenze’s tail swished twice more in a
subconscious movement.

“We meet at last,” Firenze said in a smooth low rumble. He strode forward two steps, lifting
his arms in a configuration nobody understood. “Thomas Riddle.”

Tom frowned and crossed his arms slightly. “Dumbledore announced your name is Firenze.”

“It is,” the centaur agreed. “You do not belong in my presence, child. Your situation has been
made aware to me, but make no mistake of my generosity.”

Tom ignored him and walked further into the room. A few other students threw him curious
looks which he ignored.

“Let us begin,” Firenze said. He lifted both arms high to the leafy canopy above them and
demanded the light to dim. Stars emerged high above them, sparkling in constellations and
charts that Harry had mapped in Astronomy class.

“Lie back upon the floor and observe the heavens. Here is written for those who had forever
see,” Firenze said. “I know that you have learned the names of the planets and their moons in
Astronomy. You have mapped their path across the sky. Centaurs have unraveled the
mysteries of these movements over centuries, and we have seen the secrets that are granted to
us.”

Firenze nodded to each of the students, who all seemed somewhat awed by his presence.
Even Parvati who had adored Trelawney was silent in her seat.

“We can gaze into the heavens and see reflections of those before us,” Firenze explained,
tracing a collection of glimmering lights with one hand. “Convergence of paths dictate the
balance of life and energy and those that should not be.”

“Can you give us an example?” Parvarti asked in a loud whisper. Nervous and excited with
the new form of sight. Firenze lowered his hand slowly, his tail swishing slightly.

“The convergence of the moon in her path destines many things,” Firenze said. “Her balance
and tug may alter that of the future based on her allignment. What humans call a lunar eclipse
gazes across many possible futures. Power, suffering, pain. They exist outside of balance as
she struggles to right herself once more.”

“A lunar eclipse?” Ron muttered with a scowl. “A blood moon? That’s it?”

“Do not hold it so lightly,” Firenze warned. “There is no coincidence for that of the natural
world. Those born under a red moon and under her escape are forever cursed with
misalignment in the natural world.”
“So a lunar eclipse on a full moon, and then until the next new moon is bad luck?” Parvarti
struggled to recall. “How is it bad luck?”

“They are unbalanced, shifted a step out of canter,” Firenze said. “Many instances have
occurred throughout time. The Dark Lord who damages our allignments was born a waning
crescent under the light of a red moon.”

Ron stiffened so firmly it was a miracle he didn’t pull a muscle.

Harry, on the other hand, stopped breathing entirely. Firenze turned his body, eyes glowing
eerily like a cat and he said: “And you Harry Potter, were born on the waning gibbous under
a red moon.”

The O.W.L.s were drawing even fearer. All the fifth years were suffering from stress to some
degree, but it took only until Hannah Abbott fainted from exhaustion did Madam Pomfrey
begin to monitor the population. Calming Draughts were passed around carefully, soothing
the hysterical breakdowns and managing the worst of the anxiety-ridden students.

Tom, of course, seethed in open rage when Madam Pomfrey outright denied him any potion
assistance.

“We don’t want any of that business,” she said sternly. “If I hear you’ve been sneaking from
the other students, I will have strong words for you, young man.”

If it had not been for the D.A. lessons, Harry thought he ould have been extremely unhappy.
At times, he felt his life’s ambition in the practice spells and training within the room. He
swelled with pride as he looked around at his fellow D.A. members and saw how far they had
come. Indeed, Harry sometimes wondered how Umbridge was going to react when all of the
students received such high grades…

Fred and George brought his concerns to Harry during their new unit- Harry wanted them to
learn the Patronus.

“We’re worried about him,” Fred said with a shudder. “He isn’t doing so well, mate.”

“He looked horrible, barely sleeping and snapping at everyone.”

“Merlin knows we’d be snapping if we didn’t have this here.”

“But he doesn’t have anything. He’s going to kill Miss Norris, Harry!”

All of that was a fair point, which led Harry into doing something that Hermione was very
firmly against.

“Don’t you want to try?” Harry asked Tom awkwardly. All throughout the room, students
were attempting to cast a Patronus. A few people were better than others, such magic coming
to them easily. Cho Chang managed her Patronus on the second try, laughing delightedly at
the large swan soaring throughout the room.
“Not especially,” Tom said with a flat voice. His jaw clenched as another student managed a
Patronus.

“Harry!” Lavender shouted angrily, her wand only managed short silvery puffs. “I can’t do
it!”

Neville was having trouble too. His face screwed up in concentration, but only thin wisps
ever left his wand.

“You’ve got to think of something happy,” Harry reminded them.

“I’m trying,” said Neville miserable. The boy was so worked up his brow began to sweat.

“Harry! I think I got it!” Seamus shouted from the other end of the room. He had been
brought along personally by Dean, who was avoiding Tom awkwardly, to the Room for his
very first meeting. “I...oh it’s gone!”

Hermione’s Patronus, a shining silver otter, played around the floor with encouraging
squeaks. Hermione beamed proudly. “They are sort of nice, aren’t they?”

The room above their heads transformed into a menagerie of mercury animals. Each gentle
and kind, they played and tussled with one another as their casters laughed in pride.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try?” Harry asked Tom. The boy hadn’t attempted the
incantation once, although he watched everyone with a very sharp eye.

“I won’t be able to cast this magic,” Tom said. “It’s extraordinarily light. I don’t have the
capacity.”

“Er, light magic is...easy?”

Tom looked at Harry with a pang of disappointment. “It’s different fundamentally. Light
magic draws on emotional impulses, affecting external environments and solidifying intent.”

Harry struggled to follow. His Patronus stag bounded over curious, butting its soft nose into
his arm. “I’m not following.”

Tom exhaled through his nose. “Light magic takes your emotions and gives them intent. Dark
magic takes your intentions and gives you emotions. Is that simple enough, Potter?”

That was all that light and dark magic were?

He had heard horrible things about dark magic, about how it corrupted over time and was
made to hurt other people. “What do you mean by intent and emotions?”

Tom shifted, rising from where he had been sitting on a stack of cushions. “This Patronus
charm. It takes your emotion of joy and happiness and uses it as fuel. It forms your emotions
into a form, into intent. Patronus change from one person to the next because emotions are
unique to each individual.”
“Okay, I’m following,” Harry said. “That’s why Polyjuice won’t change your Patronus.”

Tom looked for a split second, pleased with Harry’s knowledge. “Yes. Dark magic takes your
visualized intent and uses your desire to create a tangible effect. Transfiguration was
considered dark before it shifted to its own field of magic.”

He hadn’t known that. “You can’t...use your happiness?”

“The Patronus uses your happiest memory,” Tom said. “I don’t have any.”

Behind them, Lavender laughed loudly as she finally drew enough strength to conjure a
beautiful bird. A silver terrier barked and ran about. Hermione’s otter chirped and slinked
itself across the back of an Irish setter.

Harry remembered how much he had struggled at first with the Patronus. Drawing on no
memories of joy or childish delight. No fond birthdays, or memories. No warm embrace of a
hug, no whispered words of I love you.

“I couldn’t think of a memory either,” Harry confessed somberly. “I made one up, and that
works for me.”

“Good for you,” Tom said a bit sharply. He looked resigned to sit back on his pile of
cushions.

Harry was struck with an idea, a truly horrible idea. He reached out, grabbing Tom’s shoulder
in one hand. “Wait, use mine.”

Tom jolted at the contact, whirling around tense. “What are-.”

“What you did with Rita, do it again. I’ll think of my memory for you, then you can try it
out.”

Tom’s jaw dropped ever so slightly. He caught it, clicking his mouth closed. Eyes frantically
searched over Harry who wished Tom could see how genuine he felt. Harry couldn’t imagine
life without being happy, without anything.

“...Alright,” Tom said warily. He drew his wand slowly, holding it in a delicate arc of his
fingers. With one hand, he held Harry’s right shoulder and secured him in place. Tom’s eyes
locked on Harry, and then a swift jerk tugged behind his nose.

Tom inhaled sharply, pupils narrowing slightly in concentration. The jerk became a low
throbbing burn, a balm to the previous sharp pain. Tom’s hand relaxed slightly in a wordless
apology.

It felt...odd, having Tom in his head. There was a slight glassy quality to Tom’s eyes that
suggested his vision had become secondary to him.

“Alright,” Tom said slowly, voice slurred on the corners. He blinked lazily as if stunned. The
pressure behind Harry’s eyes pulsed in rhythm to a heart.
Harry thought of the happiest thing he could and watched as Tom’s face paled in spellbound
wonder. Tom stared at Harry in awe, dazzled by emotions he had never known but felt
overcome by their persuasion. His fingers trembled, digging sharply into Harry’s shoulder.

“The spell,” Harry soothed gently. Tom gave a jerky nod, staggering under the weight.

Tom hissed out a spell in perfect pronunciation and wand articulation; a large beautiful
animal split manifested in an earsplitting shriek.

Harry found the bird familiar like dreams sometimes were. A massive creature with thick
arching wings, a bald head, and cruel large looking talons. Tom took one look at the bird and
let out a smothered guffaw.

Lavender’s smaller bird shrieked in alarm out of the way. Tom’s Patronus spread its wings so
wide, it blocked out the light and cast a mighty shadow over them.

“Bloody hell!” someone shouted in surprise. Tom’s Patronus opened its mouth and shrieked.
It arced downwards, flapping frantically before clumsily wrapping fist-sized talons around
the antlers of Harry’s Patronus.

“Look at you,” Tom said in his drunken stupor. The bird reared back its short feathered head,
arcing it dragonlike. It grunted ugly and loud, hissing demonically. Tom made a throaty
laugh, broken off as he tried to pet the bird and the beast tried to bite him.

“Harry!” Hermione said, parting through the crowd. She took a second look at the bird and
stuttered: “A vulture?”

The bird reversed its head and hissed furiously. She took one step back, mindful of its
massive wings. She confessed a bit perplexed and sheepish, “I thought you would have a
snake of some sort.”

“Snakes sustain,” Tom mused with his drugged up happiness. “Vultures survive.”

“That’s a Griffon Vulture,” Harry said surprising himself most of all. “They...they were in
London.”

Hermione shook her head. “No Harry. Griffon Vultures live in southern Europe, in the Alps.”

“But…” Harry trailed off. He couldn’t remember how he knew it, but he thought these birds
were in London.

The door to the Room of Requirements banged under a sudden unexpected hit of a powerful
hex. The chatter in the room dwindled down, silencing under the rapid burst of the second
hex.

“Harry?” Hermione asked timidly. “Were we expecting anyone else?”

The door banged again, groaning along the joints. Tom’s smile melted away as he withdrew-
it felt a bit like Spell-O-Tape peeling off from Harry’s skin. Tom took one step to the side,
holding his wand carefully as the vulture melted away into silver dust with a silent scream.
The D.A. parted before Tom, who walked calmly and casually towards the banging door. It
trembled violently once more, thin cracks spreading across the wood.

“Is it Umbridge?” Someone asked worriedly. The door rattled and crackled ominously.

“Everyone,” Tom said flatly, an entire flip from his previous persona. “Do not move, and do
not speak.”

Hermione hastily started working on a wide silencing charm. Students rushed to fall under
the range of her charm. Tom moved his wand through an elaborate pattern, arching and
bending his elbow and wrist at multiple points. He moved through it twice, smoothing down
the shape and movement until he could manage it in one cohesive motion. He closed his eyes,
faced the door, and hissed: “Spectoillex pavor.”

His wand made dark black cracks across the air as if he had shattered a watch face that hung
between them and the doorway. They spread, linking back and forth in a chaotic mess like
spiderwebs, or frost patterns.

Tom sunk to his knee, panting silently with one hand clamped tight around his wand. His
entire body trembled slightly, looking somewhere between in pain and exhausted. Hermione
said something- impossible to hear under the widespread silencing charm.

The door burst inwards, dropping to the ground in a terrifying sound. Tom didn’t make a
noise. The spiderweb cracking slung like a net from one side of the room to the ceiling to the
floor. There was no way around it- had Tom made a net to restrain Umbridge?

Umbridge stood there, looking delighted at her grand entry. Her eyes skimmed forward,
looking right at them from the other side of their birdcage. She frowned, then flushed red
with rage.

“Filch!” She screamed in fury. “They aren’t here!”

The D.A. students bustled, shifting silently to look at one another in confusion. Tom slowly
righted from his kneeling position, looking satisfied with his work. An arms length away,
separated by a spiderweb. Umbridge turned on her heels in fury, storming right out of the
room oozing her distaste. Everyone exhaled a collective sigh of relief. The door slowly rose
and repaired itself. The doorway fixed, Hermione let the silencing charm fall.

“You did it!” Fred screamed in glee, rushing towards Tom in a hurry. George whooped so
loudly it echoed the shrieking cry of his Magpie Patronus. Dean joined in, starting a round of
cheering and applause. Harry didn’t know who started it but from the mass of students, a
steady roar rose in volume. Don’t Diddle with Riddle!

It wasn’t a precise rhyme, but once Fred climbed on top of George’s shoulders and started a
loud lilting serenade, it didn’t seem to matter.

Tom looked equal parts exhausted, and bashful with the attention. Pleased with the popularity
yet equally overwhelmed by it.
“Harry,” Hermione said, clinging to his arm. She spoke in a hushed serious voice that only
meant trouble. “That was- that was an illusion curse. During the First War, it prevented
Aurors from finding Death Eaters. That was dark, Harry!”

Harry watched as Hannah Abbott blushingly swooned under Tom’s attention.

“It stopped Umbridge from finding us,” Harry defended. “It may have been bad, but you
can’t deny it did help us out.”

Hermione shuddered. “That may be true, but he used dark magic to do it, Harry.”

Harry watched as the D.A. students- the people he had brought to learn how to survive,
herald Tom a champion. Tom had defended them all, kept them out of sight and kept them
out of trouble.

Harry watched as Tom smiled shyly, and he said: “What if dark magic isn’t all bad?”

They hadn’t another meeting of the D.A. but without knowing the secret of how to open the
Room of Requirements, Tom sought out Harry with a feverish sense of determination.

The season of colds swept through the castle, conquering armies of Hufflepuffs with the
infectious sniffles. Luna had fallen prey to the sickness. Ron had last seen the girl waddling
about with two small pots of burning incense on each hip. Hermione fell to the plight,
hoarding a collection of tissues to add to a stack towering almost as high as her O.W.L.s
review book tower.

Tom, have been denied any sort of potions for stress, had latched to Harry like a limpet
demanding access to the room once more.

“Or I’ll go to the Chamber,” Tom threatened with bright eyes and dark bags. “Just show me.”

Harry did so, often bringing along a few essays he needed to struggle through while Tom
expressed his frustrations in the form of rapid spellwork and the occasional evisceration of a
training dummy.

Tom worked like his life depended on it. He allowed no moment of pause- no moment of
hesitation between his movements. He’d set up a target, stalk across the room and aim
carefully before throwing a hex. He’d slowly walk back across the room, investigate the
accuracy and damage before repairing it slowly and repeating the process. It looked similar to
pacing, although more destructive.

Harry looked helplessly at his essay on charms. He wasn’t sure how he could possibly list
twelve uses for a yellow-to-red color-changing charm beyond that of...changing color.

Tom made a wordless noise of frustration, repairing another gash that looked identical to the
dozen before. Tom stalked across the room, ran one hand through his hair, and lifted his
wand.
“Ictum!” Tom hissed out, arcing his wand like the dozens of times prior. The spell flew, the
cut appeared in a thin slash on his target, and Tom made a noise of anger. Harry squinted- it
looked fine to him.

“Why are you so mad?” Harry asked, resigned that his essay would be a failure anyway. “It
looks fine to me.”

Tom’s jaw clenched visibly. “I’m leaning towards the right.”

Harry looked back at the target. “I thought you had been trying for the right side.”

Tom apparently, had not been.

Tom raised his wand, tried again. It ended precisely on the right side.

“What spell are you doing?” Harry asked, climbing to his feet slowly. His knees cracked
loudly when he stretched.

“Stinging hex,” Tom said. He sent it once more, then twice in quick progression. The speed
in which he could throw spells was impressive. Harry didn’t even hear him use the spell on
the second use. “The incantation is Ictum .”

Harry squinted at the target, coming to stand next to Tom. He raised his wand and sloppily
mimicked the movements he had just seen. “Ictum!”

His hex landed barely on the target, well without the rings. His entire hand throbbed
comfortably with a warm heat as if submerging it in bathwater. Tom frowned, not impressed
with Harry’s aim.

“Look, I tried,” Harry argued with a shrug. “I always use the disarming spell anyways.”

“Expelliarmus?” Tom asked in a flat tone. Harry nodded and demonstrated. His aim on that
spell at least was dead on.

Tom tilted his head, slightly curious. He tried his stinging hex once more, it verged on the
right side of the target.

“Maybe try aiming to the side of the target?” Harry suggested, pointing to the far corner.
Tom’s eyes shifted to the side, flickering in minuscule twitches. He lifted his wand, aiming
before hesitating. His eyes twitched and he hissed out “Ictum!”

The spell shifted, landing on the right side of the target. Tom looked confused.

“That spell you did the other day,” Harry brought up suddenly. Tom looked tired and
exhausted from all his spellwork, it seemed a good time now. “To keep Umbridge out.”

“Yes,” Tom said slowly. “The illusion.”

“Hermione said it was dark.”

Tom nodded slowly. “Ah,” he said.

Harry felt nervous to inquire further, but curiosity itched at him like a bug bite. “Was it? How
did you learn it?”

Tom twirled his wand between his fingers. “You said to the journalist that you countered a
killing curse with that disarming spell. You learned that spell in your...fourth year?”

“I saw it my second year,” Harry clarified. “It’s my favorite one.”

“Tasks and outcomes can be achieved through different means. No spell serves only one
purpose,” Tom explained. “I have found that dark spells serve the most...variability with their
usage, due to the shift of their intent.”

“You have more control over the outcome,” Harry agreed. If dark magic spells were cast
based on intent, then the shifting intent would create a different outcome with the same spell.

“A spell to locate corpses…” Tom mused contemplatively. “Seemingly so malevolent…”

There was a sense of familiarity, a somber feeling of necessity. Harry asked: “What did you
use it for?”

Tom hummed flatly. “I needed new trousers.”

A spell to locate corpses, used for survival to find new clothing. Harry could see it, imagine it
so vividly. Tom Riddle, searching dead bodies only to loot them to live. The smell of decay,
of bloating and bodily fluids.

“What about the illusion spell then?”

“A curse,” Tom admitted. “Made to reflect the opponents worst imagined fear. It could be
used for mental torture, or it could be used to show a woman her least wanted desire.”

“An empty room,” Harry realized. “You used the curse so she’d see what she didn’t want to.”

Tom pointed his wand and cast the stinging hex once again. It impacted on the right side-
stuffing sprouted like a sapling.

Harry burned with curiosity. “What spells did you learn back then? During the war?”

Tom looked the slightest bit surprised. “Nobody asks about then.”

“Well, now I am.”

“I suppose you are,” Tom said. “Similar subjects. We had Dark arts and Defense combined,
due to the nature of the magic. Herbology mixed with toxicology. Quidditch was not as
revered as it is now. We were offered catalogs for books and scrolls located outside of the
school, able to inquire for anything more.”

“Hermione would love that,” Harry smiled at the thought.

“Our curriculum focused on battle,” Tom explained softly. “Grindelwald’s forces were a
threat to us. There were deaths in my year, from the attacks.”

“Hogwarts taught you how to fight?”

“Hogwarts taught us how to defend ourselves,” Tom said coldly. “We were taught magic that
I assume would be considered dark by today’s standards. Your educational system is heavily
influenced by your Ministry of Magic.”

“They’re afraid of Dumbledore.”

Tom tilted his head and stared at the target across the room. He lifted his wand and pointed it
at the dummy. He said the basic spell for inanimate transfiguration and twisted his wrist as if
opening a doorknob.

The dummy shuddered and transformed slowly. It peeled its rings backward and
painstakingly turned itself inside out.

Tom lowered his wand once the target had been inverted in a way that would have torturously
killed a human and said: “ Professor Dumbledore taught us that spell in my fifth year.

Harry couldn’t imagine magic like that- even have seen it performed before his eyes. It
looked advanced, like that of NEWT levels. Had the curriculum from back then truly been so
advanced?

“Were you good?” Harry asked with an insane desire to know, “back then? In your classes?”

Tom didn’t look at Harry; instead, Tom twisted his wand curiously, shifting and tugging on
the stuffing with invisible fingers. An artist molding clay into a vision that only Tom knew
the subject of.

“I was,” Tom confessed nostalgically. “I made sure of it. I was not gifted, despite what
Madam Dimitriu and Dumbledore say of my...unusual birth. It took time and effort, my
ambition consumes the thought of talent.”

“What changed?”

“Hubris,” Tom said. He smiled aimlessly, a distant near fond tilt to his expression. “I flew too
close to the sun. I inquired to Professor Dumbledore further- his education smothered all
other faculty in comparison. Even the Headmaster- Dippet back then, had little to contribute.”

Tom waved his wand, the stuffing briefly contorted into that of Fawkes, made of white fibers
and thread, and then retracted back to its original state. Tom confessed: “I asked him for
knowledge, and he told me no .”

“And now,” Tom scoffed. “There is a woman teaching you how to read propaganda. You’re
given potions for stress and are coddled for every injury. Do you blame me, for my disdain
for what the world has become? ”
Harry hated that he agreed. “Dumbledore said that...My greatest power against Voldemort is
love.”

“Then perhaps there is light magic that builds itself on love and fuels itself on your bonds,”
Tom suggested dryly. “Although I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Tom asked him suddenly: “Do you know dark magic, Harry Potter?”

Harry felt his palms sweat. He said with forced casualness: “No, I don’t think it’s for me.”

“It isn’t for everyone,” Tom agreed without any pressure. “There are flaws in every sort of
magic. The corruption of it. An athlete will run until their legs give out. A model will starve
themselves until they faint. A man who uses light magic will use their feelings until they feel
so much they can’t go on.”

Harry didn’t like how much the world made sense like that. Dudley had been strong and the
star of his rugby team, but Harry had always been faster. Reversing their roles would lead to
ruin no matter what level of fitness they possessed. Why couldn’t it be the same with magic?
“What happens from overuse?”

Tom spun his wand between his fingers. The fingerbones cracked ominously, pale and
knobby at the joints. “The same as any sort of magic. It wears on you, tugs until you give out.
Light magic draws on your emotion, so a man who feels too much and uses their hurt and
pain to power their magic…”

It would be like playing quidditch every day. Over and over, until the thrill and endorphins
left Harry nauseous. “You’d burn out.”

“The curse of empathy,” Tom shook his head disgusted. “You feel so much until you forget
why you should care.”

“And dark magic?’

Tom quieted at that, in either shame or contemplation. “Specific spells of dark magic
create...intense levels of sensation.”

Like addiction, Harry thought. Unbidden, the sensation of craving from phantom dreams
troubled him. The incessant itching and burning and need for a potion…”You aren’t worried?
To use dark magic when you’re…”

Tom would have snapped or snarled at him any other time. The conversation between them
was strangely intimate, a touch more honest than any conversation prior. Whatever walls had
been built before, they crumbled away with Tom’s contemplation in the large room.

“I would be concerned if it mattered,” Tom admitted finally. “Emotions are not a factor in my
future.”

“That sounds ominous,” Harry joked. He realized Tom had not been kidding in the silence
that echoed after.
“You can’t be serious,” Harry blinked rapidly. “Emotions are...what about the Patronus? You
couldn’t do the Patronus before-.”

“I still can’t,” Tom said. “I used you. I imagine that you can use me as well, after all, you had
me impale my arm.”

Harry froze. “It was an accident.”

“You wanted me to do it,” Tom said. “It was dark magic, even if you did not know it.”

Oh, Merlin.

“Don’t look so wounded, Boy Hero,” Tom said with a sigh. “It’s unfitting. You can’t fight all
your battles using a Patronus and a disarming spell. Learn some curses, battlefield
amputation recovery…”

Tom twisted on his heel, raising his wand high. He stared at the inverted target with a keen
focus eye. He brought down his wand sharply with a spit snarl of flagignum!

From the end of his wand, a bright purple burst of fire in a shape of a whip split through the
air, igniting the inverted target and melting it in turn with a bubbling mixture of fire and acid.
It crackled and burned, melting with a crunching noise into the ground where it burned like
hellfire.

Tom rotated his neck, looking at Harry calmly with a slightly bemused expression. “If I were
you, Boy Hero. I’d learn some actual magic, otherwise, you won’t survive when the bombs
go off.”

After that night, everything seemed to shift in Harry’s eye. An epiphany that he never wanted
to know. He had been so naive all his life, so blindly obedient to what his teachers taught
him.

Hexes and jinxes had been recategorized decades ago into their own house of magic.
Previously, they had been known as dark charms.

Of course dark magic existed, half of the ingredients and effects of potions would be
technically dark. A love potion was the greatest dark potion around.

“You okay, mate?” Ron asked him, looking concerned with Harry’s unsteady state.

“I’m fine,” Harry responded, feeling a bit winded and lost. “Just...studying.”

“Ruddy thing,” Ron sympathized.

Tom said that Harry could likely use him. How would that work? How would Harry... explore
the hellscape of Tom’s mind?

There were so many areas of investigation, parts that blurred together. Some things Harry
wasn’t sure he had experienced himself, or if they were delusions born out of desperation.
Snape hadn’t managed to meet Harry’s eye either, likely traumatized from the freakish assault
of Tom’s sadism.

Would Voldemort be able to use him also? Sneak into his waking mind? Tom had said that he
could fend the monster off- and he proved it once when harry was dreaming. Voldemort
hadn’t tried to invade again. How would he...walk into Tom’s memories?

How much magic did Tom know? How many spells? What would he say for his OWLs and
what had changed through time?

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked. Ron made a grunt as he looked up from his paper,
squinting his eyes into focus.

“Library I reckon,” Ron said. “She’s been worrying over her transfiguration. She can’t get her
lockbox dog to bark right.”

Transfiguration was dark magic.

“Right,” Harry said distantly. He felt nauseous again. Did Dumbledore know this?

Dumbledore had once been a professor at Hogwarts- a Transfiguration teacher. Harry

couldn’t recall many instances where he had actively seen the man use his magic.

Despite Harry’s best efforts, his attention kept slipping back to the concept of using the link
between him and Tom. Not for anything cruel or malicious.

A part of Harry, the part that had grown up alone under a stairwell, screamed for the
opportunity to talk to anyone. Even if only in his skull.

Harry closed his eyes, sunk in his head and mindlessly struggled to that one spot he
associated with Tom. A wordless question, an inquiry made of electricity and chemicals.

Somewhere, behind his frontal lobe, Tom pushed back.

 Wrongs Endured and Inflicted
Chapter Summary

Where Tom feels the pressure start to split him at the seems.

Chapter Notes

Here we are, at the beginning of the end.

There are only 5 chapters left, did you know that?

Harry walked into Professor Dumbledore’s office fully expecting to be alone.

Instead, Tom Riddle had thrown his cloak around the seat of a chair and was browsing
absentmindedly the collection of books shelved on the furthest wall. Dumbledore sat with his
hands patiently folded, ignoring Tom’s trailing fingers.

“Professor,” Harry greeted. “You wanted to talk with me?”

“I do,” Dumbledore smiled gently. “It has been brought to my attention the events of your
occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. And the incident that occurred.”

Tom from the bookshelf pointedly drew one book out from its row and began to browse
through it rudely. Harry found such an arrogant sight nearly endearing.

I expect you know why you are here, Tom?” Dumbledore asked politely. Tom continued to
ignore him, flipping the pages of his book.

Dumbledore beckoned to one chair, Harry accepted it already feeling the conversation grate
on his head. Dumbledore passed over a small tray of assorted candies, the shortbread cookies
crumbled sweet and buttery in Harry’s mouth.

“Tom, would you like to sit?” Dumbledore asked.

“No thank you,” Tom said without giving Dumbledore any further attention. The Headmaster
did not seem offended by such actions, instead, he looked almost nostalgic.

“No worries, Harry,” Dumbledore soothed him with a kind smile. “Many years ago, I
remember numerous discussions of ours taking place similarly.”
“You had better reading material then,” Tom said. He closed the book loud enough it gave a
little snap, a tiny puff of dust swirled in the air. “The ministry pillage your private store as
well?”

“Cornelius requested my personal copy of the recent Pegasus racing results,” Dumbledore
said. “Who am I to refuse such an important man?”

Tom scoffed and turned his back pointedly. Harry didn’t like it.

“Perhaps you would like to tell me, Harry, what occurred that night?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry shifted slightly in his seat. He felt no strange burning in his skull, or any noise from
Tom to prevent him from talking. Harry said: “Well, sir. I think that...Professor Snape was
using his legilimency and he...pushed a bit far and...Tom showed up.”

Dumbledore lifted his old bushy eyebrows in encouragement. Harry wasn’t sure how else to
describe it. “Tom appeared- through the link, Professor Snape must have gone too far
and...well, Tom kicked him out.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said. “Tom, would you agree with this summary?”

Tom had acquired another book, browsing along its table of contents. Tom didn’t look up as
he said: “That teacher of yours isn’t good, is he?”

Dumbledore didn’t respond. Tom smiled as he looked into the book, tracing his finger under
something that amused him. Tom said: “I imagine that violating the minds of children would
be below anyone with a moral compass...but who am I to define that.”

Below the surface, Harry could feel the stirrings of pure anger. Violent promises whispering
behind his gums.

“Tom, stop it,” Harry warned. Couldn’t he tell that winding up Professor Dumbledore would
only end badly? Didn’t he recognize the huge differences in age?

“I don’t think I will,” Tom said much more calmly than he felt. “This entire conversation is
ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry felt the anger twist, spurred on slightly hotter and brighter. Tom’s fingers curled tightly
around the book he still held. Harry said, “Tom, stop it-,” and then Harry prodded sharply in
his skull and jerked.

Tom rotated and took two steps forward without thinking. The book fell from his frozen
hands and bounced off the carpet with a muffled thump. All at once, awareness returned and
Tom’s expression seethed.

“You little rat!” Tom hissed furiously. He lunged forward with boney fingers outstretched,
aiming to rattle Harry’s head around from his neck.
Dumbledore swished his wand, said a phrase Harry couldn’t catch, and the nearest chair
transformed into a long-limbed creature made from wooden beams. Tom howled, like a wild
dog as the wood wrapped around and jerked him quickly into its confines. A wooden chair,
built with railings and secured locks like that of a prison. Tom thrashed about, so angry with
his motions the chair teetered before flopping onto the ground sideways. Tom, now
horizontal, thrashed violently.

“Tom, please,” Dumbledore sighed, levitating Tom into proper position once more. For good
measure, he placed a minor sticking charm to the bottom of the chair. “Calm yourself.”

Tom would not calm himself. The constant sour taint of Tom’s frustration made Harry search
for more sweets to balance it out.

“You pathetic shriveled man,” Tom seethed. “I wish you had aged to dust. You cowardly-.”

“Please Tom,” Dumbledore said exhaustedly. “I would prefer to not end with a visit to the
hospital wing. Professor Snape expressed to me concerns over your mental state.”

Tom thrashed about a bit more. The chair held firm. Harry shifted slightly further away from
the furious other boy. The transfiguration was flawless, smooth and graceful with its arching
supports and restraints. Harry remembered Tom mention that Dumbledore had once been the
Transfiguration Professor.

“Sir-.”

“Excuse me, sir,” a portrait interrupted sharply from where it had been watching curiously.
It’s face twisted into a grimace, a look of genuine apology glinting behind the man’s eyes. “It
appears that the Minister has made his arrangement.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said calmly. He nodded, waving his wand to reverse the transfiguration
that turned Tom’s chair into a minor restraint. The boy didn’t lunge again, instead, he
watched with sharp eyes and a very critical frown.

“They will be arriving shortly, sire,” the same picture said with a heavy sigh. “I am incredibly
sorry.”

“Sorry? Professor, what’s going on?” Harry asked worriedly. Dumbledore said nothing,
which only inspired Harry to speak louder: “Sir?”

“So this is how it fell,” Tom said in a bemused voice. An entire unexpected shift from his
previous rage. Harry could attest, that the bubbling swirl of Tom’s emotions truly had
transformed into something of curiosity. At best, Tom felt like an unstable avalanche of
emotions unable to be predicted. “This is how the great Albus Dumbledore is removed.”

Tom tilted his head, then laughed quietly to himself.

Harry felt very much on edge. “Sir? Sir what’s going on?”

“Oh, let me,” Tom laughed delighted in this turn of events. He lolled his head to the side
lazily. As if he had somehow blown an arrow from his lips, a sharp pain stabbed Harry
behind his nose.

“Ach!” Harry hissed, glaring firmly at Tom. Realization sunk in a dazed second after, a
cognitive knowledge of everything coming to collection as if Harry himself had thought of it.

“Oh,” Harry said. “The Minister is coming to remove you from your position and put in
Umbridge instead because you’re being taken for questioning due to an investigation.”

Dumbledore paled dramatically, sharply looking at Tom who clapped twice and announced:
“Bravo, bravo. The boy wonder gets it.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes, then breathed carefully. When he opened his eyes, his kind
expression had shifted into something much more serious. “It appears that you knew far more
than I believed, Mr. Riddle.”

“It’s hard to ignore things,” Tom said. “When Crina Dimitriu is the direct cause of the
investigation. How long did you think you’d stay in your throne here when they scoured the
world for Grindelwald? Did you really think you were special, sir?”

Dumbledore nodded once. “I will always underestimate you, Tom. I am afraid for you.”

“Don’t be,” Tom said. “I’m on my way to being better than ever once you’re gone.”

Harry felt like he was watching the scene, ever so slightly out of place. His mouth didn’t
want to cooperate, moving sluggishly to argue and interrupt like he wanted.

A portrait peered out and down at the scene, looking horrified and overwhelmed with visible
self regret. Harry didn’t recognize the man, but all headmasters tended to carry an invisible
weight of their failures on their shoulders.

“Oh, Tom Riddle…” the man said brokenly. Ashamed with himself, or ashamed with what he
could no longer do. “You were always such a lovely boy.”

“I wasn’t,” Tom said amused. “You were just spectacularly easy to toy with, Headmaster
Dippet.”

The man, Headmaster Dippet, bowed his head in admittance of the fact. The former
headmaster said nothing more.

Tom kept smiling, falsely innocent as the loud mumbling of ministry officials ascended the
staircase. Dumbledore looked resigned and tired although he demanded attention as he gazed
pointedly at Harry.

“Listen to me, Harry,” Dumbledore said urgently, “you must study Occlumency as hard as
you can, do you understand me? Do everything you can and practice it every night before
sleeping so that you can close your mind to bad dreams- you will understand why soon
enough, but you must promise me-.”

“Don’t worry, Professor,” Tom said with a smile. “I have his mind under lock and key.”
Dumbledore stood with an expression of devastation and left the room to greet the entourage
that would take him away for an investigative inquiry.

By the Order of The Ministry of Magic

Dolores Jane Umbridge (High Inquisitor) has replaced Albus Dumbledore as Head of
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-eight.

“Dumbledore will be back before long,” said Ernie Macmillan confidently on the way back
from Herbology after listening intently to Harry’s story. “They couldn’t keep him away in our
second year and they won’t be able to this time. The Fat Friar told me that Umbridge tried to
get into his office but couldn’t get past the gargoyle. The Head’s office sealed itself right up!”

“Oh, I expect she really fancied herself sitting up there in the head’s office,” Hermione said
viciously. They walked through the main doors towards the entrance hall in a cluster.
“Lording it over all the other teachers, the stupid puffed-up, power-crazy old-.”

“Now, do you really want to finish that sentence, Granger?”’

Draco Malfoy slid out from the door, followed by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy’s pointed face
had twisted with glee. He already had his wand in one hand, fingers tapping pointedly along
the wood. “Afraid I’m going to have to dock a few points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.”

“It’s only teachers that can dock points from Houses.”’

Malfoy opened his mouth to argue, and to announce his new abilities granted to him from the
higher authority when Tom emerged from one shadowed alcove in the room. The boy had
been sitting there, content to watch people come and go from class to class. Now with
Dumbledore gone, he had no desire or repercussions for avoiding all of the Gryffindor
classes.

Admittedly, Harry wasn’t even sure what Tom did now during the day. It had only been a
week since Dumbledore left, but Tom felt far too entertained by the madness of their new
dictatorship.

“Careful there, Malfoy,” Tom warned in a voice like a panther greeting its dinner. “You
wouldn’t want to seem... too eager.”

Draco’s jaw set in a scowl. He watched Tom’s casual approach with wary eyes- more wary
than Tom warranted. “I can take away points. It’s within my power now-.”

“I’m not affiliated with a house,” Tom said with another wide smile. “Go ahead, watch.”
Draco would not lower from the challenge. He said loudly and boldly: “Ten points from your
house!”

Automatically, the group turned toward the giant hourglasses set in niches along the wall
behind them, which recorded the House points. No gems fell.

“What a pity,” Tom did not sound upset or apologetic at all for Malfoy’s failure. “Umbridge’s
new pet dogs, slobbering all over the floor.”

Malfoy flushed. “Who are you calling a filthy mutt-.”

“Careful there,” Tom said in a low whisper, lifting both hands so that they hovered visibly at
his sides. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Malfoy drew his wand and pointed it forward, the tip level with Tom’s chest. “You think I
won’t do it? You- You filthy potion scum?”

Tom’s smile never fell. “I knew men like you, once so long ago. Brave, cocky. They saw
fighting but when the time came…” Tom mused with a dark sort of disdain. “They choked.”

Malfoy started to say a spell- and then he didn’t.

Then his eyes glazed slightly and he let his wand clatter to the ground. He lifted his
manicured fingers to his throat and began to scratch with animal urgency. Peeling deep and
sharp until the skin split-.

“Tom! Stop it!” Hermione screamed, bashing her weight into his left side. Tom stumbled at
the impact, not anticipating such a move. At once, Malfoy heaved a sharp gasp of air and
skittered for his wand. The boy said nothing, opting to sprint away in blind panic.

Hermione was shaking slightly. She shoved Tom once more for emphasis before she hissed
out: “What were you thinking!”

“Bloody hell,” Ernie said, shaken at the sight of the wordless wandless magic. “What was
that?”

“Just a spell,” Tom said far too relaxed for the potentially horrible scene. “Something of my
own.”

“Don’t do that again,” Hermione warned although her wavering voice brought little to her
threat. “Tom don’t...don’t do that.”

“Why?” Tom asked. “Because you can’t comprehend it? Because you don’t know how I did
it?”

Hermione bravely lifted her chin in defiance and said, “that was dark magic.”

Of course it was, Harry thought. He wanted it to happen, and it did.

Ernie took a sharp step backward, suddenly very unsettled. “I’ve...I’ve got to go…”
Nobody paid him any mind. Hermione tilted her head up to look in Tom’s eyes, and Tom had
to angle his head down.

When had Tom grown taller? At what point had he started to shift into the older teen Harry
first met as a phantom diary? When had the smile on Tom’s face turned so sharp?

“You can’t do that,” Hermione said firmly. “It isn’t right.”

“Few things in life tend to be, girl.”

“You can’t just- just use that-.”

“Tell me,” Tom indulged her. “What spell did I use?”

Hermione for the life of her, couldn’t give him an answer.

“Oi!” The group turned slightly to the side closet near the Great Hall. Filch emerged, lugging
about a large iron bucket and a mop. His sneer looked just as vicious as usual, although no
Miss. Norris trialed between his legs. Harry dearly wished that the twins had been joking, and
Tom didn’t actually kill the cat.

“The headmistress would like to see you, Riddle,” Filch leered.

Tom’s face smoothed over into something blank and bored. He sighed and rolled one
shoulder as if he had anything better to do. Filch’s frown deepened as the boy put up no
further words of protest.

Filch began to walk as an unnecessary escort, Tom walking just behind with a stride nearly
svelt.

Filch was in an extremely good mood; he hummed creakily under his breath as he climbed
the marble staircase. Tom said nothing and gave no pleasantries to suggest he wanted
conversation. Filch ignored it and cackled in good cheer, “‘Things are changing around here,
Riddle.”

“More than expected,” said Tom.

“Yes...I’ve been telling Dumbledore for years and years he’s been too soft...Filthy little
children, little beasts running around. Won’t mess around anymore now that you know I can
whip you all, eh? Won’t cause trouble now that you know I can string you up by the ankles in
my office…”

Tom flexed one finger, snapping the joint with a loud pop! Filch gave him a glare at the
noise, although Tom paid him no further attention.

Umbridge’s office looked the same as it always had been, with the exception of an official
placard announcing her as headmistress. Three brooms were mounted behind her desk,
secured with chains and elaborate locks. Umbridge sat behind her desk, busily scribbling
upon some of her pink parchment. She looked up and smiled widely at their entrance.
“Thank you, Argus,” she said sweetly.

“Not at all, ma’am, not at all,” said Filch. He bowed low until his arthritis stopped him, and
left creakily.

“Sit,” said Umbridge with a false smile. She pointed to a chair which Tom settled into
dignified. The plates above Umbridge’s chair depicted several kittens playing with one
another. Umbridge set aside her quill and folded her hands calmly.

“Well now,” she said calmly. “What would you like to drink?’

Tom’s face scarcely twitched. “Whatever you are serving, ma’am.”

Everything moved quite slowly. Headmistress Umbridge bustled about, making herself a pot
of tea from which she served herself and Tom in front of him. She seemed quite delighted,
wary but pleased. Tom felt paranoia stir ever so slightly, even as Umbridge drank from her
tea. They had been poured in front of him, he was certain it was not drugged.

“Well then,” Umbridge said. She served them both a set of ladyfingers, coated in a pale pink
icing. Tom knew that the tea would be sickly sweet, the cookies would counter it.

“How are you, Mr. Riddle?” She asked shrilly. She selected one cookie, dipped it into her tea
and nibbled. Tom selected one as well, testing the border of rudeness and manipulation. What
did she precisely want from him?

“Wonderful, ma’am,” Tom said stiffly. He took a small sip of the tea, faking the action for
any glimmer of delight in Umbridge’s eye. She had no shifting of expression, so Tom
indulged a moment. The tea was not drugged, although it did taste horrible.

“I am concerned for you,” Umbridge said painfully sweet. “With your... problem.”

Tom bit his tongue with one of his eye teeth. It didn’t bleed, but it burned. “It is handled,
ma’am.”

Umbridge clicked her tongue in mock concern. Tom wondered if she would take up a ruler,
or a belt and find him the subject of lashings. It would not be a new experience in any way.

Tom nibbled slightly on the cookie- disgusting and rolled one shoulder stiffly.

“Is it handled?” she asked him saccharine.

Tom said without any control: “No.”

He paused, locking his hands tightly on his cup of tea and that twice damned cookie.

‘She got help,’ Tom thought quickly. ‘She isn’t intelligent enough to poison the icing.’

“Well then,” Umbridge said with the most disappointing click of her tongue. Tom felt sweat
break out along his hairline. What was it- an inhibition lowering potion? A poison? A mind
scanning draught?
‘No,’ Tom thought quickly. ‘She has resources now. It only took one taste.’

Veritasium then, she was drugging her students but went elaborately out of her way to poison
him. This sort of application would be made by a potion expert.

‘One day,’ Tom thought in absolute rage. ‘I will set you on fire, Professor Snape.’

“Tom,” Umbridge started again with a fake sort of worry. “Does your caretaker...remind me,
who is your legal caretaker?’

Legal, legal- “Crina Dimitriu.”

Tom’s hands tightened until his joints felt on fire. His head spun, a hazy sort of burning that
did not feel...right. Umbridge’s smile widened to unsavory proportions. “Ah yes...does Crina
Dimitriu know?”

Too vague. “No.”

“Ah,” Umbridge said knowingly. Tom desperately scanned for any sort of solution, any sort
of spell to get him out of this unexpected interrogation. Umbridge said without any care:
“then, is Crina Dimitriu friends with Albus Dumbledore?”

“No,” Tom said. He wished he could bite his tongue off. He wished he could grab a knife- his
knife he pulled of an infantryman, and shove it down her bloody throat.

“Allow me to rephrase,” Umbridge said. “Is Crina Dimitriu in contact with Albus
Dumbledore?”

“He contacts her,” Tom said.

Desperately, Tom screamed inside his skull a violent cry. Harry!

“Oh?” Umbridge asked. Her eyes glimmering as her greed pierced him. “For what? What did
Albus Dumbledore contact Crina Dimitriu for?”

Umbridge’s eyes stared into Tom, and Tom let himself slip into her.

For a moment, he was gazing at his own body. Staring into blow pupils and an unhealthy
flush. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple, an overwhelming sense of delight and pride
and she’d finally done it. She’d finally find out what she had done. She would finally get that
thrice-damned woman and that man. She would finally find out what she had done
because...because she didn’t know-

Tom Riddle opened his mouth, and said slurred and staggered: “I...I don’t know.”

What? How could he not know? How could he possibly not know?

“When were they last in contact?” Umbridge demanded.

When were they meeting? She couldn’t think of when they could have possibly met. Were they
slipping around her? Playing her a fool? She hadn’t even known that they were in contact-..

“I don’t know,” Tom Riddle said.

She had never felt more furious in her life.

Umbridge’s expression fell flat, even as her face burned bright red. She stood, towering in her
short height. Tom Riddle didn’t react, he still stared vacantly past her towards the teacup
kittens. She paced furiously, aggressively with the barely withheld desire to curse the boy.
She could easily curse him, easily pull her wand and- easily Imperio him. She had never done
the spell before, but she knew theory. The boy already looked sick, it would be easy to claim
he had simply gotten worse in his poor state.

But…

But what if something happened to him? What if somehow he recovered, or it backfired. He

could pin the blame on her. It would be best to remove him entirely, especially if Crina
Dimitriu was his legal guardian-

No! No she could not remove the boy-.

Tom Riddle groaned, twitching slightly on his chair. Umbridge shuddered, scowling before
taking her seat once more. “Boy. Did Crina Dimitriu kill Gellert Grindelwald? Did Albus
Dumbledore kill Gellert Grindelwald?”

Tom Riddle’s eyes lolled slightly, he looked quite ill. He opened his mouth, slurring his
words like a drunkard. Had her potion somehow triggered this state in him? “I...I don’t
know.”

“You don’t know anything!” Umbridge seethed viciously. “What does that woman see in
you? What could she possibly see in you!”

The boy swayed slightly, jerking a bit before making a pitiful retching noise. Tom Riddle’s
eyes started to roll up in his skull, he looked as if he would faint.

“No!” Umbridge snatched her wand. “Ennerverate!”

Tom Riddle shuddered, eyes clarifying sharply before struggling to slip back into that dazed
state from before. Umbridge said viciously: “Why are you so special?”

Tom jerked slightly and croaked: “I haven’t died.”

Boom!

The floor of the office shook; Umbridge slipped sideways, clutching her desk for support.
She was gazing towards the door, beyond said door people were running and screaming.

Umbridge ignored Tom entirely. She raised her wand and dashed out of her office, leaving
Tom in a horrible state in her pink chair. Tom gave himself a few seconds before he leaned
over the armrest and vomited all over her pink floor.

The door burst open quickly, two individuals rushing in to grab Tom by either arm.

“Up you go, mate!” George said quickly. Fred ignored the pile of sick, looping Tom’s other
arm around his shoulder.

“You look wretched,” Fred said with a grimace. “ And like you wretched.”

Tom heaved again, spewing acid and what had been his breakfast.

“Easy there,” George warned. Together, the twins slipped out into the hallway and dragged
Tom quickly towards the Gryffindor tower.

“We know you don’t like noises, mate,” Fred apologized in advance. He snatched his wand
with his free hand and cast a muffling charm over all three of them. Through the distorted
barrier, Tom could hear what sounded like sirens, and many bombs exploding.

“‘Got him!” Fred shouted, dragging Tom into the tower. Harry sat on one of the chairs, curled
up with an ice pack on his forehead. Ginny Weasley perched near his shoulder with her hands
securing the ice pack. Her scowl lightened into an apathetic stare as Tom’s body continued to
heave on nothing.

“Found him like this,” George reported through heavy breathing. “Spewing everywhere.”

“Set him down,” Hermione said. She bustled about, pulling out the minor first aid kit
courtesy of Quidditch-injuries and Neville accidentally poisoning himself once a week. “He’s
just been vomiting?”

“Yeah,” George agreed, grabbing a rag to clean a bit of the mucus off Tom’s face. “She fed
him tea I think-.”

“No,” Harry croaked on the couch under his ice pack. “It...It wasn’t…”

“Don’t try to talk,” Ginny hushed him quietly. Tom made a small noise of pain, muscles
twitching against his control.

“I wouldn’t put it past that woman to put something in his food,” Hermione grimaced. She
fished through her supplies, setting aside a few ingredients and ointments that wouldn’t do
them much help. “Of course if she had actually thought for a moment about his state, perhaps
she wouldn’t have caused this-.”

“What exactly is this?” Fred asked nervously. “I mean, I’d love to drag him to the hospital
wing but we only gave half of the fireworks to Ronny and we still need to detonate the rest-.”

“Go, get out of here,” Hermione shooed them away. “It’s a toxicity interaction. This is why
you don’t take- oh Vicodin and Benadryl! Oh, what am I saying you all don’t know what
those are- you don’t take a sleeping draught and a pain reliever at the same time!”

George looked a bit miffed. “Of course we know that! We aren’t stupid!”
“It’s the same thing!” Hermione cried. She grabbed something lumpy and brown and shoved
it down Tom’s throat. “This will neutralize some of the interaction. His system is trying to get
it out- Oh I hate that woman!”

“She used Veritasium on him,” Harry said. “I could...She was trying to find out where
Dumbledore was.”’

“He protected Dumbledore?” Ginny asked skeptically. “I don’t believe that.”

Tom on the couch retched again. His hands curled into claws, scratching at his face through
the uncontrollable shaking. Harry shuddered, wheezing under his breath deliriously: “Please
God let me live.”

It was the first day of Easter holidays and Hermione, as was her custom, had spent a large
part of the day detailing out studying schedules for all three of them- and then an extra one
for both the twins and Tom due to her guilt.

Ron had been startled and horrified to discover there were only six weeks left until their final
exams.

The weather grew breezier and brighter as the holidays passed by. Harry was stuck with the
rest of the fifth and seventh years, trapped inside marching back and forth to the library.
Everyone was sick of studying, looking peckish and stir crazy.

Poor Tom, who made a sparkling recovery and assumed his tirade of furious reading and
killing glares, commandeered one specific table in the library. One seventh-year claimed that
the boy hissed at him!

Before the holidays could end, a daunting new notice appeared on the bulletin board in the
Gryffindor Tower.

Career Advice!

All fifth years will be required to attend a short meeting with their Head of House during
the first week of the Summer Term, in which they will be given the opportunity to discuss
their future careers. Times of individual appointments are listed below.

The more surprising point was how Tom was listed as well.

“It’s not like it matters,” Tom explained bitterly once destroying a training dummy during a
D.A. meeting when using targeted attacks. “What is my future going to be? You believe that
Dumbledore will allow me to participate within society?”

“Well,” Harry wanted to argue. “You could...be a politician?”

Tom laughed so hard, he needed a moment to find his breath. “Me? A politician?
Dumbledore would lose all his hair at the thought. If not one revolution it’s another, is that it,
Potter?”

Harry paled and quickly tried to defend his words. Tom shook his head, strangely appeased
and in a good mood. He repaired his dummy carefully with a charm. “I never wanted to be a
politician. I wanted to be a teacher.”

“A teacher?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Tom asked him quietly.

‘No,’ Harry thought with an empty sort of guilt. He could see it so vividly it ate at him and
left him empty.

Harry could imagine it. Tom would be one of those teachers that his students could never get
the better of. Whatever witty retort they had, Tom would have one better. He would take their
disobedience and twist it into an advantage- but not through belittling insults or stamping
authority with his wand. He would use humor, knowledge, the sort of things everyone could
relate to- aspire to even.

Tom would teach with the passion of someone who had survived life and never wanted
anyone to experience similar.

“No,” Harry said through a thick lump in his throat. “You would have been a wonderful
teacher.”

He and the rest of the fifth years spent a considerable amount of time reading all of the career
information left for them to gloss through.

“Well,” Ron said with a grimace. “Looks like I can’t be a healer. They want at least an E at
N.E.W.T. level Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration- I mean, blimey. You aren’t turning
someone’s lung into a lockbox!”

“It’s a responsible job,” Hermione said. She was pouring through a bright pink and orange
leaflet that headed So you think you’d like to Work in Muggle Relations?

“Listen to this,” Seamus laughed from a few seats over. “Are you seeking a challenging
career involving travel, adventure, and substantial danger-related treasure bonuses?”

“Is that a curse breaker?” Lavender asked, trying her best to guess the position.

“Oh, what about this?” Ron asked holding up a bright pamphlet for the testing of spelled
furniture. Harry couldn’t imagine a more boring job.

“Hey,” said a voice in Harry’s ear. They looked, spotting Fred and George who slid into the
seat made for them. “Ginny’s had a word with us about you. You mentioned you wanted to
talk to...a... barking mad man?”

“What?” said Hermione sharply. She froze with her hand halfway towards another pamphlet.
“Now? Don’t be ridiculous. Tom just got poisoned, Umbridge is poking into the fires and
frisking the owls-.”
“We know a way around that,” said George. “It’s a simple matter of causing a diversion. We
actually have a... good way around it.”

“Okay, fine, if you make a good diversion, how will Harry be able to talk?” Hermione asked
in a hushed voice.

“That’s the trick,” Fred agreed. “See, the hospital wing has emergency floo for all sorts of
things. The gate is normally closed unless you have permission- but until the person returns
the gate stays open. So if someone leaves, you can chat as long as you’re done by the time
they come back.”

“That...makes sense,” Hermione agreed grudgingly. “So then, you already talked to Tom?
He’s meeting with Miss Dimitriu?”

“I dunno,”’ Ron scowled. “Do you really need him?”

“Don’t be a prat,” Fred huffed. “Apparently he’s itching to talk. Too many feelings in that
bloke-.”

“More like too few.”

“ Anyways,” Fred said. “Around five o’clock tomorrow, Tom’s heading off for a while.
You’ll get your chat then.”

Tom was waiting for him with the blankest expressions. Harry smiled softly and felt more
than he saw Tom’s own reciprocated greeting.

“I’ll give alarm before I come back,” Tom said quietly. He didn’t appear to care much more
than that. “Otherwise, I’ll appear in the wrong location.”

“Right,” Harry agreed. He didn’t entirely know how to do a floo call instead of just
transportation.

Tom walked into the hospital wing, slipping with practiced movements into the back closets.
He didn’t approach any of the stacked potions- clearly warded even if they couldn’t see it-
and walked through a smaller unoccupied storeroom. The chimney and fireplace there was
dusty and unlit. Tom used a small fire charm and pulled a tiny pot from a mantel.

“Be quiet about this,” Tom warned him. He grabbed a handful of powder and threw it into the
tiny blaze. At once, it exploded into emerald green fire that licked the air like a salivating
dog.

Tom stood and announced in a foreign language- so accented he couldn’t comprehend what it
meant. He caught the slightest bit of the word Villach!

Tom stepped into the fire and disappeared.

Traveling by Floo always felt like a strange experience, much wilder than that of portkey
when traveling a far way.

Crina had used express permissions to link her private estate to the Floo Network. Her claim
of how to find her in the case of an emergency, or if he ever needed her. With Nurmengard
under so many eyes and the press struggling to get through the gates (somehow, nobody had
been eaten yet) visiting her personal home was the safest bet.

Somehow, he had never imagined her house in the flesh before.

Everything shouted loudly of Crina.

Tom stepped out of a large stone fireplace, built of rocks from a variety of sizes and shapes.
The mortar held, thick and old with the old drafty feeling that stone houses and root cellars
shared.

Crina Dimitriu’s house had exotic carpets, all in different shades of red and plum. Soft wool,
handcrafted by Persian artists. Her couch reminded Tom of nostalgia. An antique to her.

He ran his hand across the soft velvet, trailing his fingers over the throw blanket made from a
pelt of a long furred animal. A moose, or caribou perhaps. It felt soft and rich across his
fingers.

Nothing matched, but the unorthodoxy of its appearances somehow clicked into a perfect
representation of elaborate expensive tastes. Walnut antique French cabinets. A jester server
with marble counter. An Italian baroque 3 piece leather salon, with a four tassel pillow for
decoration on the center seat.

Tom let the pelt blanket slip between his fingers. Crina Dimitriu had an Indian curved
shortsword on a hall rack, secured by copper pins. She had a taxidermy boar head with a
javelin spike impaling and securing its lower jaw closed.

Expensive tastes, elaborate appeal. It fit her, and beyond that, it didn’t.

Tom walked, trailing soot over her carpet, and ventured down her hallway. It was impossible
she did not know he was here.

The first door was a washroom with a large bathtub carved in geometric designs. Ugly, sharp-
cornered like the innards of a geode. The next-door housed a small closet, filled with less
outrageous coats and boots- they reminded Tom of trenchcoats Military commanders wore.

The next room, with two long hanging plants on sentry, was filled with books.

The room had not been made with a library in mind. Once it may have been a child’s room,
but now the walls were built from white nondescript shelves and their innards filled with
wooden entrails. The books were not organized by shape or size, instead, they looked placed
by purpose and usage. Old and new books set side by side. Some stacked on top of their
spines and others with gaps between one and another, stone book-ends kept them upright.
The library ladder rested above Tom’s head, strung across the rafters by three industrial
hooks. Tom wondered if there was a book here Crina had not read.

It still was not right.

Tom left the library and ventured further into Crina Dimitriu’s home.

He found a bedroom, a kitchen, a cellar so filled with wine Tom wondered why Crina ever
bartered for more. He stumbled over her archives, a closet filled with so many coats it looked
as if a hoard of animals, and then found himself in gazing room.

He would have overlooked it if not for the picture on the corner of a table. A few small plants
in clay pots sat in sunlight. A beautiful view of distant mountains- the Alps if Tom had to
guess. Exposed brown rafters, white plaster walls. A wicker chair and a basket with needles
and wool. Circular plates hung on the wall with unknown cultural significance. A single
picture of a woman and a man laughing.

The portrait was of a muggle and reminded Tom of the pictures he had seen as a child.

Tom looked at the cabinet the picture sat on and began to open up its innards.

Humans, like all other emotional things, were tediously predictable.

“Most people pause at my room of trophies,” Crina Dimitriu said from the doorway. “Or they
try to steal one or two. Nobody cares about this room.”

“This room is the only one with something of value,” Tom said. He pulled out the books, two
of them, and straightened himself. Both of the books were cold with cracking corners sewn
from skin. Crina tilted her head in a grudging sign of admiration.

“So far, you’re the only one who has ever seen it as such,” Crina admitted. She held a cup of
tea, fragrant. The sunlight drifted through the windows, lighting up her pale skin with two
tones. “Something I respect about you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Tom said. “I came from nothing. I recognize when others begin with the
same lack of possessions.”

Crina smiled wryly, a curve of her lips. She had no makeup on, only long trailing trousers
that covered her feet, and a sweater that engulfed her frame and left her throat bare. She was
a beautiful woman

She could have been a model, a face for magical research and discovery. Crina Dimitriu had
turned it down for an unknown reason, hid her insecurity behind her carefully tailored
appearance.

Here, in her home, those disguises shed away like any snake did after growth. Her
imperfections made her real; the shyness to her, the hesitation in her body movements and the
small lilt of her voice. Tom had known Crina for nearly a year, she had never seemed more
human.
“Who are they?” Tom asked, nodding towards the picture.

“Ah,” Crina said. She gazed at the picture a moment longer than normal, sentimental
attachment. “My mother and my father. They have passed on now, but I like to keep them
close to me. Call it sentiment.”

“You don’t seem the sentimental type.”

Crina smiled wryly. “I’ll accept that as a compliment. It is one of my greatest flaws,
my...fixation on what I could potentially have had. Are you well, Tom?”

“Yes,” Tom lied. “I have questions.”

“As expected,” Crina teased him gently. “I am concerned about your performance recently.
You are late submitting several assignments, but education is...It is only papers. It does not
define you, it is not the greatest importance of your life at the moment.”

“Tea?” she asked him politely, and then escorted him into her kitchen. She set her cup on the
wooden table, fetching a thick iron kettle with practiced ease. “Tell me your theories and
questions as the herbs soak.”

“Umbridge poisoned me when inviting me to tea,” Tom mentioned.

Crina tilted her head and looked slightly amused. Her fingers clenched a dangerous degree
around her mug, expressing her anger when her voice could not. “I’ll remember that when I
terrify her to death. Tea? Yes? Do you need healing? No?”

Tom agreed and set his books down- the ones he fished from Crina’s belongings, and said:
“I’ve linked myself to... his Horcruxes.”

Crina tilted her head. “So you’re certain he has one?”

“Multiple,” Tom mused quietly. “I’ve... connected with...Harry Potter similarly as I have with
a snake. Nagini. I knew her long ago.”

Crina leaned against the counter and tilted her head. Her fingers tapped against her cup, clay
and well-loved. “Is it time to talk about teacups, and time, and the monsters of our own
disorders?”

“I want to talk about Horcruxes,” Tom said. “I can feel them, guide them.”

“Have you been guiding Harry Potter then?” Crina asked him. She passed over his tea, and he
drank with no hesitation. It was not poisoned, it tasted of something old and foreign on his
tongue. Different than the British blends. Tom set the clay cup down and he said: “I’m not a
Horcrux, but I can link to others better than he can. I can control them, I believe, with time.”

“That is a terrifying thought,” Crina said knowingly. “Or an unbearable relief. Are you
worried for him then? Afraid of how he will think of you?”
“I don’t care about him,” Tom urged. “Voldemort. I don’t care about him at all. He’s...He is a
grotesque disgusting thing. Distorted and freakish. Unnatural”

Crina hummed an absentminded sign of curiosity. She gestured for the books with one hand,
her long unpinned hair swished slightly along her shoulders.

Tom slid the two books over and listened to her words as she leisurely flipped through the
pages of the book. She said almost teasingly, with little urgency in her voice“Others would
dare say the same thing about you. I imagine many individuals still look at you and see
something unnatural, or freakish in your own words. I don’t of course. Every time we meet,
you seem to be more and more separate from whatever fate you once resigned yourself to.
You’ve adopted a sense of individuality and determination that has deviated you from that
path. I’ve always wanted you to grow, to find yourself and not a title. What has changed?”

Tom stared at the wood of her kitchen counter, battle-scarred from knives. The surface had
pockmarks and old wine stains. Elaborate black walnut marred by time and age, resting
simple worthless clay cups with herbal leaves Tom had never tasted before. “My Patronus is
a vulture. A Griffon vulture. I saw them before.”

“You can cast a Patronus?” Crina inquired, gentle and soft with her questioning.

“Harry Potter can,” Tom said.

Crina looked at him proudly, like no one had ever done before. She smiled gently at him and
said: “Once, I feared for your survival. That you would grow into a crippled skittish thing. I
see you’ve found relief from your loneliness. Will you tell me what it is?”

Tom wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her so sharply the words formed on his tongue. He
leashed his thoughts, the desperate side of him who wanted dependence and love but who had
been hurt too many times to ever trust again. Tom pulled them back, smothered them in
mustard gas, and he said: “No.”

Crina tapped her fingertips on the book and said nothing to his obvious distress. She
believed, in time he would tell her on his own. She had faith in him- they shared an unspoken
bond of mutual trust.

“Here is what I wanted to show you,” she said. “I wondered how to destroy Horcruxes.
Simple on further examination, the normal ways all strong artifacts can be destroyed. Bouts
of powerful categorical magic from either Light or Dark. Fiendfyre, a killing curse. Blood
magic or sacrifice may aid in their destruction. The catalysts of light and dark magic, like a
dementor or a basilisk, could likely destroy one-.”

“A dementor?” Tom asked quietly. He gazed at the picture within the book, of a spherical
structure being split and fragmented through self-suffering.

“Startling, isn’t it?” Crina said dryly. “Dementors are incredibly light creatures. They fuel
themselves on love and happiness, ridding it from you.”
Tom hadn’t ever considered categorizing creatures to such an extent. “I know most creatures
require the same affinity to destroy.”

“Yes,” Crina agreed proudly with his understanding. “A basilisk or boggart are thwarted with
same affinity magic- Fiendfyre or intent-based spells. The spell to counter a boggart is dark,
it is formed from intent and fills you with laughter.”

“The Patronus,” Tom realized quietly. “It forms from emotions and shapes into intent.
Dementors form and steal emotions, the experience shifts from one to another, due to the
altering intent.”

Crina nodded and said casually: “You are the most intelligent child I have ever met, Tom
Riddle.”

She said this with an eerie sort of finality. Addressing it like a simple fact Professor Binns
would read from a book, or a title of a painting made a hundred years ago. She rattled his
perspective and turned his eternal defiance passive and carried on with her original topic. “I
then thought,” Crina said with a small wave of her hand. “Why destroy a Horcrux when they
can be used instead? It is possible to absorb Horcruxes, through strong emotional regret.
Disdain, hatred of the action. Of course, only by the original soul from which it was split- or
a doppelganger .”

Tom stilled. “You think this is possible?”

“Dark Lords never last. Over time, they become warped and twisted. More monster than
man- it is why they have never won. My mother once used the expression...Dark Lords tend
to fight with windmills.”

They are fighting a useless battle, they both thought.

A useless battle, was that all that everything was? What Tom’s once ambitious dreams were-
faced in a new society that turned more foul and more cruel in entirely new ways. Chasing
something that didn’t exist.

What was he doing?

“Madam Dimitriu-,” Tom said then paused. He wet his lips and tried again. “ Crina... What is
life?”

Crina looked at him, then gazed deeper with a sense of genuine expression Tom had to avert
his gaze.

“We live in novels created just for us,” Crina said. “Stories we tell ourselves, convince
ourselves of. We follow a script of our own making. We pretend that our life is sacred. It’s a
secret thing, built on lies. We tell each other bits and pieces of who we are, what we are.
That’s all we share with each other- the failures of human nature.”

“Do you think I should stop Voldemort?” Tom asked her. It wasn’t a question of could he- it
was a question of should he.
Should I intervene in my vineyard? Tom wanted to ask her, knowing of the tattoo she had on
her heart and the unreasonable limitations that prevented her interaction. Should I prevent the
plague?

Crina looked down at her old hands, wrinkled and aged where her face hadn’t. “Magical
Britain urges for my arrest, accuses me of crimes to appease their ego. They’ve chased Albus
Dumbledore from where he shelters and raises the newest generation. They hunt and
persecute children born under unfortunate experiences. They…

“I... believe that although that creature has lost his way and lost his path, his original intent
was fair. If we do not challenge what we believe is wrong, then we exist for no purpose.”

Crina looked at Tom and smiled with all of her. She gently pushed the page towards him once
again- the detailed depiction of Horcruxes that likely remained the only source in the world.
“Horcruxes were not made to hurt. They were made to help and to heal. They are dark magic,
the tearing of human nature to split apart your emotions. That which makes us human, our
ability to remember, to reminisce, and to forget is lost . Those who make Horcruxes lose
themselves.”

Crina tapped the page once more. “ But, those who heal Horcruxes, find themselves again.”
 Singing you to Shipwreck
Chapter Summary

Just because you feel it, doesn't mean it's there.

Chapter Notes

And finally, the big reveal I've been writing for...a long while.
Enjoy everyone.
We're on the countdown.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There was no reason for worry, Tom gave Harry ample warning before returning from
wherever he had gone. Crina’s house, wherever it was, had an address in a foreign language.
Sirius had been worried but understood kindly when Harry expressed his overall stress and
discontent with Umbridge’s reign.

Tom, on the other hand, returned smelling of pungent tea and in deep contemplation.

“Nice chat?” Harry asked curiously. He on the other hand stank of soot and smoke.

Tom’s frown twisted a bit more. The boy looked strangely perplexed, confused or bewildered
by something Harry didn’t know. He didn’t bother responding.

Outside the hospital wing, it became evident why Fred and George told Harry the precise
time to slip away. Tom looked too distracted to pay it any attention- Harry grabbed the boy’s
upper arm and dragged him along to the Entry Hall.

It was just like the night when Trelawney had been sacked, but stank much worse. Students
formed a great ring, pressing forward curiously to face the chaos. Ghosts hovered above the
spectacle and portraits smooshed together into a single frame with the best view. Fred and
George stood proudly on an island of their own making, looking pleased with themselves.

“So!” said Umbridge triumphantly from her third step on the stairs. A tiny perch to tower
over the nonplussed twins. “So...you think it amusing to turn my school corridor into a
swamp, do you?”

“Pretty amusing, yeah,” said Fred casually. Neither of them looked afraid. Filch elbowed his
way through the students, holding a paper aloft in a shaking hand. The man looked near to
sobbing in delight.

“Oh, headmistress,” he said overwhelmed. “I have the paper...oh do let me whip these
boys...let me do it now…”

Tom next to Harry, gave a small scoff. A noise of disbelief or skeptic wry amusement. “That
man is incompetent, he’ll kill someone.”

“You can kill someone by whipping them?” Harry whispered.

“Yes,” Tom said with a heavily dismissive air. “Infection or trench rot. Knowing that man,
he’ll start lashing without thought and break kidneys and burst a spleen. He’ll kill a child, and
that woman will be held accountable.”

Harry felt disgust curdle in his stomach. Fred and George looked amused, rolling their eyes at
Filch’s delight. Did they know that whipping wasn’t as simple as a blood quill- it could kill
them?

“You two,” Umbridge said breathily. “Are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers in my
school.”

Disgusting, Tom thought and Harry felt. Neither of them said anything.

“You know what?” said Fred. “I don’t think we are. George, I think we’ve outgrown full-time
education.”

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling that way myself,” said George with a grin.

“Time to test our talent in the real world?”

“Definitely.”

Tom gave a low chuckle, a croaky noise that had Harry smiling before he knew it. The twins
summoned their brooms, breaking walls and decor as the broomsticks flew through the air
with Umbridge’s heavy shackles dragging behind it. They could have easily spelled off the
iron chains- but that would make less destruction. Once the broomsticks ghosted over the
surface of the scum-water swamp, they splashed up a wave of filth that landed along
Umbridge’s lower legs.

“We won’t be seeing you! Don’t keep in touch!” Fred hollered and mounted his broom.

“Discount on all goods to Hogwart students. Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes! Our new
premise!”

Harry crossed his arms in awe and watched as Umbridge shrieked, waving her arms
dramatically before she drew her wand to point at the flying twins.

“They’re brave, aren’t they?” Tom asked in a quiet voice. A thoughtful musing as he tilted his
head catlike. “That’s something new here.”
“What do you mean?”

Tom tapped his fingers on his arm, then shifted and drew his wand. He kept it low, intelligent
eyes sharp on Umbridge’s wavering wand across the entry hall. Tom muttered a quiet clear:
demutos.

“Tom, what did you do?” Harry whispered urgently, he hadn’t recognized the spell. There
was no wand movement, signifying it was some sort of transfiguration.

“Look in the swamp,” Tom breathed quietly. “It would be unfortunate for Umbridge to cast a
curse.”

Harry squinted into the swamp, then along the periphery where marble stone gave way to silt.
A boggy algae-covered branch sticking up from the deep portable swamp shifted slightly, just
enough to sink below the water. Harry had no doubts that somehow, Tom had transfigured the
branch into something else.

The twins were whooping, shedding down bits of firecrackers that whizzed about like fairies
then exploded into coupons. Filch was frantically running around, trying to snatch as many of
the papers as possible from excited student’s fingers. Umbridge was shrieking, trying to blast
them out of the sky before she turned her wand on the boys themselves.

Tom lifted his wand, subtly pressing it to his cheek until the skin pressed inwards. The boy
closed his eyes quickly then ducked his head so nobody could glance over and hissed in
parseltongue: “Restrain the woman.”

Harry jolted- he hadn’t heard Tom speak parseltongue before, never so openly. It sounded
weird in his ears, foreign and strange. He could understand exactly what he said, but there
was a lull of comprehension where he couldn’t predict what would come next. No
understanding of the syntax or linguistical rules.

Tom lowered his wand quickly, glanced at the swamp patiently. Umbridge shouted something
which sounded dangerously like the start of a blasting curse-.

The surface of the algae and pond scum bog erupted in a flash of dark brown water. A large
yellow anaconda lunged out from the water, spraying mud everywhere before it latched onto
one of Umbridge’s arms and tackled her to the ground.

“Filch!” Umbridge screamed, thrashing about as the giant snake rapidly coiled around her
with a bulk as large as Hagrid’s wrist. “Filch! Help me!”

“I can’t ma’am!” Filch cried back in dismay. “There’s a snake on you!”

Harry would have been worried, but he had heard Tom specify restraint only. The snake
wouldn’t hurt Umbridge, but it would scare her and put her in her proper place. Not to
mention Tom had inadvertently saved the twins from a minor concussion, broken bones, or a
serious whipping.

Fred cheered and shouted over the roar of the hall, “Give her hell from us, Peeves!”
Peeves, who had been watching the chaos with a tear in his eye, lifted his arm in a standard
salute. Fred and George wheeled about, broke through the entry stained glass window, and
flew out into the sunset.

The story of the great escape wouldn’t fade, especially since the twins hadn’t explained to
anyone how to actually remove the swamp. The area was roped off and Filch was given the
task of ferrying students across it for their classes. The yellow anaconda, which turned out to
be quite a sweetheart, napped lazily on the island in the middle with her open eyes. The
Slytherin students were all nervous to banish the poor thing in case one of the upper years
had conjured her. She already displayed an uncanny amount of intelligence, more than a
normally conjured animal.

“She’s transfigured,” Tom explained blandly. “Transfiguration from organic substances

survive longer. The tree branch was still living, it sustains the snake.”

Harry was sure that either McGonagall or Flitwick could have removed the swamp in an
instant, but they liked to watch Umbridge struggle.

The yellow anaconda, now being fed chicken drumsticks by a couple of first years, flashed
her tongue lazily and submerged herself in the muck. Harry had tried talking to her once, but
her intelligence didn’t expand so far as to comprehend and partake in conversation. She was
just a magical transfiguration Tom had made in the moment, albeit an impressive one.

Filch prowled the corridors with a horsewhip ready in his hands. Tom had already expressed
distaste at the sight of such a thing- Hermione warned students to stay away from him. The
problem was that although there were plenty of students causing chaos, there were too many
of them to effectively catch. The Inquisitorial Squad were attempting to help, but odd things
kept happening to its members. Crabbe came down with a horrible concoction of burping
carbonated bubbles, Millicent had been tackled by a swarm of canaries, and Pansy Parkinson
(to Hermione’s delight) had sprouted antlers.

Peeves had taken the twin’s parting words as a policy. Cackling madly, he swarmed the
school and caused a hurricane of destruction in his wake. Broken windows, flipped tables,
broken boddles. He dropped tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall, set fire to Umbridge’s
office, and composed elaborate renditions of Merlin’s legends where Umbridge starred as the
monster every time.

Last night, Harry dreamt he made the journey along the Department of Mysteries corridor. He
passed through the circular room, then the room full of clicking and dancing light. He walked
further, across the room full of time turners-.

“The future was always something I had worried about,” Tom Riddle said as an unwelcome
guest. Harry paused, the desire and uncontrollable need crackled. He turned, jointed and
stiffly in a dream made of diamonds and saw Tom Riddle marveling a large hourglass filled
with golden sand.
“I had so much time,” Tom said quietly. He reached forward, fingers touching the glass
surface of the hourglass. “So much time that I let it slide through my fingers like worthless
shillings.”

Harry felt the agonizing pressure lift slowly from his eyes. It was still there, a nameless
faceless weight on the room itself, but they were free of its control.

Harry told Tom, “you still do have time.”

“I wasted it,” Tom sighed wistfully. “I realize that for some of us, today might be our last
tomorrow.”

The sand drained and drifted smoothly, a gentle rattle like falling rain. Harry felt dizzy with
it, drowning under its sound.

“So many mistakes I’ve made,” Tom lamented. “I’m tired of thinking about it. No further
analysis will turn back my clock. I’ve grown, but not soon enough for us.”

Tom looked at him with a reflection of something dark and feral. A dark mirror with twisted
eyes and he said, “I own my behavior. I try to be good, but then a trigger is flicked. My skull
turns- cold, anxious, brutal. I strike out, ruthless and cruel. I know these are things for me to
fix, yet I ask for your consideration and your compassion, Harry. I’ve pondered it over, and
there is no medicine for a gangrenous heart. I’ve given out on the love you hold so close, I’ve
stopped looking for a way out of that dark place, I’ve stopped praying for the light.”

Harry staggered under the feeling of misty devil’s snare wrapping around his legs. They
blurred, walls and surroundings blurring into walls of shelves and glowing orbs. Tom’s face
shadowed and highlighted by the swirling blue of a thousand crystal balls.

“Why are you telling me this?” Harry said underwater.

Tom looked at the shelves, hand hovering close but not quite touching. Row number seventy-
seven, halfway down the aisle.

“You won’t remember this, Harry. You are not the only audience,” Tom told Harry and
Voldemort. “I’ve never held a strong belief in faith, in the ideals carved into me. This is my
last confessional.”

“Is it?” Harry said.

Tom Riddle smiled and reached towards one orb, head tilting curiously at the little ball on the
shelf. “There is no God but me.”

It was another warm day and students found themselves basking in sunlight and fighting off
the impending mental breakdown.

They stood less chance of being overheard outside anyways since Umbridge couldn’t pounce
on them unexpectedly. They studied under the beech trees on the edge of the lake. Ron was
not keen on the idea of studying, however, the fresh air became too alluring to ignore.
They spread their books out in the shade of the beech tree and sat down, skimming notes and
review guides in gusto.

The cloudless sky smiled at itself in the smoothly sparkling lake, the satin-green lawns
rippled occasionally in a gentle breeze. June had arrived, and so did their O.W.L.S.

The teachers were no longer setting them homework; lessons were devoted to reviewing
topics their teachers thought most likely to come up in the exams. The feverish atmosphere
drove most students wild, succumbing to stupid errors and then bouts of genius. Harry had
never felt more relieved he was no longer taking Occlumency lessons, he didn’t think he had
the time.

Tom frequented more classes now than ever before. Some of the O.W.L. material he already
knew, since he took his own exams half a century ago (give or take a decade). He amused
himself by watching students make ridiculous mistakes or breakthrough in theories he hadn’t
even noticed. Flitwick was running about, correcting charm posture and wand movements
and reversing the occasional transparent pig running rampant around the room.

“You aren’t going to try?” Harry asked, working on a fairly tricky camouflage charm that he
would likely never use again.

“I’m content watching,” Tom said. Harry almost didn’t believe him, but then Seamus set his
desk on fire.

Ernie Macmillan had developed an irritating habit of interrogating people about their study
habits. This spread into the D.A. session, which now became a glorified study nook.

“How many hours do you think you’re doing a day?” he demanded of Harry as they took
turns leg-locking and reversing it on a dummy.

“I dunno...a few?” Ron said alarmed. He had opted to take a tiny break, watching Ernie with
a sense of dread.

“More or less than eight?” Ernie demanded.

“Less?” Ron asked baffled.

“I’m doing eight! Or nine! I’m getting an hour in before breakfast every day-.”

Tom, having been reading in the back of the room a book that Harry hadn’t ever seen before,
closed it with a snap. The boy looked a bit flustered, a bit tired and sickly. He hadn’t entirely
recovered since Harry first noticed his ill health.

“Do you ever stop talking?” Tom asked rhetorically.

Ernie spun around in his heels in a frenzy. “You! You don’t even study! How are you going to
pass-.”

“I already have,” Tom said exhaustedly.

“Oh yeah,” Ernie blinked quickly. “You’re that...outside-Hogwarts program. So? How many
did you get? Five? Six?”

Ron smothered a laugh with his hand, even Harry had to hide a grin. Implying that Tom
wouldn’t get a passing grade in everything he took? He likely could challenge Hermione.

Tom’s expression smoothed over into a chilly frown. “Eleven.”

Ernie’s jaw dropped. “ Eleven?”

Tom said breezily, “I don’t care for muggle studies.”

Ernie choked on his words, struggling to make a sentence. Tom opened his book once again,
then thought better of it and slipped it into his bag. He stood, brushed the dust off his trousers
and strode across the room with a burning energy. Harry could feel it, the pacing lion of
Tom’s revving instincts.

Fight me, Tom’s head and heart snarled and roared. Harry’s ribs rattled under the sound of it,
the feverish pitch. Duel me.

“Hey, Riddle,” Harry said. “How good is your shielding spell?”

Tom’s wand was in his hand before Harry finished his sentence. They moved on autopilot, a
choreographed dance that Harry hadn’t seen before. They knew each other- felt their desires
and wants and fed another like an ouroboros.

“Wait, Harry-.”

“Relax, Ron,” Harry soothed, trailing towards the padded platform where occasional duels
were held. Spars, practicing spells against a partner in quick succession.

Fight me, the burning lion of Tom demanded. Harry drew his wand and held it at the ready.

Tom threw the first spell, a fast stunner that moved slower than it could have. Playing,
testing. Harry stepped to the side and let it shoot past, a red firework fading against the stone
wall.

“Expelliarmus,” Harry tested. Tom too, stepped aside.

They weaved, avoiding with no words what each other threw. Tom had a wider arsenal,
tending to adopt and experiment with an array of spells each with unique casting patterns.
Stunners and disarming spells shot straight, but the tripping hex corkscrewed and a leg locker
jerked like lightning.

Harry conjured water and Tom turned it into a sticky resin. Harry blinded Tom, and Tom
closed his eyes and fought without sight.

Harry knew that a group was gathering, either to place bets or critique the casual playful
tones of the duel. It was nothing like dueling Malfoy or learning against Hermione. They
moved in rhythm with one another, bouncing and adapting together as a single organism.
Harry felt no dismay or grief when his tactics didn’t work. All he could do was to try to make
a new and hopefully better choice and see what unfolded.

“Serpensortium,” Tom said leisurely. A long rat snake, black and curious landed on the mat
and curled around itself. Tom said nothing, spoke no words, but the animal had been made
with Tom’s wishes in mind and knew instinctively what to do.

Harry felt the question, the pressing curiosity for what he would do.

Once, Tom had been an imposing concept more than a person. A figurehead marveled and
hated and impossible to know. He lashed out defensively, and Harry wanted to say he could
understand how Tom came to feel that way. In the same situation, Harry would feel it too.

Tom needed validation for his emotions, not a solution or apology.

“Calm down,” Harry hissed in parseltongue. It felt like a secret on his tongue, a language
only they shared. “You are not needed here.”

The snake looked between the two before it agreed in a shaky “yes,” and sought out a spot
near the fireplace. The animal was not intelligent and likely would disappear within an hour.

Tom’s face flushed white as he smiled genuine and true. He raised his wand just as Harry did
and they shouted Expelliarmus!

The last time the Prior Incantato came to life, so did Cedric and Harry’s parents. This time,
Tom’s shy happiness breathed its breath and birthed itself as a laugh.

Their wands vibrated as if electric charges ran between them, forcing their hands to lock
stiffly along their wands. A narrow beam of light connected the two wands, a bright deep
gold. They splintered into a spiderweb of golden light, a birdcage sparkling through the
Room of Requirements.

The light battled, pressing and pushing between a mixture of intent and emotion. Tom’s naive
happiness battling the raging inferno of his ambition. Harry’s consuming compassion twisting
his indecisiveness.

Spells and lights drifted from their wands, little charms and smaller things. Transfiguration
spells looking blue, a warming charm twirling like steam. A backward record of all spells
each wand had cast.

Tom pressed, pushing and Harry’s wand bloomed a stag Patronus that glowed golden like the
sun. Tom’s wand sprouted a spiderweb of dark purple- the illusion curse- that disintegrated in
the air like pollen. He too, found a golden vulture breaking from his wand silently.

“What is this!” Tom shouted, flushed and straining under the connection.

“Prior Incantato!” Harry shouted back, over the buzzing ring of electricity. Months of spells,
reverse casting themselves within their golden cage. Harry did not fear it like he once did
before.
Tom marveled at the rare sight- then he jerked his wand back sharply. The golden strand
fought him and Tom fought harder. Electricity burned raw, then Tom’s wand spat out a spell
Harry didn’t recognize. A great mass of fire, boiling a sulfuric yellow with marmalade eyes
and a body of a dozen screaming animals forced into one grotesque shape.

Tom jerked his wand free, the golden cage fell, and the fiery chimera screamed.

Harry watched it coil upwards before it faded. Tom stared at it in shock, a bit pale and
shaking and clearly unhappy.

Ernie rushed over, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “You’re going to get the best score on the
Defense practical! That was wicked!”

“Great job mate!” Ron whooped happily. “What was with the uh...gold basket?”

“It’s a rare spell,” Harry apologized in advance. “Dumbledore told me about it. It only
happens with...uh, same wand cores.”

“Aw,” Ron deflated instantly. “That would have gotten me through my O.W.L.s for sure. Not
fair at all.”

The rest of the room who had seen the display agreed that it did look quite impressive,
nobody doubted Harry would do well. A flourishing black-market trade in aids to
concentration, mental agility, and wakefulness had sprung up among the fifth and seventh
years. Harry and Ron were tempted by the bottle of Brain Elixer offered to them by a
Ravenclaw sixth year, who had apparently gotten it off of a very reliable Slytherin who was
stocking the entire school.

“He isn’t bad, promise,” the Ravenclaw urged. “With the Weasley Twins gone, he’s the best
broker we have.”

Hermione confiscated the potion- even after it had turned out to be authentic, and dumped the
entire bottle down the toilet. From then on, only intense studying was allowed.

Hermione hoarded herself in the library, keeping company with Ginny who was polite
enough to bring drinks and food, and Tom who was startlingly phenomenal with Ancient
Runes.

They had spent half a day crowed up, Hermione rattling off names of a rune for Tom to
define them with only half his focus. He had his own sort of studies, reading a leatherbound
book that, when Hermione had peeked over the cover, was light magic theory dealing with
emotions.

“Oh, I keep getting this wrong,” Hermione moaned to herself quietly, scribbling out one rune
to the best of her ability. “Whoever decided that a hydra signifies nine but a runespoor is
three, and then draws them identical…”

Tom made a soft noise of absentminded acknowledgment. Hermione huffed, dragging the
book over to plop in his rough direction. She grabbed her quill, throwing it into his face with
gusto. “You draw it!”

Tom looked at her with a look of suffering, then plucked the quill from her hand. “ What do
you want.”

Ginny mumbled something unsavory. Hermione kicked her chair and scooched closer to
Tom’s chair. She shoved parchment into the crack of the book, securing it in place. “This one-
right there. The placard, the location of the eihwaz is out of place with the othila and uruz!”

Tom glanced down, blinking twice as his eyes scanned shakily. “This is Elder Futhark runic
alphabet, the location isn’t as important as the order-.”

“Then organize it!” Hermione struggled. Tom sighed, clearly contemplated ignoring her, and
then decided that helping would make the suffering shorter.

“Here,” Tom said taking the quill to scribble in a side slant font. “The placement isn’t
important its the configuration.”

Hermione stared at the page, looking at where he had copied from the book with an
unreadable expression. She blinked twice, then made a slightly strained noise and nodded
jerkily. “I- right. Could you...the german sundial structure. I was...having trouble with the
hydra placements and…”

Tom growled lowly and shifted the paper to start anew. She watched with a sharp eye as he
made a sharp circle with the quill, pausing to grab more ink.

He started at the top, working his way around the numbering system. Demiguise, zero.
Unicorn, one. Graphorn, two.

Around, except the structure format was entirely shifted. The circle worked but all numbers
and representation clumped to far on the right side, numbers one through ten compressed to
the right side of the circle, extending around and down but stopping just past the halfway
point. The entire left side of the circle was left baren, shakily and uncoordinated.

Hermione bit her tongue to prevent her immediate outrage.

She wasn’t a doctor- she hadn’t any experience with medical things, but from what she knew,
drawing a clock- albeit a wizarding runic clock was always a diagnostic tool for if things
were operating properly. Tom’s runic circle looked like something on a telly show she used to
watch as a child. Words like aneurysm and hemorrhaging came to mind although she
couldn’t quite define what they meant.

Tom stared at the paper, eyes twitching slightly as he held the quill aloft in a stationary hand
trailing to the right side. He completely neglected the left side of the paper.

“Oh, thank you,” Hermione said in a shrill squeak. Tom let her take the paper, closing the
book to hide the evidence. “That clears up a lot.”

Tom frowned, little creases between his eyebrows furrowing. How had she never noticed how
gaunt he looked? The pale complexion of his skin. Under his eyelids, she could trace blue
capillaries like spiderwebs.

He looked at her with suspicion, eyeing her warily. “...Of course…”

‘He’s going to know,’ Hermione thought quickly, looking away sharply. ‘Think!’

“...You’re acting strange,” Tom said conversationally. “Suspicious.”

‘No time to think!’ Hermione grabbed her wand and blurted, “stupify!”

Tom’s eyes widened but in such close quarters, he had no time to counter. He slumped
sideways, draping over the armrest of the chair bonelessly. His book slid to the ground, his
cup of tea knocked from the side table until it pooled onto the library floor.

“The hell!” Ginny yelled, leaping to her feet in alarm. She took one step back, trying to
comprehend why Hermione had randomly stunned Tom.

“I know!” Hermione said shrill. “I didn’t think! I panicked!”

“Oh, no I’m not complaining,” Ginny clarified. “Can I kick him? Please?”

“ No!” Hermione said, mindful of the other occupants. “I...Can you help me bring him to the
hospital wing? I...I remember he was supposed to see Madam Pomfrey! And he skipped!”

“Bastard,” Ginny agreed glumly.

Hermione worriedly tucked her wand behind her ear, shoving Tom’s things into his bag.
Ginny helpfully sorted her books to the side, applying a feather-light charm over their things.
Tom was a dead weight, sharp and gangly. Throwing one arm over her shoulder only caused
him to slide off with the snakelike quality of having little fat. Ginny cursed a little, eventually
throwing a sticking charm on Tom’s shirt so he’d stay around their shoulders.

“At least he doesn’t weigh much,” Ginny complained. Tom’s feet dragged behind them, his
head hung limply between their arms.

Together, they dragged Tom up the stairwells (Ginny bumped his knee into the railing with
glee) and around the other exhausted students. Nobody questioned why someone had passed
out- O.W.L.s were hard on everyone.

Ginny pushed open the Hospital Wing with her foot, guidingHermione in through the narrow
Doorway. Tom’s foot made a painful noise as it got caught slightly by the closing door. The
boy didn’t stir.

“Madam Pomfrey!” Ginny shouted out a greeting, trying to juggle Tom towards the nearest
bed.

“What is it- oh my,” Madam Pomfrey jolted, looking at Tom with a mixture of fear and
resignation. “He…”
“Just overworked himself!” Hermione rushed. Ginny rolled her eyes, scowling at Tom’s limp
body before she grabbed her bag, deciding she had somewhere better to be. Hermione was
thankful for such disdain.

“Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione said. “I...I think Tom has a brain bleed!”

The woman paused before drawing her wand cleanly. “Did you see an impact? A strike?”

“No, I- I think there’s long term damage,” Hermione struggled. “And...and It isn’t good. I
think he’s sick and-.”

“Miss Granger, I cannot talk about patient confidentiality with you.”

“Look!” Hermione struggled, pulling out her book and the drawing Tom had made. “He was
copying the picture here! And here he was drawing from memory and this is not a clock!”

Madam Pomfrey took the paper with old hands. She held it carefully between her fingers,
frowning at where the ink had smudged. The handwriting curled, verging on a unique scrawl
into areas of unrecognizable scribbling. “You said you watched him draw this?”

“Yes!”

“You’re sure?” Madam Pomfrey asked completely serious. “Tom Riddle drew this for you?”

Hermione nodded weakly, and Pomfrey set the paper down on her side table. She paused,
looking at Tom with an ambiguous expression.

“Thank you, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey said very quietly. “Twenty points to
Gryffindor. Run along now, I’ll take care of Mr. Riddle.”

Hermione, with nothing left to do but wait, nodded and watched as Pomfrey lifted Tom’s
body and took him into a private room in the back.

At times, Poppy Pomfrey enjoyed her work.

Then there were moments where she felt she had failed somehow in the worst possible way.

All mediwitches and mediwizards operated in a systematic approach to patients. The easiest
way to treat a patient was to make sure it remained constant.

‘ABCDE’ Pomfrey rattled off mentally, recalling the approach to unconscious patients. ‘First,
airway.’

Tom was breathing fine on his own, nothing blocked or strained. Nonetheless, she hastily cast
a bubblehead charm around his nose to assure clean oxygen. ‘Breathing done. C, circulation.’
Circulation consisted of many things; heart rate, heart performance, vessel ability, and
circulation. Pomfrey pressed firmly on Tom’s thumbnail, blanching it and squishing out all
the blood, and let it refill on her own.

Slowly- far too slow. She cast diagnostic spells, reading his heart rate and average pressure
based on his throat carotid fluttering. High- very high.

“What is going on?” Pomfrey whispered to herself, struggling to comprehend why his blood
pressure would be so high if he were unconscious. A minute later, she had a small needle
prick and a dehydration cure filtering in.

Pupil size and reactivity scored fine, a bit slow and jolting but the boy hadn’t a concussion.
She could request his personal information, but beyond what she knew that would have to run
through the headmistress who would almost certainly deny Crina Dimitriu.

Poppy Pomfrey was not going to allow petty politics to get in way of a child’s health.

Blood sample taken and placed aside for her tools to analyze as she worked. Another potion
infused and set inside, vitamin and nutrients considering how thin the boy looked. She had
given him supplements before- and was sure he had been taking them.

‘Think Poppy, back in school what did they teach us?’

It had been far too long since she worked as an emergency mediwitch, but she hadn’t
forgotten that much. She moved with efficient speed, alerting a house-elf to stand in for her in
case any students came in needing a potion. She had an urgent business. Blood set aside for
analysis, she scanned over his skeletal system. Nothing broken or bruised, no signs of
traumatic skull fractures. One ankle looked like it would sprain, but it was unrelated.

Liver functioning test would be determined by her devices. Clotting was fine, he was already
scabbing. Toxins were an unsettling realistic concern, the boy could have started using again.
She didn’t want to think about it.

He was breathing fine, it was unlikely she’d need a deep scan of his chest. She could
determine his oxygen exchange with her bubblehead until then she would determine the rate
of oxygen on his extremities.

85% was not good. At all.

‘That’s why his heart rate is so high,’ she thought grimly. ‘Inflammation of his vessels. An
infection somewhere.’

Where? The infection had to be severe if it was causing his overall poor health. She didn’t
want to consider it, but Hermione Granger had bought a condemning source of proof. Tom
Riddle was completely neglecting his left side of vision- he could see and interact with it, but
he was neglecting that side.

“Oh, child…” Poppy sighed. She pulled her wand aside, grabbed a pair of large clothing
sheers, and began to systematically cut off his clothing. Standard protocol, see what she was
working with.

He was gaunt, emaciated. Hairless on his arms and legs although small tufts of hair struggled
to grow. His scalp looked thin, his skin pale. Reduced blood circulation due to vessel
inflammation. A systemic inflammatory response?

She cut away more clothing and froze at the sight of conjured bandages. Thick, well wrapped
and hiding something concerning. Poppy Pomfrey unraveled the bandage and exposed a dark
disgusting ulcer. As large as a galleon, it pitted in on itself like a staph infection but oozed
black fluid. She unraveled the rest of the bandages, cut aside the rest of his trousers, and
looked at the scene in horror.

Tom Riddle was covered with large weeping ulcers so large she could sink her finger in them.
The largest, along his right hip on his outer thigh, drained a thick honey fluid that looked and
smelled like tar.

“Dear Merlin,” she whispered. “What has happened to you?”’

There was no worry now, she knew exactly what was wrong. She had found the infection,
and now she needed to assure that her readings were right.

The blood analysis chimed, and she ignored it in favor of another analyzer. Pressing the new
one under Tom Riddle’s back, it would prod upwards and investigate the status of his spinal
cord fluid. Poppy checked the blood reader, grimacing at the high rates of white blood cells
and liver issues. The infection was severe.

The analysis under Tom Riddle began sirening.

“What now!” Poppy worried, rapidly flipping over to look. The little silver trey paused
before popping up a tiny vial of Cerebrospinal Fluid it had taken from a painless magical
spine tap.

Alert: Gamma globulin Extreme High

“What?” Poppy mouthed, pausing in disbelief. Barely any disorders involved that- one that
involved a full-body paralysis, multiple sclerosis…

Oh, oh there was another.

Poppy didn’t tend to need her old reference books- most illnesses and injuries that came into
her ward she knew how to treat. Anxiety, broken bones, the common cold. This was entirely
different, this was a condition that Saint Mungos would be qualified to deal with- but she was
trapped with an incompetent Headmistress who wouldn’t let her operate.

Her old copy of Magical Menagerie: 10,000 Magical Conditions and Diagnostics hadn’t
been opened in years. She flipped to the front, then the index, and then to the page in
question.

“Sweet Rowena Ravenclaw and all her Medwitches,” Poppy whispered, taking a step back in
dismay. “No wonder you...oh you poor child…”
 The book provided answers to her in horrible standard font. Devastating news delivered in
10-millimeter font. Another page in a textbook and Tom was lying unconscious on her bed.

Neurological dysfunction.
Tremors and muscle weakness.
Working memory difficulties confusion/concentration [Frontal Lobe Lesion].
Abnormal reflexes.
Loss of magical regulation.
Loss of fine motor control.
Hemispatial neglect.
Mental changes [Emotional regulation/ cognitive processing].
Reduction in emotion-driven-magic.
Vision changes/blindness.
Paralysis.
Death.

Tom Riddle had a magical strain of Syphilis.

Chapter End Notes

4 Chapters Left
 Gutless Wonder
Chapter Summary

"Consider this my last sacrifice then, the actions of a gutless wonder."

Chapter Notes

A lot of you haven't trusted Crina, which is entirely fair.

I hope you think something new now, with this chapter to gnaw over.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The stones that lay around Crina Dimitriu’s fireplace were laid one at a time, perhaps on a
fine spring day just like now. There was a roughness about her home, careful calloused
details that were made to be painfully straight. Her house had been made with love, then
obscured behind lavish drapery and velvet.

From the outside, the house sat on a slight hill made from gravel and decades of packed dirt.
Tom could spot the ruts in the soil, where pea-gravel had been shoveled in to smooth its
surface once more. The British countryside, reeking of manure and wide-eyed cows, held
similar roads made from clay and stone.

Over the nearest hill where Crina’s house made it’s home, a distant village glowed in the
sunlight with bold red roofs and the hazy impression of a steeple. The mountains loomed
gentle and white, clinging to the snow which had accumulated over the winter. The ground
had thawed and conjured small dewy plants and moss basking in the spring haze. The
overwhelming threat of leaf rot and mud lingered, still frozen in the ground.

Crina Dimitriu lived within floo and apparation distance of Nurmengard. The prison itself hid
in the mountains of the Austrian Alps, near the highest peak of Gamsweg where the buzzards
soared and the Lupescu hunted the wild goat-antelope called Chamois. The forests were
thick, dense and tall on the rocky outcroppings. Beech and fir trees intertwined with larch and
pine. Crina had explained one soft morning that fox and badger roamed the mountains,
feasting on rabbit, pheasant, and the occasional deer that fell to unknown causes. Wolves
didn’t live in the Austrian alps, preferring the french geographical location- but the Lupescu
lived as legend and in the nearby villages they laughed of wolf-men eating their cattle.

The city of Villach- a large sprawling muggle existence, nestled itself East. A distant drive,
which Crina admitted she once made often when she invested in muggle automobiles and
frequented for various reasons. Now, she had no car or muggle machine. Only a driveway
leading down a winding road, and no visitors to ever visit.

She lived in a house so secret that nobody had ever heard of it, let alone seen it. No post ever
delivered itself, no birds roosting on her chimney. The owls took a long time to fly, often
succumbing to the perilous eagles that flew on thermals between each mountain ridge. A
palace of isolation, a lonely home of the infamous Crina Dimitriu.

It was beautiful and quiet. A place Tom would have admired and fully appreciated if not for
his circumstances for being there. Injected with potions- like a pig. He didn’t want Crina’s
pity and apologies, he wanted the foul rot out of him.

“It explains your diminishing performance,” Crina explained. Her teas were made from
flowers and herbs uncommon to Britain. It tasted sweet and aromatic, tingling his throat and
nose. “Your stubborn desire for privacy disguised this ailment until it developed to this
degree.”

Tom scoffed, sipping his tea. “Would you have done anything different?”

“No,” Crina admitted with a sigh. She slid a stack of papers across to him, secured by wax
and thin leather. “I’m unsure of how you will score. You’re welcome to take your exams,
then apply for remedial exams at a later time. I can’t delay them legally.”

“It’s fine,” Tom said. He had little thought for his exams- not necessarily O.W.L.s but the
international equivalent. He’d do fine.

Crina served as both a proctor and a medical technician. Equipped to administer medications
and potions within a specific area of practice. Tom didn’t ask questions or intrude, not when
she sterilized his arms and sunk a needle into his vessel. He stiffly wrote with his left hand,
mindfull of the slow draining potion in the crux of his right elbow. Like clockwork, he would
alternate to resume his exams the following day with medicines seeping through his left limb.
She had asked him days ago where he had contracted the disease. She spoke as softly as she
could, as gentle and considerate as a friend. Tom refused to answer, and she did not press him
again.

There were hours where Tom awoke from contemplation and felt his memories weigh heavy
on his thoughts. The ambient chatter of birds came through in a haze, Crina’s words no more
real than the rattling exchange of air in his lungs. It was temporary of course but existed in a
permanent way. However long he waited and however well he felt, it remained the base-line
he always returned to.

“Your scores are passing,” Crina apologized as a fire crackled oak wood. She sorted through
sheaves of paper with blue inked runes on the edges to prevent cheating. “They would be
adequate to any other.”

“Not me,” Tom said. Crina turned the top sheaf, displaying the ranking and cumulation of
points and percentage. Passing, but barely so. An insult to his pride and intelligence.
“You can retake them later,” Crina said. “I’ll set forward the subsequent steps- both for future
applications of higher education and the repetition of these exams. Once you recover, and you
will, this will be corrected.”

His thighs burned and ached, his bones felt bruised, and the headache behind his nose had not
faded for days. Syphilis. Syphilis.

“Don’t bother,” Tom said calmly. “I’m not returning to Hogwarts.”

Crina tilted her head curiously. She set aside the paper, locking them in the mandatory
tamper-proof container that she would send-off. Fetching her knitting with a skein of dark
yarn, she began to click her needles together in wordless curiosity.

“I don’t have any reason to go back,” Tom explained. “Not...Dumbledore won’t ever allow
me to achieve further education.”

“He won’t,” Crina agreed. Looping yard across her fingers, they danced and tugged as her
needles caught each strand to turn them into a new loop. Her needles clicked and danced, a
soothing tapping that Tom felt in his ribcage. “I would be honored to send out your
transcripts to other institutions. You have a few obvious choices of course. Beauxbatons
Academy of Magic would permit you, due to our geographical location within the Alps.
Durmstrang Institute would have great interest in you. If you would prefer to leave European
Magicial Institutions, I could contact Koldovstoretz in Russia.”

Tom tapped the edge of the armchair, eyes drifting to the boar head taxidermy with a sword
lodged through its muzzle. “You went to Durmstrang.”

“I did,” Crina said with a small smile. “Our uniform required a fur cloak, the first exposure to
my...peculiar taste.”

Tom calmed his breathing and his tone of voice. “I was under the assumption that
Durmstrang specialized in dark magic. Gellert Grindelwald went there.”

Crina hummed an ambiguous noise. “That’s true, but its reputation is a bit twisted by others.
In your time, I imagine the propaganda and altering portrayal of Grindelwald influenced the
school itself. Durmstrang was founded for specializing in the highly emotional artistic and
magical movement of Sturm and Drang. Translations equate it to... Tempest and urge, the
school’s founding educational push for altering emotional constructs with rationality.”

“Dark magic,” Tom translated calmly. “The school constructed itself for emotionally driven
individuals who would specialize with coherent intent.”

A safer perspective. Why teach a student who succumbed to impulses magic which would
react instinctively? An unstable emotional student would create harm to others through the
specialization of magic which responded as such.

“I enjoyed my schooling years,” Crina explained without any emotional bias. “They were
educational and welcoming.”
“Were you too emotional then, as a child?”

Crina’s needles paused, then resumed. “Objectively. The previous headmaster, Karkaroff, has
been removed from his position last summer. The replacement is an acquaintance of mine,
contacting her is of no difficulty.”

Tom said nothing more. Crina’s needles clicked in a repetitive lull like a clock on the mantle
counting towards midnight.

Despite Crina Dimitriu’s investigative query, Nurmengard still existed under her control. Her
profession and daily requirements did not change with the presence of Tom within her house.

She left early in the mornings when the sun was rising over muggle Villach and prodding
through the windows. The velvet and silk drapery threw lazy shadows on the floor, staining
the Persian carpets new shades of wool.

Tom Riddle gave Crina her privacy for all of a week, then succumbed to boredom.

The library shed light on Crina’s inner workings. A systematic catalog and arrangement of
books in a unique registry Tom could not identify. Topics with seemingly no relation shelved
themselves side by side. Muggle stories interwoven with magical lore. A silk bookmark
peering at him from the end pages of an autobiography. Tom found himself at a loss.

“You are a writer,” Tom whispered to himself. His fingertips trailed across canvas and leather
and cardstock. “You hide your secrets in binding and ink.”

‘You reek of regret,’ Tom thought. ‘Those painful memories are books with chapters, left on
shelves to gather dust. You remind yourselves of your failures and horrible actions. You write
them on these blank pages.’

Tom paused and contemplated the room once more. He realized sharply the problem, the
error with his approach.

“You suffer from your memories,” Tom whispered thickly. “You clutch them tightly, let them
slice into your skin.”

Tom turned sharply on his heels, leaving the room with a new direction in mind. Crina
Dimitriu would not hold her secrets of knowledge in her library, even in a house isolated as
this. She would keep them close, suffocate herself on grief and regret and the visceral taste of
delight. A woman who drank wine and indulged because her mind haunted her.

Crina Dimitriu’s bedroom looked just as Tom would design his. A thick bed with excessive
blankets. Bare walls and cabinets to organize and hide things out of sight. A shelf pressed
into the wall filled with trophies and tokens and books. A manuscript, the first publication of
a story Tom didn’t recognize. A leather book of Romanian folklore. A jewelry box carved
from black wood.
Tom ignored everything else in the room and walked directly to the shelf parallel to her bed.
He sat on her mattress, eyes dropping to the lowest shelf where nondescript unnamed books
and decorations rested under dust. Painful memories were the same as nightmares; they
vanish once awake, but in the grey area of consciousness, the sight of the books would coax
her guilt into shame.

Tom wiped aside the dust and pulled out the smallest book of the poorest quality. Linen and
cotton manufactured muggle paper. He flipped through clumsy handwriting, scribbled notes
in ballpoint pen and frowned at the pictures jammed in the crease. Perfectly square pictures
with a texture of chemicals. A company Tom didn’t recognize and smiling faces of girls.

He determined Crina by her face, the shy smile that made her young face look unpleasant.
Her hair long, braided and looped under a fur cap. Durmstrang uniform, with a muggle
photograph no larger than a slice of bread.

‘This is her journal,’ Tom realized. Not a diary or journal filled with thoughts, no childish
gossip of nameless infatuation. Each page had ink stains and pencil smudges, misspelled
language and questions simple to answer. Incorrect detailed steps for a charm, a written
question comparing the differences of potion ingredients. Scribbled names of books to read,
all shockingly simple.

Crina Dimitriu was a poor student. Unremarkable, forgetful. Her ponderings were below her
level of magical experience. Her intelligence did appear in small marks, where she theorized
something beyond her age and then fell flat in the analysis of hemlock sap.

Tom Riddle found one other picture in the back of the book, alongside a pressed wildflower
turning into powder along the edges. Tom looked at the subjects, recognizing the woman both
in this picture, and the one in the living room. Family, one that Crina hardly spoke of.

Tom selected the next one of the stack, only three books altogether. Made from leather and
high weight parchment, Crina Dimitriu’s handwriting was impeccable. Deliberate and even,
interspersed with diagrams and concepts that Tom could not comprehend. Words clearly
medical, but impossible to translate with only prefix and suffix understanding. Crina’s notes
and personal theories- the careful spiderweb of observation and factual evidence. Tom traced
the names of contacts within the Romanian Department of Muggle Majik, the times and dates
of operation. Legal guidelines, possible tests, and applications. Tom had found Crina
Dimitriu’s personal journal of her first patient.

If not for the placement within her room, Tom would have dismissed it as a monument of her
pride. A reminder of her accomplishments, her abilities. The book held a secret he had yet to
discover.

Strangulation- gendered forrm of nonfatal intimate partner violence. Coercive control-

domination and entrapment. Patriarchial terrorism (?) intimate terrorism. Coercive
controlling violence; battering.

The notes continued, interspersed with magical theory and muggle mind medicine. Tom
turned the pages, tracing the ridges of where Crina’s quill pressed so firm the paper imprinted
with her words. Collapsed trachea; victim died over course of one hour.
The last book on Crina’s shelf was the information he had been searching for. Various clues
had been present for quite a while, ever since Tom had known Crina he had rarely seen her do
magic. She clothed herself in fur and silk, decorated her home with wealth but not magical
feats. There was no toast buttering itself, as with the Weasley household a lifetime ago. There
were no brooms sweeping the hallways. There were no wards to deter muggles from visiting-
only the isolation of the land itself. Crina Dimitriu, a piteous student, turning to muggle
medicine because she struggled to levitate a feather.

Some avenues of magic required no wandwork. Potion brewing revolved around careful
measurement, obeying the linear progression of time and the unique interactions of
ingredients. Divination rested within blood, bubbling to the surface with the right
environment. Herbology consumed the sun and natural energies and gave birth to flowers and
fruit.

Crina Dimitriu’s third book decorated itself in a gorgeous splattering of rituals. Dark magic
manifested with intention-based sacrifices, emotional gain, and physical manifestation. A
perverse corrupted mimicry of light magic, turning concepts into something else.
Transfiguration of things not meant to be.

Why rituals? Why not anything else?

Some wizards had more natural power than others. The reason Crina first found herself
fascinated by Tom was due to his unique conception and birth- his increased magical
potential whereas Crina Dimitriu evidently, had minuscule competency. The technology of
ritual implements and the interactions of the components, the obvious power due to the
terrifying submission the user displayed. Rituals existed through the abandonment of control-
of one’s self.

“Something given,” Tom whispered out loud. He stared at the pages, all inked in a frantic
frenzy speaking of a tortured youth. “Something received. All of equal value.”

Crina had thrown herself into research, compiling a collection of bizarre and freakish
information. Components of gnarled personal afflictions and distorted personal gains.
Deformed physical anomalies and misproportioned capabilities. Self-transfiguration and
human transfiguration was illegal universally, seen as inhumane and monstrous. It was not
taught- Tom had asked Dumbledore decades ago and it alone created the shift from respect to
suspicion.

Tom flipped through the pages, where the handwriting became more orderly. Settled,
specific. Focusing on an amalgamation of concepts and revolutionary theories in an area of
magic shunned by the world. The altering of a magical core itself, repurposing and re-
threading it like a tailored suit. Tunneling a trench to redirect a river the land had carved.
Synthetic, a grotesque mockery made from blood and bone and sacrifice.

Tom knew that Crina Dimitriu had a feared reputation due to her experimentation with her
patients. She cut off the limbs of Gellert Grindelwald. She housed canine guards birthed from
bestiality. She accepted Tom into her life.
“Oh Merlin,” Tom whispered. He closed the book and set it back on its place, feeling
disoriented in the wake of his realization. The woman had negligible magical abilities, so she
mutilated herself into an angel.

When Frau Dimitriu returned home, she stepped through the threshold and met Tom holding
a bottle of wine.

“Dinner?” Tom inquired politely, leading her to the kitchen. Indeed he had gone ahead,
sorting through her pantry and assembling a small meal of roasted fowl. “How was your
day?”

“Classified,” Crina said amused. “You’re in a pleasant mood.”

“Simply curious,” Tom said. He butchered the animal with practiced movements, wielding
her carving knife a tad tense. “I had questions and presumed that food would loosen your
inhibitions.”

Crina laughed delighted. “Your honesty is greatly appreciated. Bastet- an inmate of mine,
wishes to pass along greetings. It appears you have met.”

“In passing,” Tom said. He uncorked the wine, plucking one of Crina’s wineglasses to pour a
generous amount for her. He made no movements to indulge himself.

They walked into the living room, feasting on antique furniture. Tom licked the grease from
his fingers, mindful of his fingerprints. “Why is Bastet imprisoned?”

Crina arched one eyebrow and swirled the wine in her glass. She had yet to take a drink. “It is
public record. Bastet was incarcerated for mutilation and cannibalism.”

“Charming,” Tom said dryly.

Crina rolled her eyes and elaborated. “Bastet was an individual appointed guardian of a large
estate in Egypt. He was tasked as...divine duty to protect and ward off threats, in return, he
was granted the ability to protect future generations.”

Tom thought of the other man, the feline coy characteristics and the lilting cruel twist to his
words. “He is immortal?”

“No, heavens no,” Crina said. “He is blessed with nine lives during a festival in Bubastis
during the age of Ancient Egypt. The majority of history he slumbered in a crypt where his
wards were buried. Muggles opened the tombs, and Bastet awoke and explored. He currently
has four lives left, and will die of natural causes once those lifespans have ended.”

Crina took a sip of her wine, then stiffened. She rolled the goblet once more, peering into its
dark bottomless depths. She said: “This is deadly nightshade.”
“It is,” Tom agreed immediately. “I found it in your wine cellar. Interesting pastime,
regularly drinking poison.”

Crina pursed her lips, then set the cup down on the nearest side table. She observed Tom with
a frown and then nodded slowly with a relucent sigh.

“You said you had things to ask me,” Crina repeated warily. “I will do my best to answer
your questions.”

“Wonderful,” Tom said. “How are you drinking poison?”

Crina’s eyes flickered across the room, resting on the boar with the sword through its muzzle.
She sighed, ran one hand through her hair and undid the neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her
hair unraveled, kinking patterns down her shoulders. She said: “When I was young, I
was...aspiring for greatness. I indulged in avenues of magic and knowledge that many did not
feel comfortable knowing.”

Tom’s eyes were sharp and fierce. He said: “You were mediocre at magic. You still are.”

“Wandwork,” Crina corrected him. “I am incapable of extensive wandwork. I sacrificed this

in favor of other information.”

Tom looked at her with a fire burning in his eyes. He asked silently, what else?

“As you know, I’m experienced with muggle medicine,” she said. “I decided...If I could not
perform magic to such a degree as my peers, then I would learn the body and all that we are.”

“You were too pathetic to be a magical healer,” he said. Tom’s mouth almost twitched into a
laugh, completely overwhelmed with the true realization of the great and feared Madam
Dimitriu. “You couldn’t be a healer.”

“I couldn’t,” she said. “I went to the muggle world and began my education there. I obtained
a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology, as well as magical education courses. I diverged from the
secrets of the body to the secrets of the mind.”

Tom hummed a flat tune. “Your first article was...how long ago?”

“Fifteen years approximately. I was twenty-six when I managed my first publication.” Crina
stretched, unhooking her long boots to deposit them on her carpet. Her elaborate fur coat had
been abandoned at the door, leaving her in a surprisingly casual button-up shirt and trousers.
“My integration of muggle psychology and magical mind arts has lead to my success.”

“Are you sure?” Tom asked her. He stood, walking around the room to peer at the various
collections on display. A framed picture of pressed butterflies. A placard and trophies from
international conventions. The reindeer pelt throw. “I was under the presumption you had
stripped yourself of magic.”

Crina threw her head back and laughed.

“That is what has made you worried?” she said. “Yes, Tom. I’ve experimented with body
modification, quite extensively so. I’ve redirected my magical abilities into my mind,
limiting my wand magic yet increasing my mental magic. Astral projection, mind mapping,
emotional control, and cognitive abilities.”

Tom Riddle paused in his walk, standing stiffly in the room. He looked at her, bewildered and
off guard. He had not anticipated her confession, her blatant dismissal of what would be a
shattering realization. A secret that would ruin her career, her life.

“I have researched rituals for years, Tom,” Crina sympathized knowingly. “How do you
believe I found that book on Horcruxes? If not for me, you would be lost for perhaps a
decade, knowing only half-truths of such a thing.”

“You…” Tom said taken aback. “You’ve done body modification.”

“Of course I have,” Crina agreed. “I drink poison. Would you like to see?”

Crina Dimitriu, readjusting herself from where she sprawled on her couch with a pillow and
thick book before her, began to unbutton her shift. Tom cast his eyes away, mindful of her
age and skin. Crina unbuttoned the clothing from her sternum to her navel, exposing the
barest flash of black undergarments.

“Look, Tom,” she said with a laugh. “This is what desperation looks like.”

Tom looked at her, against his best judgment, and scoured her skin with his eyes. From her
sternum, a thick scar bisected her torso to where it slipped below her trousers. An ugly rope
of silver scar tissue, textured in rippling undulations across her flesh.

“Take a look at me, Tom,” she whispered proudly. “Feast your eyes.”

Her fingers dug into the horrific scar, pinching the sinewy flesh between each nail. She
rotated her wrist and the knotted bumps unwound- and Crina Dimitriu unzipped her flesh.

The smell hit harder than any bullet. A silent shockwave that smelled of rot and decay. It
stank like the Thames during the blitz, of the Basilisk corpse he burned to nothing. Crina
smiled at him as her organs shifted and pooled out from her vivisected chest like that of an
upturned bowl of stew. Great tubes of intestines and butter yellow fat created popcorn
garlands from one to the next. The pickled white mold of her liver winked at him through her
bloodied ribs. Her lungs, black festering things, expanded and contracted through no means
of biology. Her stomach hung, a distended round pouch.

“Not so curious anymore?” Crina asked him. She plucked the nightshade poison wine, and
began to chug it as if it were nectar. Tom watched as her stomach inflated, turning purple and
veiny under the weight of wine. He barely withheld a retch.

“I know, a bit messy,” she apologized. Already, blood and gore and other fluids had seeped
out from her open cavity, staining across the couch and dripping onto the floor where her
intestines hung teasingly. “The benefit is I can drink all the wine in the world.”
“You’re rotting,” Tom croaked. “I know what corpses- you’re dead.”

“No, only my organs are,” Crina corrected. “I sacrificed them, withdrew my magic to fuel
better things. No poison will kill me, no injury to my heart or lungs.”

“Because they’re already dead.”

Crina flapped one hand dismissively. She smeared blood accidentally on the page of the book
in front of her. The collar of her shirt opened slightly, just enough for the front legs of her
Beatle tattoo to show in the light. “Specifics aren’t important. I take frequent baths to keep
the odor from becoming noticeable. You taught me how to smoke- but I don’t quite have the
stomach for it.”

Her stomach in question, a balloon filled with toxin, swung with her words and threatened to
rupture. Everything smelled sickly diseased and festering. Crina with her braid-creased hair
and perfect makeup, oozing fluid from her shell. The beetle on her chest felt more fitting than
ever before.

“You’re disgusting,” Tom awed. He took one step forward, hesitant with his movements.
Crina smiled at him, encouraging his approach. She shifted her book out of dangerous
territory, then began to scoop her entrails back into their proper position.

“You vivisected yourself,” Tom realized. It made sense- her keen awareness of anatomy. Her
lack of concern of confusion over disorder and disease.

“There’s no inner workings of the body I’ve not investigated,” Crina confirmed easily.
Something soured like a raisin pressed back into its position. Tom wondered if it was her
ovaries or a shrunken kidney. “I learned all that there is to the human form, so I turned my
sights to the mind instead.”

Her skin wove itself together through the lacing of vessels and skin. A zipper with organic
teeth, locking itself closed into a twisting knot of raised white scar. Crina left her shirt
opened, a teasing reminder of what horrors existed below her flesh.

Tom breathed stiffly, composing himself. His fingers twitched, paranoia buzzed like
malevolent hornets in his veins. “You turned yourself into a corpse, to investigate the mind?”

“It sounds irrational when said like that,” she said. “I turned my life into a single venture into
the concepts of the mind and soul. There is little I don’t understand.”

Tom Riddle said: “Because your father strangled your mother to death in front of you, and
you wasted your life trying to comprehend why.”

Crina Dimitriu froze. Tom smiled thinly and elaborated. “Your first patient, David. He was a
muggle, and your mother, Maria, a witch. For unknown reasons, when you were eleven, your
father killed your mother and allowed himself to be imprisoned. You finished your education
at Durmstrang, then dove into Muggle mind medicine with the hopes to interview your father
and learn why. The moment he promised you the answer, he hung himself in his cell.”
Tom felt victory bleed into his words, shifting them into a smug suggestive cadence. “Am I
wrong, Crina Dimitriu?”

Her fingers twitched despite her best attempts. She said nothing.

Tom stood sharply, beginning to pace with a manic energy burning through his awareness.
“You wasted your entire life in the pursuit of knowledge. All of your achievements, your
titles- all because of your greatest failure. You are a pathetic witch, a mediocre doctor, so you
constructed an abomination of the flesh to understand.”

Tom beamed and whispered: “But you know, that you will never understand.”

“‘That’s not true,” Crina snapped. “I know more than anyone-.”

“Except the dead,” Tom laughed. “You still cannot wrap your mind around why your father
did that- why he waited and killed your mother when you were there. Strangulation, such an
intimate way to kill-.”

“You know nothing-.”

“I do!” Tom screamed. The house rang quiet with the exception of a gentle ticking from a
clock somewhere else. Crina’s knitting needles had long since fallen still, her movements
jerky and uncomfortable. “I do know. You burned your life away in the pursuit of something
you can never obtain. Morality and comfort balks in the presence of the past. You isolated
yourself, sacrificed more than your skin for a chance at something greater. You decorate your
house with lavish comforts and wealth and hide the cultural roots you can’t bear to shed-.”

“Tom,” Crina said stiffly. “Do not talk to me about sacrifice.”

“I lost everything!” Tom argued. “I lost- my life is gone! Why can you not understand that? I
have no future here, I have no life here. You at least chose to lose everything, I had no say-.”

“You do!” Crina snarled, anger twisting her face into something ugly. “Tell me, boy. When
are you going to stop this- this irritating pity play? You have lost everything, but you aren’t
the first! Do you think nobody else experiences isolation? Experiences neglect? Loss? Hate?
You are special but you are not exclusive, so stop your tantrum and think.”

Crina’s voice softened. “You don’t understand the consensus of the world around you.
Everyone knows your anger, the power you have and the destruction you can cause. You are a
lonely soul, longing for friends and love and yet your temper is your downfall. Everyone
believes that you will snap, and all that hate and fury will be unleashed. Then, they will kill
you and they will describe your death like a thousand paper cuts. No one would ever
understand your insanity- nobody but you.”

Tom’s breathing rattled, and Crina said horrifyingly: “I am trying to help you stay alive.”

Tom said: “Then help me.”

Crina laughed, a noise that startled them both. Her hands lifted to her mouth, muffling the
noise and smearing her lipstick. “I am trying, but every step forward you make another
wound slices you open. Drug abuse, night traumas, syphilis? You don’t make it easy, but you
haven’t snapped and I am determined to ensure you never do.”

Tom stared blankly at her. “I...I don’t…”

“Maybe,” Crina mused, a tad hysterical but mostly very sad. “If the world were different, and
I had not rotted any chance at raising a child, I would have brought you into my life as well.”

Tom swallowed thickly. “You would have changed the world.”

“It would have been good for us,” Crina mused quietly. “I would draw you out of your
desperation, and you would pull me from my obsession. We would not know sacrifices, or be
such beautiful fallen creatures.”

Crina sighed and nodded her head in a subtle agreeance. “You’re right. I have wasted my life,
but is it surprising I confess I don’t know how to move on? I’ve burned my bridges, Tom.
I’ve accepted the path I’ve taken even when regret gnaws me.

“Even now, I am wanted by the British Ministry of Magic. Nurmengard will be taken from
me. International Committee of Educational Affairs is investigating all my work and
compiling a list of unethical actions to accuse me of. My life, as foul and rotten as it is, is
coming to its closure. I’ve been dead for a while, but now it appears I’m terminal…

“Tom,” Crina confessed with sharp eyes and honesty. “I have no regret from sheltering you,
my harbinger of death. You brought my downfall, you killed Grindelwald and turned my
Lupescu wild. You brought so many eyes on me and the day I met you, you created a slowly
decreasing timer until I am incarcerated. Consider this my last sacrifice then, the actions of a
gutless wonder. I will give you my best effort to ensure you will be alright.”

“Why?” Tom croaked.

Crina said adoringly: “Because you are the best of all of us, and I do believe you can change
the world.”
Chapter End Notes

3 Chapters Left
 Skeleton Key
Chapter Summary

Where Harry and Tom talk, although no words are ever said.

Chapter Notes

Here we are, heavily delayed. Don't you love exams?

This story is winding down, I hope you all have enjoyed this as much as I have. It's been
amazing to write and to talk with all of you.
Thank you for your love and energy.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

They reviewed their examination schedules and details of the procedure for O.W.L.s during
their next Transfiguration lesson. It was so important that Professor McGonagall took her
time to write with chalk on the board, making sure everyone could clearly read the timeslots.

“As you can see,” she explained, “your O.W.L.s are spread over two successive weeks. You
will sit the theory exams in the mornings and the practice in the afternoons. Your practical
Astronomy examination will, of course, take place at night.

“Now, I must inform you that the most stringent Anti-Cheating Charms have been applied to
your examination papers. Auto-Answer Quills are banned from the examination hall.
Detachable Cribbing Cuffs, Self-Correcting Ink, and Quick-Note Quills are all strictly
banned. Using such devices will result in an automatic failure. Every year, I am afraid to say,
there seems to be one student who thinks that they can get around the Wizarding
Examinations Authority’s rules. I can only hope that none of you are foolish enough to try.”

Harry couldn’t help but think that if anyone he knew would have successfully cheat, it would
have been the two twins that had made quite a stir.

“Please, Professor,” said Hermione. “When will we find out our results?”

“An owl will be sent to you sometime in July.”

“Excellent,” said Seamus in a bare whisper. He nudged Dean with one elbow, speaking barely
audible. “So we won’t have to worry about it until the summer…”
Harry imagined what life would be like then, sitting around waiting for an owl to deliver his
results. At first, he imagined Private Drive, but after a few seconds of that, he swapped it for
the gloomy atmosphere of Sirius’ inherited home. There at least, he could find some joy in it.

Their first exam, Theory of charms, was scheduled for Monday morning. Harry agreed to test
Hermione after lunch on Sunday, but her anxiety had manifested in agitation. She kept
snatching the book back, waving it about and smacking Harry on the skull every time he
stumbled over the answer.

“Why don’t you just test yourself?” Harry grunted, rubbing near his hairline. “This is mean,
Mione. Stop bashing me!”

“Stop needing to be bashed!” she argued, smacking him once more for good reason. It didn’t
actually hurt, but her nervous energy left her near frantic.

“Why don’t you get Tom to help you?” Harry asked. “Where is he? I haven’t seen him since
last week.”

Hermione paused, her fingers frantically tapping along the edges of the book as if she were
playing a piano. Her lower lip, so heavily gnawed it had been coated liberally in magical anti-
chew-chapstick, glistened slightly. At once, she grimaced and stopped her gnawing, wincing
at the sour taste of it.

“He…” she trailed off before recovering swiftly. “He’s taking a different type of
examinations! Not like us, he’s already-.”

“We get it, Hermione,” Dean Thomas snapped in his own sort of panic. He smacked his book
down on the table, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5; and scowled furiously at its cover.
“ Tom is a genius and we are not-.”

“Ignore him,” Seamus apologized on Dean’s behalf. “It’s been a bit rocky ever since…”

“Tom hates me!” Dean moaned pitifully, deciding to slump forward and bash his own nose
onto the book cover. Muffled, he said: “I thought we had something.”

“Chemistry?” Hermione asked sympathetically.

“What? Bloody hell no,” Dean said confused. “I’m not- is that a muggle thing?”

“Right, ignore me,” Hermione said breezily. “He’s off taking his own exams. He left
on...Saturday. Maybe he’ll be back before the year is out, otherwise, we’ll see him in
summer.”

Dean moped. “I don’t think he’ll see me in the summer.”

Seamus patted his back sympathetically, scrambling again to study last minute.

Dinner was a subdued affair, interspersed with mumbled vocabulary and dates. Harry and
Ron did not talk much, but they ate frantically through their exhaustion. Hermione, on the
other hand, kept putting down her knife and fork and diving for Ginny, who was holding a
spellbook aloft and keeping it out of Hermione’s paws. Every time Hermione would dive at
Ginny to double-check her answer, Ginny would lift one knee and beat her back with one
calf. Hermione would settle, take a bite of food, then lunge once more.

“Oh goodness,” Hermione said as her blood abandoned her skull. She turned a sickly white
and set her fork down quickly. “Is that them? Are those...the examiners?”

She said their title with a reverent sort of fear as if only Ginny’s ankle on her lap was keeping
her within this astral plane. Harry and Ron spun around, squinting through the open doors to
the Great Hall. They could all see Umbridge standing with a small group of witches and
wizards, all taller than her by a significant degree. It looked a bit like a plump red chicken
was leading a cluster of penguins.

“She looks nervous,” Ron said with a chuckle. “Good!”

“ I’m going to go have a closer look!” Hermione giggled, sliding out from under Ginny’s
ankle boneless like Crookshanks. Ginny sighed, stole the remnants of Hermione’s baked
potato, and got comfortable. Ron too fumbled out of his chair, looking allergic to textbooks
now that he had something better to do.

“Look at them go,” Ginny sighed teasingly. “They grow up so fast.”

Harry felt a small flare of guilt. He hadn’t been with Ginny in quite some while. “How are
you? Classes alright?”

Ginny looked a bit surprised, smiling in appreciation as she nodded slightly. “Some. Bit hard
in Potions, but I reckon the red hair doesn’t help me with that. Flitwick has been helping me
with a charm I keep botching. Professor Sprout says that I can come by to help prune the
Blistering Begonias for some extra credit on Tuesday.”

“Wish I had extra credit,” Harry said. Instead, he was stuck with stress, crippling terror, and
too many sleepless nights. “You’ve been playing amazing at Quidditch.”

“Thanks!” she brightened instantly, then wilted in one dramatic movement. “Only because
you were banned. The moment Umbridge is out, you’ll have your place back, Harry. We all
really miss you!”

It was strange to think about how distant they had become. Ginny was a sister to him, but
since Tom had entered his life she grew further away from him despite the proximity. “I’m
sorry. About...everything.”

Her smile became warmer, honest to a fault. “It’s okay Harry, I get it. Honest. We don’t get to
pick what life gives us, and I can’t help how much I hate him, but I can’t hate you for not
feeling that way also.”

Ginny sighed, toying with Hermione’s long-abandoned fork. “I was talking with Fred and
George about this earlier, about Tom. It’s not his fault, but it isn’t my fault either. I can’t stand
to be friends with him and to expect that of me would be too cruel. But that would be just as
bad for me to try and make you all feel the same. Being mean to him...sharing my feelings
wouldn’t be fair. And this world I reckon is already too mean to us all, we shouldn’t go about
making it worse for no reason.”

Harry felt his words go lame, leaving him nodding weakly in response. Ginny laughed,
reaching out and patting his fingers teasingly. “Careful there, Boy-Who-Lived. I wanted to
hate him, I really did. Sometimes in the... room, I’d see him read a book or practice a spell
and I’d look at him and think he’s a stranger. Sometime’s he’d glare and I was bloody
terrified he was going to kill me. I hate him, but I really don’t deep inside. I’m working on it,
and I rarely can like him, but sometimes I do. That’s all there is to it.”

Harry said: “When did you grow up, Ginny?”

“Same time you did,” she said smiling. “Go on, get out of here. Hermione seems to be on a
streak with beating people on the skull. Careful she doesn’t knock you out too!”

Harry paused. “Too?”

Ginny smothered a giggle with one careful sip of her water. “Sorry sorry, shouldn’t be funny
but it is. Apparently, Tom missed out on an appointment. Hermione stunned him and had me
help drag him all the way to the hospital wing- maybe bumped him hard on the door but that
is not my fault. Can you blame me? He must have left for his exams right after. Can’t say I
miss him.”

Harry breathed calmly and took a sip of his drink. He counted four seconds, then very
casually asked: “Missed an appointment?”

“More like ran,” Ginny rolled her eyes and smiled. “With how annoyed Hermione was, it
sounds like he’s just as bad as you, Potter. One day I’ll make a name plaque for you in the
Hospital Wing. Only the lumpiest pillow for you!”

He laughed, a hoarse noise breaking from his throat. Ginny snorted so ugly, she clutched her
face to hide her flush. Down the table, Lavender called out the sound, leaving Ginny to shriek
in outrage and embarrassment.

Harry twisted the words around in his head. Tom had skipped or missed an appointment- one
that Hermione thought so important she then dragged him up and out. Then, he left without a
word as to where he went. The last time that happened, it was to an unknown facility with
words like detox, and withdrawal.

Had Tom found portions again? They were cycling around the school like wildfire, especially
now that O.W.L.s were tomorrow. Had he found someone willing to give him Dreamless
sleep again? Had he another strange reaction?

He didn’t know, and the thoughts lingered in a poisonous way all throughout the evening.
Everyone was trying to do some last-minute studying but nobody seemed to be getting very
far. Ron had taken up the nicest armchair, explaining in conspiring tones everything he
learned from listening in on the examiners.
“The one you need to worry for,” he said with a serious sort of snicker, “is Professor
Matchbook-.”

“-Marchbanks,” Hermione corrected tiredly.

“Marchbanks,” Ron agreed with a solemn nod. “Seems- daresay, a bit deaf. Was asking all
around for Dumbledore, maybe you can sneak a few extra points by mentioning how good a
teacher-.”’

“Ronald!” Hermione snapped, reaching for her wand threateningly. Pavarti argued loudly,
defending that she needed to get all the inside info she could or she’d fail. Harry went to bed
early but then lay awake for what felt like hours. He wished he had put more effort into his
grades before- he had never found such a burning ambition for his future. An Auror seemed
right, but what else was there? Everything tilted precariously on the cusp of a few paper tests-
he should have been studying more.

Harry knew that he was not the only one lying awake, but none of the others spoke. Harry
rolled and snuck a look at the absent bed in the corner. He worried where Tom was, and if he
was okay.

None of the fifth years talked very much at breakfast the next day either. Parvati was
practicing incantations under her breath while the salt cellar in front of her twitched. Harry
had half a mind to correct her pronunciation, but she fixed it before he could say anything.
Hermione was rereading Achievement in Charming so quickly, her eyes were constantly
shifting side to side. Neville kept dropping his knife and fork, by the time the marmalade fell
he looked ready to burst out in tears.

Once breakfast was over, the fifth and seventh years milled around in the entrance hall in an
awkward shuffle. Other students vanished off to lessons, both Luna and Ginny wished them
luck.

At half-past nine, they were called forward class by class to reenter the Great Hall. It now
arranged exactly how Hermione had explained it. The four House tables had been removed
and replaced instead with many individual tables all facing the staff-table end. Professor
McGonagall stood facing them, calling out their last names in crisp shout. One by one, they
walked to their assigned seat, setting down their quills which glowed blue when passed
through the security scan. Their seats also turned blue, a defensive ward to prevent the use of
polyjuice or other disguised students.

They finally all seated themselves, Parvarti shaking so wildly near Harry her hair bounced
like a squirrel. Professor McGonagall faced them, then loudly pronounced: “You may begin.”

Harry turned over his paper, feeling his heart thrum in his throat. The Theory of Charms
portion couldn’t be that hard, not when he had studied for so long.

Harry gazed at the questions, breathing shakily at the overwhelming amount of ink. Give the
incantation and describe the wand movement required for the following charms: making
objects fly, changing an object’s color to red, melting metal, expanding an object smaller
than a chamberpot to a size no greater than a desk…
They weren’t hard, but they weren’t easy either.

Two hours later, Hermione was pacing around in a small circle as they waited in the entry
hall once more. “It wasn’t that bad, well it was but I only blanked on two questions- did you
get countercharm for hiccups? I wasn’t sure whether I ought to-.”

Ron yawned widely. Somehow, he had smeared ink across his nose. Harry felt very much the
same way.

The fifth years ate lunch with the rest of the school (the House tables reappearing magically
during the break) and then trooped off one by one into the small rooms beside the Great Hall.
Firenze had taken one of the rooms as his own Divination room, so Harry had no doubts the
examiners had cleaned them out as well. Small groups of students were called forward in
alphabetical order, sitting at small chairs for their turn.

Harry sat nervously on his own chair, the last in the small group with both Patil twins, and
Pansy Parkinson on his right. For once, the Slytherin girl was quiet, staring blankly at the
wall across from them.

Professor Flitwick came, assigning each of them to their respectful examiner. “Mr. Potter step
to row five, Professor Tofty is free!”

Harry walked towards the oldest and baldest examiner, who was sitting behind a tiny table in
the furthest corner. A short distance away, Professor Marchbanks was halfway through
testing Draco Malfoy.

“Potter, is it?” Professor Tofty asked, consulting his file and notes. “Pleasure to meet you. No
need to be nervous…”

“No, sir,” Harry cleared his throat quietly. “Not nervous at all.”

Professor Tofty smiled at him, face wrinkling like Fang the dog. “Wonderful. Now, if I could
ask you to take this eggcup and make it do some cartwheels for me…”

Harry thought the entire exam went well. His levitation charm was much better than Malfoys,
although he struggled through the color-change charms so much he needed to cast it twice.
Harry was happy that Hermione had not been in the Hall to see his mistakes.

They all went straight to the common room after dinner then submerged themselves in
studying for the following day. Their Herbology exam on Tuesday went through smoothly.
Neville came out beaming proudly, mentioning that he had just finished a nearly perfect score
just as Malfoy messed up hideously in his first task. A true confidence boost, one that left
Harry feeling much better since he only received one bite from a Fanged Geranium.

Thursday came with the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam. The written test had a few
questions he knew Umbridge had not covered, but either the magical theory was so simple to
decipher or Harry had learned it on his own. He paused only once on a written question,
correcting his mistake only a few scant seconds after. He took particular pleasure once called
in since he spotted Umbridge overseeing the exam personally.
His proctor instructed him through quite a few of the simple spells and counterjinxes.
Nothing felt difficult or required a second attempt. Harry may have decided a more flashy
blasting hex when given the instruction of ‘removing the crate from its stand,’ but
Umbridge’s pinched face made it that much better.

“Oh, bravo!” cried Professor Tofty, who watched as Harry performed the perfect boggart
banishing spell. “Very good indeed! Well, I think that’s all, Potter...unless…”

Harry couldn’t prevent the pride that pulsed through his blood. “Unless, sir?”

“Well, I heard from a dear friend that you can produce a Patronus?”

Harry could barely contain himself. He looked directly at Umbridge, imagined her ruddy face
once she learned he aced her exam and said: “ Expecto Patronum!”

The silver stag erupted from his wand and pranced around regally. It reared back, tossing its
head as majestic as it could right in front of Umbridge, drawing a round of clapping from a
few observers.

“Excellent!” Professor Tofty beamed. “Very well! Oh, yes yes. Potter, you may go now!”

Harry smiled politely, managing to pat the stag as he walked right past the woman. Her
mouth had slackened- his stag chuffed a noise like a laugh when it caught sight of her
gobsmacked expression.

On Friday, Harry and Ron walked to Transfiguration with fear in every step. Hermione had
been separated once more, combining her exam immediately into Ancient Runes due to her
scheduling. Harry had admittedly, been most afraid of this one exam.

His understanding of Transfiguration wasn’t the best- he had always paled in this class
compared to his others. He could manage the spells eventually, but his real strength had
already been put behind him.

Harry walked into the exam with a sense of bone crippling dread, found his seat, and faced
his doom. Professor McGonagall at the front of the hall only solidified his fear.

Harry flipped his paper, stared blankly at the first question, and let the panic seep
everywhere.

He didn’t know the answers, and now, he’d disappoint not only Professor McGonagall, but
he’d disappoint Professor Dumbledore once he returned.

‘This is hopeless,’ Harry thought in dismay. ‘I don’t know the definition of a Switching Spell.’

Harry nearly rest his forehead on his desk, if only to nap during his existential breakdown. He
felt a small hysterical sort of amusement- which became subtle genuine amusement.

The answer came to him in a textbook definition flavored with a foreign touch.
One of the many transforming spells used to swap two different objects for one another. One
of two spells to swap two targets simultaneously. Wand movement, half-circle
counterclockwise, clockwise two rotations. Incantation-.

Harry’s brain sparked back into operation, working numbly in his shock. ‘Tom?’

Another flare of amusement, and a dry slightly flattered sort of delight. Tom hadn’t thought
Harry would worry about him.

A spike of impatient warmth and Harry quickly began to scribble what he inexplicably knew.

Every question came with an answer, a single easy definition or term that Harry knew, had
forgot, and knew again. Tom existed a single light, flickering behind his eyes warmly and
casting light on whatever his memory shrouded. He had never done so well in his life, and
Tom laughed freely at him and asked without words, of course not. I’ve never been here
before.

He didn’t think it was cheating, except it likely was but he needed this. Tom agreed, grades
were important.

The Transfiguration practical emphasized that further, shifting just enough for Harry to
perform spells that normally struggled. His magic moved smoothly, his wrist adjusting with
micro-movements he wouldn’t have done otherwise. Tom always seemed breathless and tired
afterward, poking and prodding as he helped Harry vanish his Iguana, and then asked through
impression, see?

After the exam, Tom seemed to slip away. Harry retreated tiredly to the tower, joining Ron
near a window where they wasted time trying to decipher what creature Hagrid had brought
for his own O.W.L.s

The portrait hole opened and Hermione clambered in, looking thoroughly bad-tempered.

“How were the runes?” said Ron, yawning and stretching.

“I mistranslated ‘ehwaz,’ said Hermione furiously. “Well, I did at first. I fixed it because Tom
helped me with it- but I messed it up at first!”

“Ah well,” said Ron lazily. “At least you fixed it.”

Hermione’s bad mood persisted for most of the weekend, although Harry and Ron found it
quite easy to ignore as they spent most of Saturday and Sunday studying for Potions on
Monday. Harry’s stress leaked through somehow, and Tom gave him lazy courage.

The written exam was more difficult than Transfiguration, although Tom’s assistance became
more priceless than gold. Every question he knew some sort of answer, nudging him in the
proper direction of spitting flashes of concepts and memories behind his eyes. Harry watched
tinted memories like a telly, comprehending the usage of Obsidian Dust through underwater
words of Tom making potions dozens of years ago. He managed the question about Polyjuice
Potion incredibly well since he had taken it illegally in his second year.
He finished his exam, staring dumbly at the ink coated paper, and felt so victorious he wanted
to cry. His concerns and fears for the future had been fixed- his likelihood of being an Auror
still existed with a decent grade in potions.

‘You’re being nice,’ Harry thought as loudly as he could. Tom burned lethargic and pleased.
A flash of something that smelled sour like wine, and the festering rot of disease. Isolated
occasion.

‘Lies,’ Harry teased warmly. Tom drew silent.

The afternoon practical was not as dreadful as he expected it to be. With Snape absent from
the proceedings, he was more relaxed than he usually felt. Tom was a supportive eye, pushing
small bits of confidence and assurance when Harry doubted whatever he was doing. He
imagined the other boy must be incredibly bored, wherever he was.

Neville, who was sitting very near Harry, looking happier than Harry had ever seen him
during a Potions class. When Professor Marchbanks said, “Step away from your cauldrons.
The examination is over,” Harry corked his flask and felt he had for the first time- passed.

You’re welcome, Tom said. Harry felt like laughing.

“Only four exams left,” said Parvati Patil wearily as they headed back to Gryffindor common
room.

“Only!” said Hermione snappishly. She proceeded to snap angrily at two first years giggling
loudly near the fireplace.

Harry was determined to perform well in Tuesday’s Care of Magical Creatures. Tom lingered
around, prodding aimless curiosity as they walked towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
They were required to construct a diet plan to feed a sick unicorn, correctly handle a
bowtruckle, and clean a fire-crab without sustaining burns. Tom hadn’t any experience with
creature care, so he lingered an observant eye on Harry’s activities.

The Astronomy written exam went fairly smoothly since Harry had to frantically map out star
charts. He messed up his calculations twice, scrambling to fix it to determine the exact date
of the next October Full Moon. Tom didn’t offer any aid, instead, he watched and only
alerted Harry when he made a mistake.

The Divination exam was one Harry knew he’d fail at. Tom became a low growling mass of
angry intent, spiking pain with his irritability. Harry stuttered through his answers, shaking
with pain. He messed up countless palm lines, crushed tea leaves prematurely, and ended up
growling to Tom verbally. The proctor seemed mystified with Harry’s frustration,
misinterpreting his muttered words and broken sentences as the fractured lines of seer-sight.
Harry didn’t know how, but he left holding a business card of a seer agency that would like
his future services.

“Should have just made something up,” Ron teased him, laughing himself into a fit.
Harry walked his way down the hallway, pausing when unexpectedly, Firenze stepped out
from the alcove. Ron paused, looking a bit perplexed between the two.

“Oh no,” Ron moaned. “Is he going to offer you a job too?”

“No,” Firenze said gravely. “Harry Potter, I wish to speak with you.”

Tom spiked a bit of wariness, so Harry ignored him. He nodded slowly, giving a weak excuse
to Ron who was in such a need of a nap, he accepted it instantly.

“Harry Potter…” Firenze trailed grimly. “The stars are shifting above us, a beckon for
something sinister.”

“Uh,” Harry said. “How can stars shift?”

Firenze did not seem upset with his question. “Our perception. The energy of the world is
changing, the pushing and pulling from our poles and core are altering. The stars have begun
to shimmer less, the fields are turning themselves in preparation for something foul.”

It sounded uncomfortably like an omen. “What do you mean? What sort of...foul?”

Firenze’s eyes shifted to the side, staring at nothing and somehow piercing through a veil.
“The balance of life energy is tilting in preparation. Something dark is coming, and
something dark will leave. It is a cycle, a continuous shifting of light and dark, birth and
death. The world is aligning itself to lighter energies in a forewarning of what will come.”

Harry wet his lips. “You mean Voldemort? Voldemort is coming?”

“I do not know,” Firenze said. “The skies are merely preparing, but I do not know the cause.
Watch yourself, Harry Potter.”

That night, Harry and Hermione reached the top of the Astronomy Tower at eleven o’clock. It
was the perfect night for stargazing, everything cloudless and still. The grounds were bathed
in silvery moonlight and the air burned with the slightest of chills. Ron met up with them,
fumbling with his star chart from a last-minute study session, and they slipped inside the
tower. Professor Marchbanks gave the word and assigned them to a telescope, instructing
them an empty chart to fill with their findings.

They entered the precise positions of the stars and planets, observing their interactions and
their routs. All was quiet except for the rustle of parchment and the occasional creak of a
telescope. An hour passed, then two. Harry completed Orion on his chair, pausing as he
contemplated where else to look. Tom too burned with curiosity and dread, a twin urging
guiding their hands as slowly, Harry tilted his telescope up into the sky.

‘I don’t see anything ominous,’ Harry reported. He didn’t know what he was looking for- the
stars seemed completely normal to him. Nothing was out of balance, or an omen like Firenze
had warned. ‘They look the same.’
A whisper of thought and curiosity, Tom implying the concept of a solstice, which quickly
corrected itself to March twentieth.

Both a dead end, not what Firenze had meant.

Aurora, Tom tried next. A flash of color- bright greens and purples dancing in the sky over
the most northern peak of Scotland. They rarely ever saw the Northern Lights, but the
concept of them matched similarly what Firenze had warned about. A shifting of energy in
the air itself, a sky filled with shimmering colors.

‘I need to get back to this,’ Harry thought, scribbling out more paths of comets and
constellations. Tom mused in silent contemplation, daydreaming snakes and shadows and the
stardust twinking of a sky on fire.

Their final exam, History of Magic, was not to take place until the afternoon the following
day. Harry would very much have liked to go back to bed considering he was up so late
finishing the astronomy exam, but he had been counting on last-minute studying that
morning. Hermione scolded him, but she too looked exhausted. It was hard to not doze off as
he read through some of the notes.

The fifth years entered the Great Hall at two o’clock and took their places in front of their
overturned examination papers. Harry felt exhausted, and Tom felt alight and aware. Harry
wanted this to be over so that he could go and sleep.

Then, tomorrow, he and Ron would go down to the Quidditch pitch, and he was going to fly
despite whatever rules put in place banning him from playing.

“Turn over your papers,” said Professor Marchbanks from the front of the hall.

Harry stared fixedly at the first question. It was several seconds before he realized he had not
read any of it. There was a wasp buzzing against the nearest window, and Tom stinging him
waspishly behind his left eye.

‘I’m writing! I’m writing!’ Harry thought tiredly. Tom stung him again for good measure.

Harry was finding it very difficult to remember names and kept confusing dates. He skipped
question four: In your opinion, did wand legislation contribute to, or lead to better control of,
goblin riots of the eighteenth century?

Harry moved on to question five, but then Tom burned bright with very vocal thoughts and
opinions that Harry was forced to hear. He hadn’t particularly wanted to hear said opinions,
but after a few seconds of Tom seething and images flashing from textbook pages, Harry
helplessly began to transcribe Tom’s hissing fit. Wand legislation constructed an overarching
web of magical performance monitoring, allowing the tracking and neutralization of goblin
magic due to the usage of conduits…

‘Slow down, please,’ Harry begged through his yawning.

Speed up, Tom argued as they got to the next question. Harry didn’t realize Tom was a nerd
for History.

The questions continued along that route, Tom leaping and gnawing at Harry’s wrist like a
dog on a bone. Describe the circumstances that led to the formation of the International
Confederation of Wizards and explain why the warlocks of Liechtenstein refused to join.

Tom cackled, Harry felt the brightest spark of recognition. He knew this- he had read his
notes just earlier. Hermione had an entire subsection in her study guide focused on this.

Write, boy hero, Tom teased him pleased. Prodding his hand into scribbling faster and in
complete sentences. The first Supreme Mugwump was Pierre Bonaccord, Potter.

‘I know, shut up,’ Harry responded, scratching as quickly as he could. The sun was very hot
on the back of his head. What was it that Bonaccord had done to offend the wizards and
witches of Liechtenstein? He had a feeling it had something to do with trolls-.

Mountain trolls, Potter.

‘Right, thanks.’

Tom sparked in amusement, now invested with Harry’s performance. Mountain trolls were
the problem and the troll-hunting issues in the mountains...Slowly, Harry wrote two more
lines about trolls. He read through his answer, shocked to see how detailed and informative it
was. He hadn’t realized he knew all of this.

You don’t, said Tom with a sigh. I do. You’re bad academically.

Rude, although accurate. Tom sparkled with amusement, he felt... well.

‘Are you okay?’ Harry thought. He could feel Tom chew over the words, consider how to
respond. Harry moved on to the next question, filling in the dates for the Goblin Economic
Statues.

Yes, Tom admitted softly. I am...better.

They were getting there, slowly. Harry looked at the question and thought fondly of
Griphook. He could tell when Tom saw his thoughts, watching fascinated as Harry recalled
meeting a goblin for the first time.

I was similar, Tom confessed in an exhale. Harry blinked, and his desk transformed into the
illusion overlay of a memory unrolling.

He could see it- feel it vividly. The height difference, the muted half-decade old wonder that
still rang true. The curiosity, the fear that stung like lashes. The Goblins looked at him
curiously and knew him in every way that mattered to them.

“Mr. Riddle,” one goblin said in a low grumble. “Come this way. We will discuss your
educational fund as is granted to you by Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This
fund is gifted only to orphans with no living blood relations, or house name. Is this correct.”
Harry could remember it, opening his dry mouth and whispering out a scared quiet, “yes.”

It was wonderful, Tom admitted. Harry’s was as well.

Harry smiled, answering the next question with Tom interrupting once. The regulation of
wand wood material. ‘What about when you got your wand?’

Yes, Tom agreed. Harry blinked, and he was peering up over the edge of an old counter into
the silvery curious eyes of Olivander.

“Hello there, Mr. Riddle,” Olivander said in memories. “Do not worry. We will find you a
wand yet.”

It unraveled faster than time could compute, an omnipotent knowledge of every rejection
which accumulated its sting. Tom accepted and was denied, he was given and taketh from
over and over again. So long, that the first touch of wood that left him warm made tears well
in his eyes.

“I told you,” Olivander said with a beaming smile. “You were not difficult, Mr. Riddle. You
are special, and only the best would work.”

Harry twitched, hungry, and he asked ‘More.’

He watched, seeing a distant ghost smile of a man with Sirius’ nose and grin. A man with
hair who could only be a Malfoy. The secondhand looks of someone Harry didn’t know, and
who Tom introduced him with names of tombstones: Orion Black, Cygnus Lestrange,
Abraxas Malfoy.

Dumbledore with auburn hair, changing desks into tigers into horses into marble. All in a
single movement and Tom whispered “Brilliant,”

The small curious snake, stupid and dumb as they coaxed and taught her language. Teaching
syntax in the forest, creating a den for the long-absent summers. “I’ll name you Nagini,’ he
said, and she said she loved him.

More, Harry said, staring sightlessly and tired and-

“Excuse me, are you alright?” a proctor asked him. Harry jolted upright, straightening with a
wince. He looked up with an apology on his face, straight into the eyes of-.

“It’s a Christmas gift. You should be thankful.”

“I hate you, ” they said in a nightmare, in a dream, in a memory that smelled like citrus
cologne. He laughed and they screamed and cried and it hurt and pain-

“I know,” Doge crooned, playing with them to see how loud they would beg. There was no
time, only the cyclical stuttering halt of memories and trauma that looped uncontrollably into
a filter of I hate you I hate you I hate me I hate you I hate myself.
“Oh right,” a monster said with laughter and screaming and blood pooling on Hermione’s
torn blanket. “Happy Birthday, Tom-.”

Harry leaned over his desk and puked right onto the floor. Doge- Professor- Proctor Doge
took a leaping step backward in alarm.

Harry realized only through the pounding ache in his skull, that Professor Tofty had rushed
forward and helped Harry out of the Hall.

“I- I don’t need the hospital wing-.”

“Pressure of exams,” the old wizard sympathized. “It happens, young man. Now, a cool drink
of water, and perhaps you will be ready to return? I believed you had already finished?”

“No, I- yes,” Harry stumbled over words and phantom electric shocks. “I..I’ve done all I
can…”

“Very well,” said the old man gently. “I will go collect your paper. I suggest you go lie
down…”

Harry agreed, feeling lost and dazed as he ambled to the Gryffindor common room,
staggering so poorly he had to crawl through the doorway. He ignored the stairs, instead
opting to drag himself to the fireplace. The fire crackled warmly, the chairs and couches
cleared and awaiting residents.

Harry couldn’t think- his body felt like it on fire and screaming kept haunting his throat. Had
he been dreaming? A new form of torture from Voldemort? What had happened to Tom-
where was Tom-.

‘Tom!’ Harry tried to scream, finding it garbled and lost. It echoed lost with no reception,
Tom had vanished in the misery.

“What was that?” Harry moaned, curling his legs to his chest and using both hands to clutch
his hair. “No...no…”

It felt so real like visions and memories did. The same taste as Cedric’s corpse thumping on
the grass. The same pain as a knife piercing his arm, as a basilisk injecting him full of venom.
It felt like a dementor drawing closer, like a wound that refused to close. The same pain of
Tom seizing on a table, unable to fall unconscious through an overdose. Don’t touch me! He
had screamed, tied down as he nearly drowned on his vomit.

It felt like when the light died in Tom’s eyes. You’re just like him, aren’t you? You’re here for
that- everyone, everyone wants…

It felt wrong- like a dream Harry could have- should have never remembered.

He did, crawling in the light of a fireplace on his knees. Tom looked at him with something
dark and feral glowing in his eyes, a sort of exhaustion that expanded beyond the depths of
exhaustion. I try to be good, but then a trigger is flicked. My skull turns- cold, anxious,
brutal. I strike out, ruthless and cruel. I know these are things for me to fix, yet I ask for your
 consideration and your compassion, Harry. I’ve pondered it over, and there is no medicine
for a gangrenous heart. I’ve given out on the love you hold so close, I’ve stopped looking for
a way out of that dark place, I’ve stopped praying for the light. This is my last confessional.

Harry’s face in the carpet muffled his words as he repeated from a nightmare: “Is it?”

Tom smiled at him, crying blood and said:

There is no God but me.

Chapter End Notes

2 Chapters left.
 The Last Supper
Chapter Summary

A full circle, back where he had started. Desperate and stupid and young.

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone.
So, amazingly, this chapter was the first chapter I ever really...planned, for this entire
story. This single chapter has been planned for almost an entire year. And here we are,
months of planning condensed in a few thousand words.

Thank you everyone, for following me this far in this story. I love you all so much.
Thank you.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Will you tell me about this?” Crina Dimitriu asked him in gentle tones and nostalgic
adoration, like a wren caring for its magpie chick. She held his knife between long-aged
fingers, setting it delicately on the low table sprawled between them. It had been a while
since Tom had seen his knife, a long time and from a time long ago.

Tom inhaled slowly and shrugged one shoulder. “It came from a corpse.”

“I find,” said Crina, “that the best keepsakes belong to the dead. Who did you take it from?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “I felt guilty for the clothes I stole from the corpse, but only for a
second. And since there was no reason to give them back, I stole his knife as well.”

Crina nodded, watching as Tom reached out to hold his knife once more. It had been quite a
while since he held its reassuring weight. The metal pommel, the tapering point, and blade.

“It’s a beautiful knife,” Crina said. “I looked into it, had it appraised. It’s a first pattern knife,
made by British Fairbairn-Sykes. Only a few thousand were made in British 1940, they
changed the model and mass-produced them in 1942.”

Tom hadn’t known the brand, only that it was useful and could cut open anything he wanted.
The crossbar protected him from broken knuckles, the thin blade could crack door locks.
“It would be worth a fair amount now,” Crina mused. “It’s sad, how pieces of our survival
turn into decorations. Nobody knows the sacrifices we give along the way, the things we’ve
done for ourselves and to assure that we survive.”

Tom’s hand tightened on his knife, wrapping tightly around the hilt. The blade glimmered
slightly in the lamplight, like Crina’s war ax on the wall and the sword piercing a boar head
in the hallway.

“Why did you never tell me,” Crina whispered, “that you had been attacked, Tom?”

He rotated the knife, let it catch the light of the room. “Would you have ever believed me?
Found me capable of weakness?”

“All of life is a weakness. Syphilis is never your fault. If you had shared it sooner, we could
have reversed it at an earlier time and prevented you so much pain.”

Tom breathed and looked at her with a sad smile. “Where do we draw the line of revenge and
just punishment? At what point does it matter, and at what point do we not matter at all?”

Crina said: “I find, that if you place your expectations in the world, they will always be
broken. In my mind, you matter, Tom. Perhaps I could have never done anything, or maybe I
could have. It is okay, to feel regret. You are important to me.”

Tom said: “Okay.”

“If the world were different,” Crina admitted quietly. “We could have been happy together.
You would draw me from my solitude, and I would draw you from your loathing. In a world
where we feel too much, it is people like us who become the most hurt.”

“And who are people like us?” Tom asked.

Crina assured him, “the people who could have fixed things if we weren’t betrayed from the
start.”

Tom pushed the memories with a languid touch. Ollivander giving him his wand, “You were
not difficult, Mr. Riddle. You are special, and only the best would work.”

Harry Potter, across the world and in his mind, begged him hungrily, ‘more.’

Tom obliged, with Orion Black and Cygnus Lestrange. Abraxas Malfoy, who looked so much
like his grandson.

Dumbledore with auburn hair, and Tom’s own young fascination with what the future could
bring.

“I’ll name you Nagini,” Tom said and she promised to love him forever.
‘More,’ Harry begged as Tom looked through his eyes, and then they looked up and-

“It’s a Christmas gift. You should be thankful.”

“I hate you, ” they said in a nightmare, in a dream, in a memory that smelled like citrus
cologne. He laughed and they screamed and cried and it hurt and pain -

“I know,” Doge crooned, playing with them to see how loud they would beg. There was no
time, only the cyclical stuttering halt of memories and trauma that looped uncontrollably into
a filter of I hate you I hate you I hate me I hate you I hate myself.

“Oh right,” a monster said with laughter and screaming and blood pooling on Hermione’s
torn blanket . “Happy Birthday, Tom-.”

Tom Riddle jolted awake, threw his inkpot across the room and watched it smear in a black
stain on the far wall. He didn’t scream or shriek, instead his body locked within a flood of
adrenaline that coursed agonizingly every second.

Doge, Doge, Doge.

“No,” Tom hissed between a locked jaw, his black-stained fingers lifted to grab his hair and
twist. “No, no he isn’t here-.”

He is he is, his mind screamed in horror. Disgust, shame, everything atrocious morphing into
a simple mixture of wrong. Tom vomited a pungent mixture of fruit and cheese onto the
carpet. It stunk foul and rotten, just as Crina was.

He’ll ruin you, his brain lied. Tom’s skin burned with the touch of the impossible. He knew
that Doge wasn’t here- but everything had escalated so finely in this single purposeful
moment, he couldn’t tell reality from lies.

Tom stood from his chair then crumpled to his knees, trousers wetting in his sick. Everything
burned and itched, phantom limbs and voices all over his skin. Lovely lovely love.

“No,” Tom argued, gnawing ferociously on his tongue. “You’re not here, you’re not here-.”

Am I? His brain lied and toyed. Caresses of the air. Tom bashed his head on his desk and felt
his throat seize and sob.

I’m always here, he could imagine so viscerally it became real to him. The agony, that shame.
Tom clawed and scratched, felt skin split on his arms and his hair be torn from the root. The
black inkpot stain on Crina’s wall was dripping downwards slowly, horrific tar teardrops.

You’ll never be rid of me, Tom sobbed silently. Even if you kill me, you’ll always feel this.
You’ll never forget it, Tommy boy.

“Fuck you,” Tom said. “ Fuck you.”

No, you’re too much a coward.

Tom wished that his brain would shut up, silence itself. He wanted potions, the blissful
unconsciousness that nothing would stir him from. He wanted anything, anything-

Always looking for the easy way out.

Tom staggered to his feet, ramming his hip into a nearby table. It throbbed, burning with the
molten heat of a dozen black sores that itched like cigarette burns. Doge laughed in his ear,
choking him with cologne and fingers on his trachea. That’s a good boy.

“Stop it,” Tom hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re not real-.”

I’m in your skull, just like the dozen other minds and monsters. The feral inmates lost to
insanity. Doge pestered him, pressing sharp and burning like a rosary branded on his back. Is
this where you start to pray? Where is your God?

“No,” Tom whispered, jerking and crumpling to the ground. “I-...”

All abandoned, and Tom felt his heart snap and shatter, melt itself with the uncontrollable
hysterics. Everything spun, disorienting wave of chaos and perception that distantly told him
his breathing matched his heart. Fast and faster, one hand squeezing around his throat.

Where is your God now?

Tom squeezed his eyes shut, dreamed of rot and poison wine and clawed his throat until it
bled. “You’re not real. You’re not-.”

I’m inside you. Driving you insane like the little boy you are. Where were you Tom, when the
bombs went off?

Crawling through the mud, begging for forgiveness and praying he survived the night.
Crying, lashing himself because he didn’t want to die. He was terrified to die-

“No,” Tom said with no sound. “There is no God but me.”

Tom Riddle stood, dragging limp bones and forcing through the black spots of his vision. His
heart a frantic little thing, fueled in panic like a horse. Fluttering like a sparrow with his neck
begging to be snapped.

Tom dragged himself through the room, his breathing slowing with each step. He grasped his
knife on the table, grip steadying with the second.

You’re a coward-

“Shut up,” Tom said with nostrils flaring. “You’re just a scared little-.”

You’re terrified. That’s all you are, a terrified little boy screaming not to die.

Tom shuddered, one hand clutching his hair while his knife scraped the line of his cheek. He
whispered, “shut up.”
You don’t have the courage. The ambition.

Tom knew he did. His heart was screaming to stop. Begging him to think again, that there
had to be another way.

There isn’t, his brain laughed at him. His terror and fear and anxiety manifesting into a single
concept of overwhelming thought. You’ll die, Tommy boy. Where were you when the bombs
went off? Praying to your God?

Tom sobbed silently then contorted his face, warping it into nothing. He found the cabinet,
fishing free his diary and held it with vomit stained fingers. “I can do this-.”

You don’t have the stomach for it. You’re a pathetic-

“Something of equal exchange,” Tom rationalized. He walked with shuddering steps, into the
foyer where he knew Crina was reading. “Something given, something taken…”

Oh, look at you, thinking you’re so smart. His brain and terror laughed at him, diseasing his
soul. A cancer he needed to remove. You think you can split me, cut out all the rot of your
heart and hide it somewhere else. A battlefield amputation?

Crina looked up at his entry, eyes widening comically at his state. Her mouth open and her
words froze at the sight of the knife and the diary.

“Ah…” Crina said in the barest whisper. “It looks like you’ve made a decision.”

Behind her, the antique victorian grandfather clock struck its time, and rang an ominous
Ding...ding...ding!

“I’m not upset, you know,” Crina said with a click of her tongue. “I’ve been far too aware of
this, of the multiple possibilities that have presented themselves over the years. I’m not
young, Tom. I know the mind, this is a logical decision for you to make.

“It makes sense,” Crina explained. “A Horcrux to save yourself. I told you they were
originally used to heal. Take a seat, it’s alright.”

Tom sat down stiffly, staring with vacant eyes somewhere near her throat. Crina lifted one
hand, brushing her fingertips along the tattooed Scarabis near her heart.

“Here we are,” she rehearsed from a memory so long ago. “Able to prevent such a disaster,
yet I never would. I would always claim this vineyard as mine, and although I do not own it, I
would become protective of it.”

Tom made a high strangled noise, either a groan or a laugh at her words from forever ago in a
vineyard in France. “ That is what you have to say?”

“I always hoped you’d pick the other option,” she said. “But that was more out
of...selfishness than true altruism. I am not responsible for the fate of others-.”
“His name is Doge,” Tom whispered strangled. His vocal cords made of razor wire. “Doge is
in the Order. He…”

Tom’s head jerked, one hand flying up to twist painfully in his hair, so sharply she could hear
the wet noise of scalp splitting. Along Tom’s throat, savage red claw marks outlined his
trachea to display his self-mutilation. “Doge r-raped me.”

Crina Dimitriu said nothing, for even she had no words.

“I can’t do it,” Tom continued with a sharp grating laugh. “I can’t- can’t bloody sleep. Every
bloody second…

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Tom snapped. He turned on her with wild eyes, the
desperation of those hurt too often. “This...I can’t live like this. I can’t…I can’t live like this.”

Crina very slowly shifted until she was sitting in a more professional orientation. “Would you
like to talk about it?”

“I’m done talking!” Tom screamed at her. Throat bulging, pupils dilated in fight-or-flight.
“You wouldn’t have done anything anyway. Nobody bloody would have! I can’t take this- I
can’t bloody do this!”

They stared at each other in silence before Tom began to shake. “You must hate me. All this
time and effort to only cement a failure.”

“No,” Crina said. “I still believe above all else, that you are the best of us. You feel too much,
and that is the reason of your ambition. Not greed, or maliciousness.”

Tom stared at her and cried, and he confessed with a broken voice: “I’m going to kill you.”

“I know,” Crina agreed. “And still, you’ve failed to understand the heart of the matter. You
will fail at making a Horcrux, Tom. You’ll fail and learn from your mistakes.”

“Shut up,” Tom whispered. His eyes flickered about, shoulders jerking irrhythmically as if to
throw off an invisible foe. His hands contorted, tight around his knife and through his hair. A
trail of blood welled from his scalp and slid down his cheek to mix with his tears. “Shut up!”

“You won’t succeed,” Crina said. Finally, she began to laugh at it, because she had won.
“Even now, so desperate, you’ll fail. You won’t manage to defy your nature and I’ll offer
myself as your willing sacrifice to prove so.”

He stared at her in horror, then shook his head and began to pace. Staccato footsteps,
mumbling low and wild before he turned on her with eyes terrified. “I need to defy nature.
I’ll do it. I will.”

Crina smiled and shook her head with low chuckles. “You can try, but you’ll never manage
it.”

“I’ll do it!” he screamed so loud his voice cracked. His knife glinted as he rushed her, one
hand twisting out to grab her hair and force her head back. It stung, but she had long since
grown numb to physical pain.

Crina laughed, her breath smelling like nightshade and said: “You’ll always fail, Tom,
because desperation does not break your heart. You’ll grow from this, and become better
yet.”

“How can you say that?” Tom asked her, forcing her throat back wider. He held the knife in a
shaky line to her throat, pressing firm until the skin began to yield. “I’m going to kill you!”

“Because you’re afraid,” she laughed. “You don’t realize it, but I’ve already won. I’ve been
dying a long time, but now I see it was not for vain. I’ve won, Tom.”

Tom stared at her wide-eyed and shook his head frantically. “I’m- I’m going to kill you. I
don’t want to- that’s against my nature-.”

“It’s okay,” Crina whispered, “to feel regret.”

“No,” Tom moaned quietly. “No, no- I- I need to do this. I can’t- I can’t live like this. I…”

Crina laughed, and Tom twisted her hair with a noise of a wounded heart. Her hair gave
under his sharp pull, sloughing off bits of scalp that bled anew a mixture of festering decay
and fresh red. Crina laughed still, and Tom’s mind broke and struggled to rearrange itself.

He needed to defy his nature, break his heart. He didn’t want to kill her- it was already
ruining him but she insisted he was wrong. He had messed up.

You always mess up, Doge falsely sympathized. My perfect little failure.

Crina’s smile was so gentle and loving. Nurturing and accepting. Whatever Tom wanted, she
would offer. There was no God but him.

(This close, with his hand in her hair and the other on a knife, he could count the pores
between her eyebrows. He could see how deep the crow lines were by her eyes, the exact
shade of her eye bags. Her eyes were the most beautiful color, but they spoke of a misery
only the aged could share.)

Tom’s stomach turned and his knife shook as he said, “I’ll...I’ll eat you.”

Crina’s blood trailed tear tracks below her eyes. “That’s certainly disgusting enough to defy
nature, but it isn’t enough for you.”

“Shut up,” Tom repeated. He couldn’t think. “I-...”

Tom dropped his knife. He let it click off the couch armrest, fall muted onto the Persian
carpet. He released his grip on her bloody hair.

Tom wrapped both palms around her neck, overlapping fingers on her spine. Her eyes
widened slightly in surprise before she smiled and nodded to the best of her abilities. His
thumbs dug into the ridges of her windpipe, feeling her heartbeat smooth and calm.
“I’ve always been on borrowed time,” Crina said. “It’s time to pay back the years stolen from
you.”

“Stop, please-.”

“Stay true to yourself, Tom,” Crina said with sparkling eyes. “You can save us all.”

Strangulation, Tom’s failures acknowledged. An intimate way to kill.

Crina Dimitriu’s last words were whispered lovingly in Tom’s ear: I’ve always been so proud
of you.

Her entrails didn’t steam like the other corpses Tom knew. Her skin parted too easy, like a
ripe melon in the sun. Already she was made to burst, living with an expiration date coming
closer.

Her bones broke like tree branches, ribs pried apart with a dagger in the gaps. Her diaphragm
like molding beef, her lungs pickled and stringy.

“I’m sorry,” Tom cried shakily as he peeled her on her floor. Blood thickened jelly he
scooped with cupped fingers. Tasting like the Thames where the bloated float face down.
“I’m sorry.”

He screamed into her hair, blood painting across his shirt and trousers. She smiled at him in
death, eyes glassy and empty but he had not the heart to close them.

Look at her, he demanded of himself. Torturing himself even now. Look at what you did!

He regretted it instantly, the moment he felt her pulse stop and her body sag. Her stomach
ruptured merlot over Tom’s skin, the color that blood should have been.

“‘I’m sorry,” Tom cried into her hair, vomiting decaying flesh and organs on the carpet. “I’m
a monster I’m sorry I’m sorry!”

She had said she was proud of him, and he choked her to death on her floor. She had smiled
and let him kill her because she loved him.

He wished it had worked because then he never would feel this pain again.

“Maybe you- you aren’t-...” Tom babbled, trying to rationalize. He looked at her, rocking her
limp arms and torso and open eyes in his lap. He looked at her split and dismembered pelvis
and irrationally thought he could fix her. Place her back together.

He scooped with shaking hands one cord of intestines back into her body. It slid in like a
slug, flopping lifelessly in her shell.

“Maybe y-you’re not…” Tom stuttered, unable to comprehend. “Maybe…”

You’re dead, Tom thought horrified. I did this.

Tom hunkered into her hair and breathed her comforting smell and screamed.

The vulnerable are such delicate things.

September 1942

Tom Riddle walked towards the smell of fire and burnt meat as quietly as he could.

The city was silent in early dawn, still reeling from the aftershocks. The Luftwaffe would
return the next night once the sun fell and masked their approach. The bombing was nightly
now.

Some of the buildings were still burning, unsteady and shifting into piles of rubble. They
would break his leg if he chose the wrong step.

The sky began to glow soft pinks, a gentle impression of clouds that would slowly turn the
sky grey. It was always grey now.

Tom stepped on a piece of cement, balancing quickly as the rebar warped. A landslide would
cascade if he moved too hasty, a siren song to other scavengers searching for food and
supplies. The last time he saw a scavenger, he barely got away. It was only luck that he
happened to hide in a spot unknown, able to sleep out the worst of the hellfire and hope his
den was not struck.

Tom took another calculated risk, mentally cursing as the lump of concrete shifted under his
new perch. His wand existed as a burning reminder in his pocket, a tempting option if not for
the widespread warding. Since the murdering, the explosions and fire and the German
bombers in the sky, all magic was illegal in muggle areas. Cast a spell under the ward of war
and the effect would be turned backward. A silencing spell could blast off a finger. A stunner
could take his arm.

Lose a finger or let both feet rot. A finger or his feet.

(He avoided magic when he could).

Tom kept walking, finally managing down on the undisturbed cobblestones. A few rattled
softly, hidden under the distant sirens in the country. Tom paused, listened hard, and kept
moving. Twice he had paused and heard coughing, the attempt to clear plaster from your
lungs or remove the metal in your chest. Tom had been lucky so far, ancient runes required
no wand to make.

It was hard to navigate the bombing zones. The shrapnel could pierce you and leave your
blood infected. Rats could scurry free with plague and froth. Fires never stopped burning in
the worst parts of the ground zero. Tom hadn’t bathed in a while, and his stomach reminded
him of the days.
Tom rounded a corner, keeping his eyes high and sweeping for any flash of color. He looked
lower, along the sides of plaster buildings, and froze.

“No,” Tom said hoarse and crackling. He broke his rule for never speaking because this
outweighed any rule he could make. “No- no.”

There was a bomb on the street, resting on an absurd angle on a collapsed metal lamppost. It
was new, resting in an indented canyon of its own making. German constructed and painted
gun steel metal. Scratches on the edges where the lampost bit its coat. The bomb was
absolutely still alive. It hadn’t detonated.

Tom stared at it, feeling horror so sharply he had to swallow to keep down what food he had
salvaged. The bomb remained, even as he cleaned his eyes and skittered backward frantically.
There was a bomb on the street that hadn’t detonated, that was supposed to detonate. They
had timers sometimes, little sensors that would notice sunlight or fire and make the blast
erupt.

Tom spun on his heels, his teeth chattering as a chill ran through him. The destroyed streets
had too much blockage, he wouldn’t be able to get to a safe area before the blast. He would
be caught in it, either torn to shreds or ripped apart and food for the vultures swooping
overhead.

He’d end up screaming and begging on the street, bleeding out as another scavenger ate his
meat and stole his clothes. ‘You won’t be needing this,’ they’d say, and leave him to bake.

“No,” Tom whispered and sunk to his knees.

The bomb rest there and Tom turned numb with his realization.

He was going to die.

“I won’t die here,” Tom said, desperation urging him forward. His shoes skid over sand and
gravel, dropping him to his knees once more. His cilice bit him sharply, a warning nip to
remind him of his place.

“Please Lord,” Tom gasped through his frantic breathing. “Please God, I beg of you please
please don’t- don’t do this I-.”

The bomb looked worse up close. Dented cruelly and tempting instant ignition. The German
words were battered, scraped clear off. It stank slightly of the waxy stink that the fires gave in
the night. Tom reached out with a shaking hand, halting his wrist a scant distance away. This
close, his death would be peaceful. He wouldn’t feel a thing as he was incinerated.

“Please God,” Tom gasped, fending off tears. “I...I don’t…Please God let me live. Please
God let me live.”

He hung his head, unwilling to let the horrible noises break his throat. Desperation burned
like the stars at night, glowing like Dragonfire.
Tom stilled himself and felt dizzy with his panic. He drew his wand slowly, looking at the
bomb with a feverish sort of mania.

The ward was active, and a freezing spell of any caliber would result in a horrible backlash.
A spell to disarm a muggle bomb would almost certainly kill him, or cripple him immensely.

Magic and muggle technology tended to cause horrible reactions- destruction of the device
and explosive results. Tom had tested it before on muggle radios and electricity, he hadn’t
found a way yet to remedy the problem.

This was a bomb. This was an explosive device that would either freeze, and allow him his
life only for magic to smite him down, or it would react badly and kill him.

There was no way out, except for the hope that the magical backlash would be enough to
where he could survive a few days longer.

“Please God,” Tom begged, “Please God, I am sorry for- for everything I have ever done.
Please, Please, Please. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

Tom shakily reached out with his wand, letting it hover a centimeter from the metal. The sun
was climbing into the sky. When Tom looked up for the last time, he found himself breathless
in the beauty of the sunrise, memorizing the pinks and oranges one last time.

“Oh fuck,” Tom breathed, feeling the hitching in his voice and the tear slip down his cheek.
“Please God, let me live. Immob -”

A second, a minute, the tick of a clock that would move until time ran out.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tom Riddle felt his bones crack, vertebra popping and vertigo jerking him about. He gasped,
inhaling fresh air and staring upwards into a beautiful morning sky.

He was sprawled on his back, arms outstretched ready for deliverance. The pain struck, a
sharp whip through him that felt not at all the ward backlash- instead, it felt more like he had
been hit by a brick.

Tom groaned quietly, adjusting sluggishly. He forced his aching bones and joints to kneel, his
hair hanging in his face.

“What the bleeding hell?” Tom moaned quietly, hand living to his temple as the world
swirled painfully.

“Cockney,” someone said.

Tom fished to his side and drew his knife as quickly as he could. He wasn’t alone- the spell
had worked but now a scavenger was here to finish-

“Oi!” someone new shouted angrily. Tom nearly keeled over as another man kicked at his
knife, trying to dislodge it. “Put that away, boy!”
Tom recoiled, shuffling into a weak stance. His feet cried out in pain, his knees wobbled
dangerously. Tom shouted a warning: Get the hell away from me!

The new man frowned, features rolling into light. Tom’s vision started to clear as he spotted
grass and open land. He noticed the man’s hand, and nearly cried in relief. He asked: A
wand?

He was in the magical world again.

Tom ran one hand through his hair and laughed a slightly mad, “ Bollocks.”

“Who are you?” the man asked, the one with a magical eye. He likely lost it in the war, an
Auror maybe?

“Cockney,” the first voice from before. A boy, not older than Tom with dark hair and a dumb
face. Looking at Tom’s clothes, judging his muggle survival.

“Ah, my apologies,” Tom said venomously. It took them this long to get him, they could deal
with his bloody muggle boots. “I stress, fuck you.”

I, Crina Maria Dimitriu nee Davidescu, citizen of Moldova, Romania, declare that this
is my final word and will. I revoke all wills and codicils that I have named and wrote
prior- this is my intent and forever will be.

I am Crina Maria Dimitriu through legal choice. Preceding this I am Crina Maria
Ababei, Crina Maria Moldoveanu. At birth, I was named Crina Maria Davidescu thus
since revoked. I have no surviving kin, no marital status, and no legal heir or
descendants.

A beneficiary must survive me for at least 80 days to receive property under this will. As
used in this will, the phrase “survive me” details being alive or within existence as an
entity on the 80th day after my death.

If I leave property to be shared by two or more beneficiaries, and any of them does not
survive me, I leave his or her share to the others equally unless this will provides
otherwise.

My residuary estate is all property I own at my death that is subject to this will that does
not pass under a general or specific bequest, including all failed or lapsed requests.

I leave my artifacts listed on page 3 to Drogov Hasteria, to utilize within Durstrang

School of Magic as is seen fit. If Drogov Hasteria is not administrator of Durmstrang
School of Magic after my death, then I leave all artifacts listed on page 3 to be
auctioned off in International House of Auctioneering Requests and all proceeds be
placed in Vault 3.
 I leave my collection of all scrolls, books, and educational materials to the Austrian
International Library of Magical Affairs.

I leave my residuary estates, Villach Estate (Austria) and Rormbach Estate (France) to
be liquidated, all proceeds placed in Vault 3.

I leave my residuary estate, Davidescu Manor, to be destroyed and the land donated for
international magical creature wildlife preserve.

I leave all further belongings and possessions to be examined by Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr.
and determined for allocation. All unwanted belongings and possessions are to be
liquidated, and proceedings placed within Vault 3.

I leave all remaining financial quantities within Vault 3 to Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. with
instructions to do so what he wishes.

I name Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, to serve as my executor. If Albus

Dumbledore is unwilling or unable to serve as executor, I name a representative of the
Goblin Alliance of Wizarding Affairs as my executor. No executor shall be required to
post bond.

I direct my executor to take all actions legally permissible to have the probate of my will
done as simply and as free of court supervision as possible. My executor will not be
permitted to arrange or exchange any division of property from one beneficiary to
another. Except for liens and encumbrances placed on property as security for the
repayment of a loan or debt, I direct that all debts and expenses owed by my estate be
paid using the following assets: Vault 3 at Gringotts International Banking.

If any beneficiary under this will contest this will or any of its provisions, any share of
interest in my estate given to the contesting beneficiary under this will is revoked and
shall be disposed of as if that contesting beneficiary had not survived me.

In conclusion of this will, I formally submit these final statements.

To Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald instructed me to tell

you if I survived him, that “I believe you”.

To Sirius Orion Black, I have an attached document with referrals if you choose to seek
it.

To Harry James Potter, I beg you understand this. Every single human has something to
say to others, something to horrify others and something that deserves to be forgiven by
others. I beg you to remember that monsters are never born.

Tom Riddle, covered in gore and blood rocked a corpse back and forth, singing softly to her
through the hitching sounds of tears.
A full circle, back where he had started. Desperate and stupid and young.

He would have confessed, told her that he made a mistake. She would have laughed and told
him that it was normal, that regret kept him human.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her. She would have said: I love you.

‘Remember what brought you here,’ she would have said. Laughing and drinking wine on the
couch now bathed in blood. He ran his fingers through her hair, trying to free it of the matted
bits of grime. ‘Remember that I’m proud of you.’

He had to defy nature, to break it itself. Thousands of people have killed each other.
Hundreds of people have consumed one another.

‘You aren’t thinking it through,’ she would tease him with a coy smile. ‘Horcruxes were made
to heal.’

Throughout all of history, so few people had ever accomplished a Horcrux- because nature
was not objective. It changed based on perspective and experience, entirely unique from one
person to the next.

It wasn’t to defy nature, it was to defy your nature.

‘You’re a genius,’ she once told him. She had never doubted him.

“I’m so sorry,” Tom cried to her, bowing his head and let regret eat him alive. “I’m so sorry.”

‘Stay true to yourself,’ she told him when his hands wrapped around her throat. ‘You can save
us.’

Tom found his knife and grabbed its blood-caked hilt. He lifted it to his eye, and then his
throat.

“Stay true to myself,” Tom said, with the epiphany piercing him. All of this, for nothing.

“Oh fuck,” Tom breathed, feeling the hitching in his voice and the tear slip down his cheek.
Crina had laughed at him because she knew he would fail.

He made sure he wouldn’t and pressed the knife to his jugular.

“Please God, let me live,” Tom whispered and closed his eyes. He pulled his arm back in
preparation to stab. “Please God, let me li-.”

A second, a minute, the tick of a clock finally running out.

Ding...ding...ding!

To Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. I tell you this: However it is my story ends, know that I will
remember you fondly. Stay true to yourself. Change the world, give it a better ending. I
 know you can.

Chapter End Notes

There is only One Chapter Left

 ...And He Shall Appear
Chapter Summary

Were you ready for your judgment?

Did you realize the depth of your mistakes?
What would you do, when the bombs
finally
went off?

Chapter Notes

Hello everyone.
I wish I had some sort of final words to you all, but in the end, all I can say is thank you
for your time and dedication.
I appreciate you, and your devotion to this story.

I love you all, and I am so proud of you.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry was walking along the dark corridor through the Department of Mysteries. He strode
slowly, carefully with an equal gait that never shifting into a run or stutter. He stood in the
circle room with its many doors- and spared no moment for hesitation.

Straight across the stone floor and through the second door, where patches of light glittered
like diamonds over the rock walls.

Harry walked, further and smoothly over and through the meandering halls until he entered
the third door. Again, around, through pathways predetermined but without question. He
walked through the cathedral-sized room full of a thousand shelves, and read each placard
devotedly.

Ninety-Five…

Ninety-Six…

Ninety-Seven… he turned.
The two rows arced above him like trees, reminiscent of the straight trunks of the pines near
the edge of Hagrid’s Hut. Boughs woven into platforms, swirling orbs holding captured
moonlight. Harry walked, slow and carefully between the aisles until he saw shadows build
and form and recognized it for what it was.

Harry’s stomach twisted, boiling in a contorted mixture of excitement and terror. Waspish,
venomous, lethal.

“I forgot how naive you are,” Harry said with a voice foreign to his ears.

Tom Riddle shuddered on the ground, his teeth like pearls as he bared them in a delighted
breath. “Naive?”

“No,” Harry corrected with barely a thought. “You weren’t before, but now
you’re..laughable.”

Tom shuddered again, his entire body contorting and twisting through the ripples of an
unknown spell. Harry could feel it, the incantation on the tip of his tongue even when he
knew not the name.

“I’m not laughable,” Tom whispered, his voice raspy and broken. Harry realized, that the
tone of speech implied that Tom had been screaming. “I’ve learned something you won’t ever
know.”

Harry lifted his wand, and he said, “ Crucio.”

Tom crumpled further into the stone, screaming so loud the moonlight swirled in the nearest
orbs. Tom’s fingers contorted into claws, his entire chest seizing in rapid tremors that only
ceased so he could inhale and scream once more. Harry watched, feeling warmth gush
through his bones and the high piercing knowledge that it was funny.

Tom sagged, one eye bloodshot as a capillary burst below his left iris. It tainted his face,
emphasizing the sallow complexion and the sunken hollows of his cheeks.

“Give in,” Harry said disappointed. “You know there’s no point to this. Take it for me...Lift it
down, now…”

Tom tilted his head back, his eyes lolling in his skull, and he laughed. Blood dripped from his
bitten lip, splattering with the strength of his laughter.

“I may be replaceable,” Tom hissed through his agony. “But Harry Potter has taught me one
thing you will never know…”

Harry felt his lip curl in distaste, disgust. Tom heaved, spitting a globule of mucus and blood
onto Harry’s shoe. Harry asked: “and what is that?”

Tom smiled with bloody teeth and bleeding eyes. “I am bloody stubborn.”
“Voldemort’s got Tom.”

“ What?”

“How d’you--?”

“Saw it. Just now. I just woke up and looked for you.”

“But-- where- how?” Hermione asked. Her face was white.

“I don’t know how,” said Harry. “But I know exactly where. There’s a room in the
Department of Mysteries full of shelves covered in these...orbs. They’re in row ninety-
seven...he’s trying to get Tom to get what he wants…”

Harry sat down heavily, settling onto the bench between Ron and Hermione. It was still early,
sunlight drifting through the windows in a taunt. Breakfast was a barren affair of toast and
jam and Harry found himself shaking.

“How are we going to get there?” Harry whispered, hanging his head forward to stare at his
fingers. They were his- his. Not long or boney, not white and skeletal or holding a foreign
wand.

There was a moment’s silence before Ron whispered, “G-get there?”’

“Get there so we can rescue Tom!” Harry hissed.

“Wait,” Hermione interrupted quickly. “Think about this. It’s six in the morning...The
Ministry of Magic must be full of workers...how would Voldemort and Tom have gotten in
without being seen? They wouldn’t be able to get into the building undetected-.”

“It’s a Friday,” said Ron. “Dad said Ministry opens at ten on Friday. Maybe there aren’t any
workers there.”

“See!” Harry hissed, twitching slightly at the words. “We...they’re...guys. They’re torturing
him.”

Harry clutched his forehead, his entire body trembling with violent shakes he couldn’t
control. “They...It’s real. I...I feel it. It wasn’t just a dream- it was real. Like the snake...I…”

“Mate,” Ron noted quietly. “You’re shaking.”

Hermione inhaled sharply, eyes locked on the vicious shaking. “Oh, oh. They...You-Know-
Who was... torturing him?”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No, I...Maybe it wasn’t real. I just...Tom is...taking his exams
and…”

Hermione inhaled so sudden, the noise drew eyes to her. “He...he would...maybe want to
escape. He may have tried to run and was found-.”
“Run?” Ron gawked. “ Riddle? Why? Isn’t he taking his bloody O.W.L.S or…”

“He’s sick,” Hermione whispered. “Tom is. He...He’s away because…”

“What, again? How did- what did Riddle do-.”

“No,” Harry whispered. “I...I may have seen it. Through the...link. Something was wrong.”

Something had been horribly wrong. More than Harry could explain- a monstrosity conjured
in hysteria. A fever dream that wouldn’t end.

A man, smelling of cologne and smiling in greed. Lovely lovely love…

“Everyone else is still sleeping off the exams,” Ron pointed out. “It wouldn’t be... that hard
to sneak out.”

“You aren’t actually considering this, are you!” Hermione asked.

Ron scowled and shrugged his shoulders. “Look, I may not like the bloke but that doesn’t
matter. If you’re asking me if I’m willing to sit here and eat some bloody grits when someone
is being tortured... It doesn’t bloody matter if it’s Riddle. I’m not going to sit here and let that
go on.”

Hermione recoiled as if she had been struck.

“Maybe you can,” he continued with a frown. “But...look, we both know Harry’s got a bit of
a...saving-people-thing,”

“I have a what?”

“But that doesn’t matter,” Ron said. “Look, the world is shite. My dad got attacked by a
ruddy snake, and my sister got attacked by a snake, and now Riddle is being attacked by a
snake’s bastard cousin... I don’t know. This may be stupid, and reckless, but the world is
already rotten enough. I can’t just sit here and pretend there’s nothing I can do.”

“I know,” Hermione whispered. “I...Harry can you...can you check before we…”

Harry had frozen, face turning pale throughout Ron’s small monologue. One hand flickered
to Harry’s forehead, resting gently and trembling worse than before. “I can’t feel...he’s...he’s
gone. I don’t...he isn’t there- I can’t feel him- he’s never...guys I can’t feel him.”

“We’ll have to use the floo,” Hermione said. “Do you...Do you remember where Tom went
that one time, Harry? When you...used the floo before?”

‘No,” Harry said. “I couldn’t hear the address. You’re saying he’s with Crina? Can’t we
contact her?”

“What about going to Nurmen-gurmen-whatevers?”

“Nurmengard, and no,” Hermione dismissed. “It’s swarmed with reporters since... that. We
wouldn’t find her there anyways. She’s wanted by the Ministry so any contact would likely
be blocked off- thinking that we’re Umbridge.”

“So we go to the Ministry directly,” Ron said. “Go to the Hospital Wing, straight to the
Ministry. They need to have links anyways. Then, when we’re there, we send a message off
to Si-... Padfoot.”

“No, we do that before,” said Hermione. “Send a message to Padfoot before we head to the
Ministry….”

With a plan in action, Harry didn’t bother to answer. He flung himself out of the room,
fighting his way up the stairs through the lingering bits of morning risers. Seamus and Dean
were chatting two floors up, bantering about something Harry couldn’t hear.

‘Dean,’ Harry thought with a horrific sort of guilt. ‘Oh Merlin, if anything happens to Tom…’

Harry scrambled upwards, over carpets and through corridors as portraits shouted in
annoyance. He knew that Ron and Hermione were chasing after him, but until then he had a
plan he had to stick to.

The Hospital Wing was quiet and empty so early in the morning. Harry took the lead, rushing
past the locked carts and cabinets with a single-minded focus. The door opened under one
shove of his elbow, the old dusty fireplace sat innocently.

Harry seized the pot of Floo powder, threw a pinch into the grate and thrust his head into the
dancing fire. “Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!”

His head began to spin as though he got off the knight bus. He kept his eyes screwed up
against the whirling ash, and when it stopped he found himself looking ut upon the cold
kitchen of Grimmauld Place. The table was empty, but Harry remembered viscerally the sight
of Tom convulsing from overdose on its surface.

“Sirius!” Harry shouted into the darkness. “Sirius! Are you there?”

Kreacher the house-elf came creeping into view. He looked highly delighted about
something, though he seemed to have recently sustained a nasty injury to both hands, which
were heavily bandaged. He wrung them harshly, twisting across the wrist.

“It’s the Potter boy’s head in the fire,” Kreacher informed the empty kitchen, “What has he
come for, Kreacher wonders?”

“Where’s Sirius, Kreacher?” Harry demanded. The house-elf gave a wheezy chuckle.

“What about Lupin? Mad-Eye? Any of them, are any of them here?”

“Nobody here but Kreacher!” said the elf gleefully, and turning away from Harry he began to
walk slowly toward the door at the end of the kitchen. “Kreacher thinks he will have a little
chat with his Mistress now, yes, he hasn’t had a chance in a long time, Kreacher’s Master has
been keeping him away from her —”
‘Bellatrix,’ Harry realized with dread. “Don’t you dare!”

Kreacher laughed, ignoring him. Harry’s head swam, ash drifting into his eye. “Kreacher!
Stop! Kreacher get back here!”

“Potter boy is not Kreacher’s Master!” Kreacher taunted gleefully. “Kreacher does not need
to listen-.”

“You will tell someone that Tom is in the Department of Mysteries,” Harry outburst, “Or- or
you will never see your Mistress again!”

Kreacher froze dead in his tracks, falling silent in speechless horror. Harry had no time left to
deal with the elf. He pulled himself free, gagging through the vertigo until Ron and Hermione
peered at him worried.

“We’re good,” Harry coughed out smoke. “Kreacher will take the message.”

“ Kreacher?” Ron sniffed, so stressed his voice broken an octave. “Oh, great.”

Harry ignored him, grabbed an entire fistful of powder and threw it directly into the grate. It
burst to life with a loud green roar, illuminating every corner of the small room. “British
Ministry of Magic!”

They stepped into the fire with arms entangled, landing in a sprawl of chaos and limbs. The
protective cage of the floo network landing slowly rose- golden light spilling into their little
ash corner. It widened, rising higher over there body. Harry bent his knees and held his wand
at ready as he stepped into the Ministry Atrium- but it was completely empty.

The light was dimmer than it had been by day. There were no fires burning under the
mantelpieces set into the walls- the other floo network links, but he saw as the lift slid
smoothly to a halt that golden symbols continued to twist sinuously in the dark blue ceiling.
“The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant evening,” said an automated woman’s voice. It
rang with a hollow echo, making everything feel much more eerie.

The only sound in the Atrium was the steady rush of water from the golden fountain, where
jets from the wands of the witch and wizard, the point of the centaur’s arrow, the tip of the
goblin’s hat, and the house-elf’s ears continued to gush into the surrounding pool. The water
bubbled unbothered, glowing with lantern light over the surface.

“Come on,” said Harry quietly and the three of them sprinted off down the hall, Harry in the
lead, past the fountain.

his feeling of foreboding increased as they passed through the golden gates to the lifts. He
pressed the nearest down button and a lift clattered into sight almost immediately, the golden
grilles slid apart with a great, echoing clanking, and they dashed inside. Harry stabbed the
number nine button, the grilles closed with a bang, and the lift began to descend, jangling and
rattling. Harry had not realized how noisy the lifts were on the day that he had come with Mr.
Weasley — he was sure that the din would raise every security person within the building, yet
when the lift halted, the cool female voice said, “Department of Mysteries,” and the grilles
slid open again.

They stepped out into the corridor where nothing was moving but the nearest torches,
flickering in the rush of air from the lift. Harry turned toward the plain black door. He had
dreamed it so vividly, he felt he could walk the proper path with his eyes closed.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Ron asked him in a whisper. The walls seemed
to absorb sound, pressing on them all uncomfortably.

He turned to face the door and walked forward. Just as it had in his dream, it swung open
and he marched forward, leading the others over the threshold. They were standing in a large,
circular room. Everything in here was black including the floor and ceiling — identical,
unmarked, handle-less black doors were set at intervals all around the black walls,
interspersed with branches of candles whose flames burned blue, their cool, shimmering light
reflected in the shining marble floor so that it looked as though there was dark water
underfoot.

“Someone shut the door,” Harry muttered. Hermione did so, trapping the three of them in the
small room.

In his dream, Harry walked with purpose and intent. He mirrored those steps, trying to recall
their confidence the best he could. He stepped forward, footsteps soft over stone. He knew
the door- he knew the path.

Hermione and Ron near clung to him, careful to not deviate. The room pressed in on them,
but Harry paid it no mind as he strode through the second door, and then the third door on the
left.

“This is it,” Harry said, and his heart was now pumping so hard and fast he felt it must
interfere with his speech. “It’s through here —”

He glanced around at them. Both Ron and Hermione had their wands out and looked
suddenly serious and anxious. He had trained them well- they would be fine.

Harry looked back at the door and pushed. It swung open. They were there, they had found
the place: high as a church and full of nothing but towering shelves covered in small, dusty,
glass orbs.

Silver balls of moonlight which glimmered dully in the light issuing from more candle
brackets. Like those in the circular room behind them, their flames burned blue.

Harry edged forward and peered down one of the shadowy aisles between two rows of
shelves. He could not hear anything nor see the slightest sign of movement. He thought for
some unknown reason, that he would be able to hear Tom screaming.

‘Stupid,’ Harry thought. ‘Tom always suffers silently.’

“You said it was row ninety-seven,” whispered Hermione.

“Yeah,” breathed Harry, looking up at the end of the closest row. Beneath the branch of blue-
glowing candles protruding from it glimmered the silver figure 53.

They crept forward, staring behind them as they went on down the long alleys of shelves, the
farther ends of which were in near-total darkness. Tiny, yellowing labels had been stuck
beneath each glass orb on the shelf. Some of them had a weird, liquid glow; others were as
dull and dark within as blown lightbulbs.

“Is he still alive, even?” Ron asked quietly.

“I’d have felt it,” Harry whispered back. ‘I would know…’

They found the row and aisle, and Harry turned to gaze down it with a deep pit of despair.
There was nobody there.

There was nothing to be said- it was as clear to him as it was to both Ron and Hermione that
Tom was not here. Instead, they turned their eyes to the shelves.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered. “This one has your name on it.”

He stepped forward. Not as tall as Ron, he had to crane his neck upwards like Hermione to
read the yellowish label affixed to the shelf right beneath the dusty glass ball. In spidery
writing was written a date of some sixteen years previously, and below that:

S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.

Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter.

Harry stared at it.

“What is it?” Ron asked, sounding unnerved. “What’s your name doing down here?”

Ron glanced along at the other labels on that stretch of shelf. “I’m not here,” he said,
sounding perplexed. “Neither is Mione...”

“Harry, I don’t think you should touch it,” said Hermione sharply, as he stretched out his
hand. “Why not?” he said. “It’s something to do with me, isn’t it?”

Perhaps it was the adrenaline and fear that led him to indulge in such a compulsion. The
panic for Tom hasting his poor choices. Harry closed his fingers around the dusty ball’s
surface. He had expected it to feel cold, but it did not. On the contrary, it felt as though it had
been lying in the sun for hours, as though the glow of light within was warming it. Expecting,
even hoping, that something dramatic was going to happen, something exciting that might
make their long and dangerous journey worthwhile after all. Something, somehow, would
reveal the secret to where Tom was.

Harry lifted the glass ball down from its shelf and stared at it. Nothing whatsoever happened.
And then, from right behind them, a drawling voice said, “Very good, Potter. Now turn
around, nice and slowly, and give that to me.”
‘You always were stupid,’ Harry could imagine Tom saying. Sighing in exasperation over his
choices.

Harry turned slowly, keeping his back to the shelves. Black shapes were swirling in the
shadows, drifting back and forth with a lazy sort of haste. Dark hollows from long hoods and
the white glint of bone masks. A dozen lit wand tips moved about like Will-O-Wisp, pointing
at their hearts.

“To me, Potter,” repeated Lucius Malfoy with one hand outstretched

“To me,” said Malfoy once again.

Harry felt it deep in him, a raw sort of rage. Panic and terror, adrenaline surging but above all
that- his anger. They had taken so much from him, hurt his family and his friends.

Why would he obey? In what world did Voldemort ever imagine that Harry would obey?

What would Tom do, when faced with a decision so difficult and challenging it would almost
assuredly result in his death?

Tom would laugh, throwback his throat and bleed from his eyes and say: Never.

A woman emerged from the side with a loud shrill laugh. “Look at him! Oh! So small and
cute!”

She leaned forward, wild eyes and savage sneer as she mocked him: “ The little baby woke up
fwightened and fout what it dweamed was twue!”

Harry felt Ron stiffen beside him, waiting at the ready. The woman who had mimicked him
let out a raucous scream of laughter.

“Oh! You think you could fight us?” She laughed. “Think you could fight us?”

“Oh, you don’t know Potter as I do, Bellatrix,” said Malfoy softly. “He has a great weakness
for heroics; the Dark Lord understands this about him. Now, give me the prophecy, Potter.”

Harry’s grip tightened, his skull burned, and he felt like screaming into the abandoned
cathedral of his own design. Instead, he said: “Go on then.”

“Hand over the prophecy and no one need get hurt,” said Malfoy coolly.

Lies, Harry knew. Harry’s mind was racing. The Death Eaters wanted this dusty spun-glass
sphere. He had no interest in it. He just wanted to get them all out of this alive, make sure
that none of his friends paid a terrible price for his stupidity . . .

They were all terrified of him- of the option that Harry would break the prophecy, why else
would they not attack?

“You’ll have to smash this if you want to attack any of us,” he told Bellatrix. “I don’t think
your boss will be too pleased if you come back without it, will he?” She did not move; she
merely stared at him, the tip of her tongue moistening her thin mouth.

“So,” said Harry, “what kind of prophecy are we talking about anyway?”

“What kind of prophecy?” repeated Bellatrix, the grin fading from her face. “You jest, Harry
Potter.”

“Nope, not jesting,” said Harry, his eyes flicking from Death Eater to Death Eater, looking
for a weak link, a space through which they could escape. “How come Voldemort wants it?”

Several of the Death Eaters let out low hisses.

“You dare speak his name?” whispered Bellatrix.

“Yeah,” said Harry, maintaining his tight grip on the glass ball, expecting another attempt to
bewitch it from him. “Yeah, I’ve got no problem saying Vol —”

“Shut your mouth!” Bellatrix shrieked. “You dare speak his name with your unworthy lips,
you dare besmirch it with your half-blood’s tongue, you dare —”

“Did you know he’s a half-blood too?” said Harry recklessly. Surely they would know that- if
they had Tom here then they would know that. Harry could admit, that his words did sound
horrible objectively. Hermione gave a little moan in his ear.

“Voldemort?” Harry continued, ‘Yeah, his mother was a witch but his dad was a Muggle —
or has he been telling you lot he’s pureblood?”

Bellatrix shrieked in rage. “Stupef—”

“No!”

I was right.

A jet of red light had shot from the end of Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand, but Malfoy had
deflected it. His spell caused hers to hit the shelf a foot to the left of Harry and several of the
glass orbs there shattered. The eruptions drew smoke, which Harry used as cover. He hauled
Hermione and Ron backward, running as quickly as he could.

Footsteps and shouts echoed from behind the door they had just sealed. Harry put his ear
close to the door to listen and heard Lucius Malfoy roar: “Leave Nott, leave him, I say! The
Dark Lord will not care for Nott’s injuries as much as losing that prophecy — Jugson, come
back here, we need to organize! We’ll split into pairs and search, and don’t forget, be gentle
with Potter until we’ve got the prophecy, you can kill the others if necessary — Bellatrix,
Rodolphus, you take the left, Crabbe, Rabastan, go right — Jugson, Dolohov, the door
straight ahead — Macnair and Avery, through here — Rookwood, over there — Mulciber,
come with me!”

“What do we do?” Hermione asked Harry, trembling from head to foot.

“Well, we don’t stand here waiting for them to find us, for a start,” said Harry. A plan was
twitching to life in his brain- scrambling to fit itself together.

They raced through the shelves, Hermione managing to silence their footsteps so they could
run without fear. It did nothing to stop her quick breathing, the least athletic of the three.

Harry wondered if Tom would laugh at him, finding the entire situation ridiculous.

“Harry, we can’t keep hiding!” Hermione said frantically. “They’ll find us! They won’t stop!”

“Yeah mate,” Ron said through his own panting breath. “They really want to bloody find us.”

The last piece slid into place with shocking clarity. Harry turned on his heel, drew his wand,
and waited.

They were near a corner, one that Harry took advantage of and placed his back in the crease.
He could see every possible angle of approach, every direction was directly in front of him.

“Harry!” Hermione whispered terrified. “They’re coming!”

“Silence us,” Harry said. “Don’t bloody move.”

He drew his wand, running through the movements twice- just as Tom had done. Tom had
been so calm, so careful and easy with his words. Back then it had been only Umbridge.

Harry lifted his wand and said through chattering teeth: “Spectoillex pavor.”

His wand made dark black cracks across the air as if he had shattered a watch face that hung
between them and the doorway. They spread, linking back and forth in a chaotic mess like
spiderwebs, or frost patterns. Beautiful, ornate, dangerous.

Harry sank to his knees, convulsing under the surge of feeling. Pleasure, pain, a buzzing
network of nerves singing and crying. Tears welled in his eyes- distantly he knew Ron and
Hermione had looped his arms around their necks to hold him up.

Harry’s jaw slid open, breathing coming in silenced heavy wheezes. The spidercracks pulsed,
glowing black with the moonlight smoke of smashed prophecies around them.

Bellatrix Lestrange appeared on the other side of their cage, eyes sliding right over their
hiding spot with no care. She screamed in wordless rage- infuriated- because…

“What about the illusion spell then?”

“A curse,” Tom admitted. “Made to reflect the opponents worst imagined fear. It could
be used for mental torture, or it could be used to show a woman her least wanted
desire.”

“An empty room,” Harry realized. “You used the curse so she’d see what she didn’t
want to.”
Harry shuddered, his body contorting through the overstimulation of nothing words could
describe. Hermione’s grip tightened around his side.

Once, twice, three times Death Eaters brushed past their hiding spots. They paid them no
attention, trapped on the other side of an illusion. Bellatrix’s screaming turned more
desperate. Feral and wild and she began to smash the shelves in her rage.

Then, the door to the room opened with a rattling boom. Blown clear off its hinges, and
inwards stormed their heroes.

“Go!” Moody roared with a wide berth of orange fire sprouting from his wand. “Tonks!
Close flank-.”

“Protego!” Sirius Black shouted, deflecting one nasty curse before sending a stunner in
return. Tonks transfigured a shelf into an octopus, snaring one Death Eater around his throat.

Dumbledore surveyed the room with a grim frown, and Harry finally let the curse drop.

It was instant bliss, the overwhelming surge of feeling that was both too much and too little.
He sobbed wordlessly, rebounding through the pain as Hermione threw a leg locking jinx at a
Death Eater attacking Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Dumbledore was already at the foot of the steps when the Death Eaters nearest realized he
was there. There were yells; one of the Death Eaters ran for it, scrabbling like a monkey up
the stone steps opposite. Dumbledore’s spell pulled him back as easily and effortlessly as
though he had hooked him with an invisible line —

Only one couple were still battling, apparently unaware of the new arrival. Harry saw Sirius
duck Bellatrix’s jet of red light: He was laughing at her. “Come on, you can do better than
that!” he yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.

“Harry!” Dumbledore shouted at him, “Run!”

He ran and slammed the door behind him. The walls had begun to rotate again. Once more he
was surrounded by streaks of blue light from the whirling candelabra.

“Where’s the exit?” he shouted desperately, as the wall rumbled to a halt again. “Where’s the
way out?”

The room seemed to have been waiting for him to ask. The door right behind him flew open,
and the corridor toward the lifts stretched ahead of him, torch-lit and empty. He ran. . . .

He could hear a lift clattering ahead of him. He sprinted up the passageway, swung around
the corner, and slammed his fist onto the button to call a second lift. It jangled and banged
lower and lower; the grilles slid open and Harry dashed inside, now hammering the button
marked Atrium. The doors slid shut and he was rising.

The air-cooled, Hermione gasped in fear- and a Dementor screamed as it raced through the
black shafts towards them.
“No!” Ron shouted, throwing one arm to push Hermione behind him. “Expecto Patronum!”

They recoiled, snarling in hisses as silver animals fended them off. The elevator grill opened
and without pause- they ran.

“The floo!” Hermione screamed, ducking one furious dementor as her otter chased it away.
Her hands closed on the floo pot, chucking it entirely into the flame. It roared a bright green
glow. Ron shouted out Hogwarts! And slid on his knees into the fire.

Hermione lunged in after, Harry was nearly to the chimney when a bright red curse flew over
his shoulder and bashed apart the grate. It slammed down so quickly, Harry wondered if he
would have lost his legs if he made it a second sooner.

“Potter!” Bellatrix Lestrange screamed, looking furious and mangled. Her face was coated in
blood, mouth missing two teeth. “ Potter!”

His escape ruined, Harry slid on his knees behind the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Her next
spell zoomed past him and hit the wrought gold gates at the other end of the Atrium so that
they rang like bells. There were no more footsteps, she had stopped running.

“Come out, come out, little Harry!” she called in her mock-baby voice, which echoed off the
polished wooden floors. Harry felt his heart in his throat, the prophecy in his fist. His nerves
still buzzed from the illusion curse earlier, begging for more and dreading it at the same
time.

Bellatrix screamed in wordless rage. She threw a blasting curse that demolished part of the
fountain as if a dragon bit a quarter of it free.

Harry had been edging around the fountain on the other side. She screamed, “Crucio!” and he
was forced to duck down again as the centaur was blasted from its podium across the ground.

“Potter, you cannot win against me!” she cried.

He could hear her moving to the right, trying to get a clear shot of him. He backed around the
statue away from her, crouching behind the centaur’s legs, his head level with the house-
elf’s.

“I was and am the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant, I learned the Dark Arts from him, and I
know spells of such power that you, pathetic little boy, can never hope to compete —”

"Don’t look so wounded, Boy Hero...You can’t fight all your battles using a Patronus and a
disarming spell. Learn some curses, battlefield amputation recovery…"

Harry closed his eyes, inhaled slowly and steadied himself.

“If I were you, Boy Hero. I’d learn some actual magic…”

Harry heard Bellatrix scream, her curses thrown as more rock exploded. Water sprayed about
him, coating his face. The wizard from the fountain had been hurled across the room, it’s
torso a garish mutilation, it’s head decapitated at Harry’s feet.
Tom had been so honest, quiet and sad. He knew battle, more than Harry ever did.

“...Otherwise, you won’t survive when the bombs go off.”

“Ictum!” Harry shouted, twisting and throwing the cutting curse like he was catching a
snitch. The spell flew fast- it would start to falter at the end, Tom showed him that in
training- and hit.

Bellatrix screamed, her left hand lifting to grab her other as three fingers exploded off with a
wet sound. They twitched on the stone, severed and coating her dropped wand with blood.

“I don’t need to win!” Harry shouted, scrambling towards the available floo. Bellatrix’s
screams turned to sobs, and then they turned to begging.

Harry slowed, then stopped. The dementors weren’t looking at him, they were hovering tame
in the air, staring behind him. Harry turned slowly, exhaling a silent breath. The world melted
and solidified with an apathetic sort of blur.

Tall, thin, draped in black just as every memory Harry had. His terrible snakelike face
contorted into a mimicry of a human. White and gaunt, his scarlet slit-pupil eyes stared
unnervingly. Lord Voldemort had appeared in the middle of the hall, his wand pointing at
Harry who stood unable to move.

“Are you sure, Potter?” said Voldemort softly. He stared unblinking and turned his head ever
so slightly. “So desperate to live...but now, you care so little for winning.”

Voldemort turned to look at Bellatrix, sobbing at his feet. She cowered on the ground,
smearing her blood and tears on his shoes.

“Master, I am sorry. I have failed you!” she sobbed desperately.

“Be quiet, Bella,” said Voldemort. “I am not here for your apologies.”

He turned calmly, predatory in everything he did. Voldemort lifted his wand uncaringly, and
smile a thin familiar expression that made Harry’s chest hurt.

“I have nothing left to say to you, Potter,” he said quietly. “You have been an obstruction for
too long. Avada Kedavra!”

Harry didn’t think of resisting. His mind was blank, frozen in its operation. The headless
statue of the wizard from the fountain sprung alive, leaping upwards from the floor to deflect
the curse.

“What?” Voldemort blinked. His face fell, he breathed, “Dumbledore.”

Harry looked behind him, his heart pounding. Dumbledore was standing in front of the
golden gates, dented from the power of Bellatrix’s curse. Voldemort raised his wand and sent
another jet of green light at Dumbledore, who turned and was gone in a whirling of his cloak;
next second he had reappeared behind Voldemort and waved his wand toward the remnants
of the fountain; the other statues sprang to life too.
Voldemort smiled, a thin quirk of his lips as the statues began their robotic movements. The
headless wizard stood stiff, protecting Harry from direct attack.

Bellatrix sobbed from her spot, holding her wand clumsily in her left hand. She alternated
between insults and magical curses, spewing acid and blasts to bludgeon the statue goblin
into dust.

The one-armed centaur galloped at Voldemort- who whispered a spell calmly and watched
uncaringly as the centaur cracked brittle, and shattered like ice.

“It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom,” said Dumbledore calmly. “The Aurors are on
their way —”

“By which time I will be gone,” spat Voldemort whose calm mood turned sour at the title. He
threw a killing curse at Dumbledore who dodged. Where the spell hit stone, it burst into
searing fire which somehow threatened to melt the granite.

Dumbledore flicked his own wand. The force of the spell that emanated from it was such that
Harry felt his hair stand on end as it crackled the air. Voldemort constructed a shining silver
shield out of thin air- its presence gleamed like a Patronus although it appeared solid on
impact. It sounded like grinding gears, the dragging of stone on stone.

“You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” called Voldemort, who recognized the spell the
Headmaster used. “Above such brutality, are you?”

“We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom,” Dumbledore said
calmly, continuing to walk toward Voldemort as though he had not a fear in the world, as
though nothing had happened to interrupt his stroll up the hall. “Merely taking your life
would not satisfy me, I admit —”

Voldemort smiled sharp and bright. “Oh? Like Grindelwald then? Who you enslaved and left
as gruel for a dog.”

Dumbledore’s calm demeanor changed slightly. His light tone turned strained. “Indeed, your
failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your
greatest weakness —”

Voldemort threw a curse- and the house-elf statue leaped into the air to deflect it. It took the
blast and shattered into a hundred pieces.

“You are hiding, Dumbledore,” Voldemort said. He looked offended, annoyed at the display.
“When will you shed your cowardice and fight me?”

Harry watched and felt more than heard Tom and his confession. Hubris. I asked him for
knowledge, and he told me no.

Dumbledore looked sad as he drew back his wand and formed himself a whip of fire that
burned brighter than the sun. Finally, Voldemort’s eyes alit with an excited passion, his wand
raised in preparation.
The whip became a snake, and then water drowned the world. The water molded into liquid
glass that shielded Voldemort under another barrage of spells. They spoke so quickly, fluent
Latin and incantations, that they appeared to be whispering as if in prayer.

They danced, exchanging back and forth. The Dementors watched them, terrified to
intervene. Bellatrix curled in on herself, afraid to cry or laugh at the scene. Harry knew that
emotions were beyond the monster he observed, but in a different world, he imagined
Voldemort to be enjoying himself.

And then Voldemort vanished, and Dumbledore turned on Harry so quickly it looked
choreographed. Dumbledore shouted, “Stay where you are, Harry!”

For the first time, Dumbledore sounded frightened. Harry could not see why. The hall was
quite empty but for themselves, the sobbing Bellatrix contorted on the floor and the remnants
of twitching statues.

And then Harry’s scar burst open, and he breathed in so deep he felt he was drowning.

Harry was no stranger to pain, to the binding and splitting of himself. He was a thing made of
clay, mouldable to whoever the world needed. A savior, a liar, a boy, and a weapon. He was
Voldemort’s enemy, and Tom Riddle’s friend. He was bound in the grip of an endless thing
with scales and coils that encircled the world. No beginning or ending, it was a serpent that
swallowed its tail and Harry let himself be shaped. When it spoke, it used his mouth. When it
laughed, it used his tongue. When it moved, it used his skin.

“Kill me now, Dumbledore,” they said. “If death is nothing, Dumbledore. Kill the boy.”

It hurt, but it was a familiar burn. Harry once feared this sort of isolation, but this connection
and link had gifted him precious things. The first time Tom met Nagini, the faces of Cygnus
and Abraxas. The sight of pain and suffering; the few secret moments of true genuine
happiness.

The creature recoiled, shifting and gurgling. They gagged, dropping to their knees in alarm.
What once felt endless was warping, distorting under an omnipotent pressure. Gravity was
changing, oxygen stripping away.

“Harry?” Dumbledore asked in fear. “Harry!”

“What is this?” They asked, choking on foul twisted feeling. It was wrong, it was disgusting-
it was sadness and glee. Curiosity and pride.

“What are you doing?” They demanded, “stop this!”

No, I don’t think I will. It said like a god- then it laughed. Oh, I’ll be your God.

They screamed, contorting- the pressure so hard it turned them inside out. It’s coils shrinking,
flipping until Harry’s flesh expanded and constricted itself like a noose. The scales and coils
compressed inside his ribs, in his muscle. Smaller and tighter he squeezed and Voldemort
screamed.
Harry came back face down, shuddering on the stone. He turned to his side, spitting out drool
and snot. Dumbledore grasped him, helping him to his feet.

“Are you all right, Harry?”

“Yes,” said Harry, shaking so violently he could not hold his head up properly. “Yes, I’m- I-.”

His knees locked, only Dumbledore’s hold kept him upright.

“Interesting,” said Voldemort like the wind. He manifested standing a short stride away, eyes
wide and interested. A large muscled snake emerged from the fold of his cloak, trailing
carefully over the ground. The rasp of scales on rock left Harry shuddering with phantom
aches.

“Stop this, Tom,” Dumbledore said gravely. Harry realized, that somewhere in the battle
Dumbledore acquired the prophecy. “You can not win this fight.”

The snake, Nagini, hissed quietly. A repeated mantra of adoration and respect; it’s
intelligence startled Harry for the briefest of moments.

“I only need to kill the boy,” Voldemort said. “You have already suffered for your actions-.”

Harry groaned in discomfort at the same moment Voldemort flinched backward. Bellatrix
screamed, holding her wand aloft-.

Crack!

A single figure, kneeling on the ground in a large lopsided jacket, staggered from the portkey.
One step upwards, the soft brush of fur on stone.

Voldemort took a step backward, hesitating in his movements. Harry felt a smile rise
unconsciously, teasing on his face.

Tom Riddle stood aquiver with determination. His coat unfolded in panels of mink and fox
and wolf. Harry barked a muffled laugh- Tom Riddle was eccentric at his core.

A flash of memory, of a dream forever ago.

I’ve given out on the love you hold so close, I’ve stopped looking for a way out of that dark
place, I’ve stopped praying for the light. This is my last confessional.

“Tom,” Dumbledore said like a dying man. “Why are you covered in blood?”

Tom Riddle lifted his head, swaying with the whispers of Dementors in the sky. Tom’s skin
and clothes smeared black with blood, bits of mangled tissue trapped near his belt. The fur
cloak obscured the horror until it slid from his thin shoulders, revealing the extent of his
display.

Tom Riddle stared at the ground, rocking side to side as he giggled low and childish.
Increasing in volume and intensity until its hysteria rivaled that of Bellatrix. He threw his
head back and revealed a horrid black stain across his throat. A laceration, a wound that
spanned deeper than the flesh.

“What?” Bellatrix asked scared across the room. “What is that?”

Tom Riddle grinned a bloody smile, his eyes bright with fever, They bled red.

“Tom?” Harry asked with a quivering voice. “Tom? Where- where’s Crina?”

Tom took a precarious step forward. Half a shuffle, half a limp. His fingers twitched, his body
a cancerous manifestation.

“Tom?” desperately Harry asked. “Where’s Crina?”

He already knew it, inexplicably he knew. Like he knew the sun would set, or how letters
created a word.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said. “Madam Dimitriu is...dead-.”

Harry knew that and more. “No. Tom ate her.”

“What?” Dumbledore whispered, as pale as stone. “No... no-.”

Tom Riddle looked at Voldemort and laughed.

“Look at you!” Tom said deranged. “You look like a monster. A...a disgusting...”

“This is pathetic,” Voldemort hissed. “A child, a brat-.”

Tom pulled out his wand with an impish sort of movement. A wild smirk and hidden gleam
in his red eyes. “You did it wrong,” he informed Voldemort happily. “You butchered yourself.
You did it so horribly you’ve become infected.”

Voldemort snarled wordlessly. The Dementors swarmed and descend.

“You tore without consideration,” Tom whispered. “Without knowledge of how to heal. I’ll
show you... Expecto Patronum.”

Harry watched in wonder as Tom Riddle, baptized in blood, spread his arms and spread his
wings. His vulture soared and circled, a glowing siren in the shadows.

“You ripped out all of your salvation!” Tom shouted, taking a slow stride forward. Voldemort
took a step back. “You tore out everything that mattered, and now you are an abomination.”

“I am the Dark Lord!” Voldemort screamed. Harry realized, that Voldemort was afraid. “I am
the most powerful-.”

“Maybe so,” Tom mused with a chuckle. Unconcerned with the sight, the scene. “You do not
allow yourself to feel. That is your greatest flaw, your greatest failure.”
“ Avada Kedavra!” Voldemort screamed although his aim was lost. The man’s slit eyes were
wide with fear. “I will kill you! I will-.”

“Someone precious to me told me, it’s okay to feel regret,” said Tom. “I do, and you never
will. I regret your existence. I regret you were made.”

Voldemort choked on nothing and sunk to his knees. His white skin peeled back, bubbling
away as he contorted in silent torment. Tom Riddle walked towards him, a sixteen-year-old
boy with blood and salvation.

“I’ll save us,” Tom whispered. He brushed his fingers against Voldemort’s skull and passed
judgment.

“Master?” Bellatrix gasped, “Master! What did you do? Bring him back! Bring him back!”

Tom flexed his hand, turned his eyes on Bellatrix and said: “ Crucio .”

Bellatrix screamed and Tom laughed. The boy looked surprised, attempting to suppress his
giggles.

“It’s funny,” he said awestruck. Shivers wracked his body, a ticklish sensation that made the
world seem so delightful. Slowly Tom turned to Harry and Dumbledore. “The
Cruciatus...it’s... humor.”

Bellatrix sobbed silently on the ground, and Tom examined his hands like they were
unfamiliar to him. His eyes red and bright, his soul bleeding through its window. Nagini,
drawn by an unnamed magnetic force, circled closer with whispered questions of
familiarity. I love you, she said because she promised decades ago. I love you, Master. She
circled his legs and thigh, coiled loveling near his flank; the vulture Patronus descended and
perched along Tom's shoulders- granting him the illusion of silver wings.

“Tom,” Dumbledore said in the tone of a defeated man. “Tom, what have you done?”

“I’ve fixed everything,” Tom said. “I’ve healed what was broken. Gained memories of what
should never happen. Morsmordre. ”

His vulture transformed, elongated into a dark ash serpent that haunted the skies of the
Quidditch World Cup. Then, it sprouted wings like the scavenger. A holy beast made from
the serpent that would never die, and the vulture that would live forever.

“Crina gave me her sacrifice,” Tom whispered, “her love. I’m going to fix things, save
everyone. I'm going to save us all.”

Dumbledore cried a single tear, and Harry gazed at the new Dark Lord with a bleeding soul in
his eyes: There is no God but me.

“Don’t worry about your war. This time...” Tom Riddle smiled genuine with all his heart and
Voldemort’s soul. Combined into on unstoppable force, one self-fulfilled diety.

“...This time, I’ll do better. ”

 There is no God but me

Link to Diablerie Final Artwork

Chapter End Notes

Ouroborus
(But you were never fond of snakes, were you?)
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