The Ring
Tom awoke a few hours later, and for the first time in a long time, he couldn’t help the smile on his face. He was certain that if he was to be caught, they would’ve dragged him to Azkaban by now, yet there he was, on his lumpy twin-sized mattress, wearing his torn pajamas he outgreand no Aurors in sight. He got his revenge and lived to tell the tale, four of the hardest spells to perform and he did so with no difficulty.
He took his time getting dressed that morning before heading down the stairs to the orphanage’s dining room. As he sat down in his designated seat, he bid a good morning to Mrs. Cole, the orphanage owner, leaving her a tad bit confused but she ignored it responding with a curt nod and smile before returning to her conversation with Sister Marie.
The boy silently ate his porridge along with the other boys around him. Tom was older than most other boys in the orphanage, they were mostly young boys, between the ages of 3 and 9,who lost their parents to the war and one or other bitter tween boy who aged out of the age where their more likely to be adopted. Tom himself had also aged out, at the age of fifteen he knew there was no way he would be adopted now, not that he cared, he spent most of his months at school, having parents, particularly muggle parents, would be more trouble than it’s worth.
After breakfast, Tom retreated to his room to study. While Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry did not allow Tom to bring school books back to this miserable place, he found comfort in learning languages, he was particular to Ancient Greek due to its complexity, Latin, however, was his forte. He actually found it quite fun, and because the roots of most spells were based in Latin, his studies made his pronunciation and execution impeccable, there really was no spell he could not do.
A few several hours later, having skipped lunch, Tom was called down to dinner. Having had a busy night and spending his whole day reading what bordered on dead languages, he was rather peckish, so he joined his fellow orphans in the dining room.
There was a boy in the orphanage, with his shaved head and roadman way of speech, Tom found him rather rugged and odd. This boy, Philip, had a paper route, he had begun about six months ago while Tom was away at school, and since summer holiday, Tom would exchange his desert at dinner –whether that be a cup of pudding, or jello, or anything that particularly peaked Philips interest– for that day's news paper which Philip got for free from his employer.
Tom rather liked reading the news, he enjoyed knowing the current events, while he definitely preferred publications like the Daily Prophet, or Wizard Watch, the muggle paper will suffice for now.
Nowadays, the paper really only covers one topic, the war, German soldiers invading, and Japanese soldiers attacking, today’s edition, focused on the 80,000 commonwealth soldiers who were taken as prisoners of war. Tom always found muggle in-fighting rather pathetic. Muggle wars over land? Over what race is superior? As if any muggle could ever be as powerful, as divine, as a wizard, as himself.
Death, to Tom, was an inherently weak trait. The universe’s way of telling people they weren’t strong enough, weren’t worthy enough to be amongst people like him—survival of the fittest. Tom really believed the world was eat or be eaten. In his defense, it was all he’d ever known. He was born into death, his mother’s death, the nuns used to say she died of a broken heart, for a while he believed them, but as he got older he realized it was a farce, to protect him from the ever-present fact, she died giving birth to him, he killed her, and for a while that killed him. It wasn’t until he got to Hogwarts that he realized. The nuns weren’t lying, she truly died of a broken heart; for magical women don’t die through childbirth, they can use their magic to save themselves. Tom’s mother, she chose to abandon him; she chose to die.
Pathetic woman.
From then on, Tom decided that death was a sign of weakness, and since muggles were inherently weak, death –in his eyes– became a muggle trait.
Having seemingly gotten away with the four murders from the previous night made Tom feel strangely powerful. Powerful, but a bit drained, he also looked a bit paler than usual, a fact which one of the boys at the orphanage –he was new and Tom hadn’t yet bothered to learn his name– gladly pointed out. Tom brushed off as a result of insomnia the previous night, this however, led the nuns to drone on about King Saul*, and as soon as he was certain it was a bible reference, Tom tuned out.
He was pulled back in the moment when one of the young boys at the table, just about age 4, asked Tom, “Tom… can you share what you have been learning at your fancy school?”
“Oh umm…” Naturally Tom wouldn’t really share what his actual studies entailed, so instead he responded casually, “Just normal things. Maths, Literature..”
“Do you have a favorite class?”
Defense against the Dark Arts.
“Latin.”
“Isn’t that a dead language?” Another boy, James, cut in.
“Can you say something in Latin Tom?” Said the first boy, ignoring James.
After a moment of thought, Tom replied cooly, “Vera divina, in aeternum vive; summa immortalis.” Then Tom looked down at his food, the boy knew he was not going to get any more answers out of Tom and moved on to one of the other boys.
The phrase, ‘summa immortalis’, echoed in Tom’s mind… where had he heard that before?
Dinner ended and the nuns took the boys to the orphanage’s chapel to pray. Tom always saw this nightly ritual to be a waste of time, even before he knew of the wizarding world, but finding out about it really put the nails in that coffin. He tended to just recite spells or potion recipes in his head during prayer, it looked believable enough to get the nuns off his case.
The whole way there Tom, absentmindedly repeated the phrase in his head.
Summa immortalis.
Summa immortalis.
And then without even noticing, just as it was his turn to take the first step into the church, he said it out loud, only this time adding a word at the end.
“Summa immortalis totalum.”
And then, the world faded to black.
Suddenly, he was back in the Riddle House — but this time, he was on the floor. Staring back at him…was himself.
Before he could process the sight, a flash of red exploded across his vision, followed by a pain so profound it left no room for thought. Agonizing. Unrelenting. Unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He was weak — so weak — and then came a scream. Not his own, it was deeper, almost familiar. He heard himself speaking, the same speech he gave the night before. But it wasn’t a memory. It was happening again.
His thoughts scrambled to understand what was going on , but before his mind could fully grasp it — flash.
Green.
He died.
Flash of red.
Then it began again.
Once more, his world collapsed into pain. His body betrayed him — bones locked, muscles spasmed, breath caught in his throat as if the very act of living was being weaponized against him. It felt like fire, subtle at first, just beneath the skin. But it spread fast, consuming him from the inside like he was being boiled alive in his own blood. And then what felt like knives. White-hot. Merciless. A thousand or more, cutting through him, white-hot and precise, slicing through him from within, carving paths through soft tissue, nerves, bine. It felt like thousands of them. Too many to track. His insides pulled and twisted as though being stretched by white-hot hooks. They stabbed and dragged and twisted. A thousand blades, each one searing its way into muscle, sinew, and soul. The cycle repeated. Over and over. Pain, death, resurrection. Each return more unbearable than the last. Time lost meaning. All that remained was suffering and the awful, endless echo of his own voice — his own curse — delivered again and again.
An endless misery, until he realized —he was inside his father’s body, and finally, he woke up.
He was no longer in the Riddle House. He was back in his tiny bed at the orphanage, soaked in sweat, limbs trembling. Sister Marie sat beside him, and Father Matthew hovered above, holding a cross and muttering something in Latin.
Tom’s head throbbed too much to make out the words. Everything ached. He felt hollowed out, his skin was clammy, his breath shallow, even his ring felt too tight— heavy on his finger.
“What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry, boy,” Father Matthew replied, placing a hand on his forehead. “We’ve scared off the demon. He won’t torment your soul any longer.”
Tom blinked. “Thank you, Father Matthew.”
An exorcism? Are these people bloody insane?
Drenched in sweat and drained beyond reason — like he’d been trampled by a herd of rampaging trolls — Tom didn’t have the strength to argue. He let their religious nonsense pass over him, tuning it out like he always did, until — without realizing it— he slipped back into sleep.