Cry Me a River
A pale hand called out to a lone silver thread. It glistened and glowed in the moonlight as it was entwined with another, a strand of emerald green so dark it could be considered black. Both woven into the loom of fate, its beholders destined to be entangled with one another.
“Poor child..,” the owner of the hand whispered.
Act I: The Last King
Chapter 1: Cry Me a River
December 31st, 1969, England
The stars gleamed brightly, twinkling above him as he approached the looming silhouette of the house. In their shimmering brilliance, they seemed to mimic tears, scattered across the vast, unfeeling expanse of the night sky—a quiet mockery of emotion he rarely indulged in.
He stepped through the threshold, the old oak door groaning as he pushed it open. A woman stood with her back towards him, facing the flames that flickered in the fireplace.
“Why are you here, Tom?”
The way she had whispered his name, one long forgotten, felt like a knife in his gut.
“I think you already know why.”
He was now only acutely aware of the soft music that filled the room. He turned his head to see the enchanted gramophone playing.
‘Now you say your lonely,’
“... I do.”
It came out as a breath as she turned to face him.
She was as beautiful as he remembered despite the decades that had passed. Faint silver strands mixed with long, silky, midnight black hair and her skin still seemed to have that tanned glow.
‘You cry the long night through,’
But her eyes, once a brown so dark that they rivaled his own, were now clouded over and her magic, once a calming presence, buzzed frantically.
He ignored the way her confession felt, like the knife now being twisted, “What happened to your eyes?”
‘Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river,’
“I could ask the same of you.”
‘I cried a river over you.’
They sat side by side on the little windowsill, gazing up at the stars like they had once done all those years ago.
“Do you know that you haunt my dreams after all these years?”
‘Now you say you sorry,’
“I do,” Tom replied, he kept his voice calm, smooth, cold—careful not to betray the rapid thoughts that raced through his mind.
“For being so untrue,’
“No matter what I try, no matter how far I run, I can never escape you.”
He hated the way she looked at him. So full of pity, of sadness, of hate.
‘Well you can cry me a river,’
He dug the end of his bone white wand into his palm involuntarily. Deflecting, he asked “Do you.. Do you remember when we first met?”
“Of course I do, how could I not.”
September 1st, 1944, Hogwarts
Tom Riddle watched as the students around him piled their plates high with casseroles, sausages, roast meats and all other sorts of food that had appeared on the table before them.
Despite the familiar feeling of hunger that began to settle in, Tom often found himself struggling to stomach the large portions of food that Hogwarts served, no doubt an old habit attributed to the merger rations the orphanage provided.
Years of eating stale bread with brown slop the matron called ‘soup’ had dulled Tom’s taste buds so much so that he could only keep down the more mild, boring parts of each meal.
Though he supposed now it mattered not. The events of the previous month had left Tom permanently changed. Mentally, his mind became sharper, physically, his senses had blurred. He could no longer taste the roast chicken which he had favoured during the past six years of Hogwarts or the black tea he preferred in the mornings. He could taste nothing, the flavours blending into a bland mush.
‘A small price to pay for greatness’ he supposed, stroking the golden ring gently, its black stone centre glinting, as if refusing to absorb the warmth which the torches that lined the stone walls brought.
He glanced at the small pocket watch he kept in his robe. Quarter till eight, it read. He had been given special instructions to be at the Headmaster’s office by eight sharp. But he could not stand to swallow anymore of the dull meal in front of him and so he excused himself, as politely as the head boy should, and made his way through the castle.
“Quills and Inkpots,” he spoke to the Gargoyle guard before it spun itself to reveal a stone staircase. Walking inside he was met with the familiar faces of his professors.
Slughorn, his favourite only because he was a daft enough fool that Tom could easily talk into getting what he wanted stood near the centre, surrounded by Merrythought the Defense professor, Kettleburn who taught care of magical creatures , Clearwater-divination, Beery, Binns, Babbling and a few more that he could care less about. The one he despised most of all, Dumbledore, stood in the corner. Tom had never forgotten the way the old man had distrusted him from the very first moment they met and despite the way Tom had carefully built his reputation of the friendly, handsome headboy, loved by teachers and students alike, the old fool had constantly seen through his facade and Tom hated it.
He of course would never show it, instead plastering a small, charming smile on his handsome face as he greeted his teachers.
“Ah Tom m’boy,” Headmaster Dippet greeted, “Punctual as always. Please have a seat while we wait for our guest,”
Slughorn, the jolly fat man, approached him with a jovial smile on his face.
“Tom, we have the immense pleasure of a new student to join your year. Perhaps you may have heard of her name, I believe her family is more prominent outside of Britain.”
As if on cue, a large crack echoed through the room as a cloaked figure appeared.
“Miss Grey, we are so pleased to welcome you to our schools for your final year of education,” Dippet said as he offered his arm to her.
“Thank you, Headmaster. I am beyond grateful for the kindness you have shown me,” a soft almost airy voice spoke as the figure moved to pull down the hood of her cloak. Long, silky, midnight black hair tumbled down. She had a straight slightly flat nose that softly sloped upwards, skin that seemed to have a faint tanned glow and almond shaped eyes so dark that they rivaled his own.
And gods her magic—its presence was burning. Like fiendfyre was consuming him, as if his nerves were set alight. Yet there was something that drew him to it, almost as if it was beckoning him.
“-our Headboy. He will be your guide for the first week, making sure you are able to navigate through the castle and arrive at your classes and such.” Dippet mumbled, drawing Tom out of his trance.
“Tom Riddle,” plastering a friendly smile on his face once more. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss Grey.”
He held out his hand for her, and when she took it he pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles.
Her skin was feverishly warm.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Riddle.”
His smile wavered as he noticed Dumbledore’s curious stare before he interrupted with a tight smile sent Tom’s way.
“Ahem, ah yes well Miss Grey you are here to not only receive your schedule but to also be sorted into one of the four houses. There is Gryfindor, the house that values bravery, Hufflepuff, loyalty and kindness, Ravenclaw, intelligence and wit and Slytherin, ambition and cunning.”
“Please take a seat, my dear,” Dippet followed, before handing her what seemed to be an old hat. “Place it on your head like so, and let the magic do its work.”
The hat burst into song for the second time that night before she reached out and gently let it rest on the crown of her head.
The hat had taken a short while to sort her before bellowing out ‘RAVENCLAW’. Merrythought clapped loudly as she beamed at the girl.
“I knew it, I could practically sense the Ravenclaw off of you! Professor Merrythought my girl. I am your head of house as well as your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor so come to me for any concerns you may have, or of course if I am unavailable, I am sure Tom would be more than happy to lend a hand.” she gestured to Tom who bowed his head in acknowledgment.
The teachers talked a little more with Grey, mainly mundane things such as school rules, house points, classes and such.
“Well off to bed now, Riddle will escort you back to the Ravenclaw dormitories,” Dippet dismissed.
Tom turned to her as he offered his arm. She seemed to hesitate before looking up at him, and Tom took a moment to stare. Yet with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she took it.
They had just rounded the corner before she quickly let go.
He said nothing.
They walked in silence til he could see the bottom stairs of Ravenclaw’s tower.
“I will meet you at the Great Hall at eight o’clock sharp. I believe we share most of the same classes so I will be the one to escort you to the classrooms,”
“Yes, thank you Mr Riddle,” she said before ascending up the steps.
“You know, you never told me your name.”
She paused, looking down at him before whispering,
“Theodora.”
When Theodora went to bed that night all she could think of was Tom Riddle.
He was beautiful, devastatingly so.
Hair as dark as night fell in soft waves, framing features that looked to be carved from marble. He was tall—taller than most, with a tall straight nose and a strong chiseled jaw.
But she could feel the darkness lurking inside him. Those haunting dark eyes had no depth, just a void of swirling black with what Theodora could’ve sworn were flickers of red, and that smile of his borderlined on predatory.
However despite this, there was something so—alluring about him. Like his magic—his soul— was reaching out to her own.
He was cold to the touch and yet when he taken her hand in his all she longed to do was keep it there. But she hadn’t, she had pulled her hand away as quickly as she gave it.
When Theodora slept that night, all she could dream of were a pale hand and two threads becoming entwined.
Curiousity won over Tom. “Did you know then? What it meant,”
”No.”
“Do you know what it means now?”
There was a pause, before she whispered a soft “Yes.”
A small part of him wanted to ask what, but he decided against it. It was too soon.
”Can you still feel it. The darkness?”
If she was shocked at the question she didn’t show it on her face.
”No.”
A lie. Even Tom himself could feel it, the toll of the magic he had performed gnawed at him—at his soul everyday.
A reminder of the fact that he was no longer complete. If he ever had been.
’Cry me a river,’
”Tell me the truth, Theodora.” It came out as a command.
”You want the truth Tom? Of course I can feel it,” she spat “I could always feel it. Even when we first met, even at seventeen. You reeked of death even then Tom. Now I can see it rotting you, I can feel the darkness seeping out.”
She looked into his eyes. There were no traces of brown left in them, only a deep red, the colour of blood. She wondered how much dark magic he had performed for it to look like how it did. That was pointless—she already knew.
They stayed like that for a moment, before an ugly, cruel grin made its way on his face.
“I’m glad you no longer deny it. I’m glad you realise now that I, alone, am my own salvation,”
Now he was the one stabbing her with the knife.
’I cried a river over you.’