Gold
An oddly decorated shirt, stretched and matted with dirt, trousers that fit about the legs skin-tight, blooming red from the bleeding arm that rested about the thigh, and a curious necklace about the dainty circumference, faintly pulsing, arresting one’s attention, demanding to be seen by its blinding gleam against the waning moon.
This was the sight that Tom Riddle is met with upon return of his tiresome footslog through the Albanian forest.
In spite of the vast, seemingly endless, expanse that teased and taunted, he’d wanted to conserve energy. Apparition was out of the question if he was left with nothing to exchange after jumping not once or twice, but countless times in vain, with only his first ever splinch as the unsought souvenir.
After four in proximal continuity, it would have been believed that each subsequent exchange would be less daunting than the last. Yet, the reality was that it had been nearly a decade since he last made an exchange, twice removed, with a piece of his ancestor and that of the old cow who nobbled it.
His grasp on the small bag in his left fist and its leathery hide buzzed intermittently, almost mistaken for the effects of numbness from gripping something for too long and painfully hard, as if the object inside itched to be revealed. Its energy, concealed for aeons more than his belated capture, begging to be released in an arrogant show of competition with the titillating glint of ore that puzzled itself against the woman’s jugular notch.
Tom knew the woman was nowhere near deprived of life as a corpse would be, appearing young and healthy. Despite the creeping pallor that beset her flesh and bruising streaks of puce beneath sleeping eyes, she was still a vision of prime sacrifice.
Time permitting, the artefact, enclosed and secured in the palm of his hand, could be felt burning. It made no attempt to sear through the thick, animal pelt as if it were burlap. No attempt to penetrate the fine etchings of fabric, dissolving its appearance to an orb of light, rivalling that which illuminated the strange woman’s face in rays of gold.
Sapphire blue and silver radiated through every ache in Tom’s body.
The fact that she was already weakened and bleeding would perhaps make this his most effortless exchange yet. Especially, after all the risible effort taken to locate and abscond with Rowena’s diadem.
Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.
After the first attempt at searching, he almost laughed in his brief state of delirium.
The sheer hypocrisy of those who deem themselves righteous and above sin, all the while expressing such magnitude of ambition, even when the truth of the matter exposes ambition as often being sibling to sin.
He thought it mad, if not wholly hypocritical, for one to go to such great lengths, to, quite literally, go the distance, simply to hide an object.
A ghost who, unironically, fears the living.
Although, he couldn’t blame the founding mother for being afraid of something others may deem irrational.
He was not, and had never been, the bogeyman she was hiding from.
Yet, as long as the Earth kept spinning and a babe’s cry could be heard, there would always be someone amongst the common herd who would rear their heads with horns rather than halos.
Even so…
There was still the matter of how the woman ended up here.
Here, which entailed laying just before the rickety old porch of the cabin he had taken temporary residence.
As much as he would have been content with simply ignoring the questions that riddled his mind, her presence felt too suspicious.
Everything about her sudden appearance, from her manner of dress to the glittering pendant pulsing with life seemed blatantly wrong.
It was more than the pendant.
Tom could feel it.
Shocks of magic, imperceptible, dancing across her skin like an electric field.
Assuredly, a witch.
Had she been following him?
Was this one of Rowena’s tricks?
For a moment, Tom considered the possibility, thinking the shrew to be far more devious than her house traits belied.
Perhaps, this was a ruse to frighten the thief into returning what was stolen.
Perhaps, he was merely beginning to feel the effects of his increasingly numbered days without sufficient food or sleep.
Of course, these former thoughts were quickly dispelled as it would only make sense if the woman at least bore any resemblance to the deceased Ravenclaw.
Tom shook away any other foolish theories, not realising he had inched closer to the peculiar witch. Close enough to hear soft breaths rustling the dead leaves pillowing her head.
Any leaves, or cushion thereof, seemed rather redundant given the woman’s shock-headed mane.
Chestnut curls were spread out this way and that, slightly disturbed by both her skittish magic and the wintry zephyr.
But, the magic wasn’t just her own, was it?
No… there’s something else, Tom thought as he knelt down beside her.
The sac dropped gently beside him, its buzzing energy subsiding into respite.
The scent was overtly ripe and overwhelming. Sweet, yet nauseating. Like rotting fruit, rather than meat.
It was a smell he was all too familiar with. Astounded that other witches and wizards were not accosted by it in his presence, wrinkling their noses in disgust as if he were doused in the cheapest cologne.
Perhaps, if he were any other wizard, the stench of his sins would be more obvious.
If he were as sloven and hideous in appearance as Dolohov, he would most certainly be the Dementor’s favourite face to kiss in Azkaban.
Still and all, he was Tom Riddle.
Charming, kind, intelligent and handsome Tom Riddle.
No amount of dark magic could fracture the mask he’s cultivated. The mask that conceals his true face and a name that would inspire fear to last an eternity.
For her own magic to keep pace with the darkness that swallowed her was testament to the power she possessed.
Tom swallowed, eyes glazing over at the reckless thought of slitting her throat and taking every last drop until there was nothing left.
The impulse was swallowed down when he recognised its source.
He focused in on it, frowning as the scent flushed away like a sea parting.
A curse?, he mused.
His wandering gaze had stopped on the bloody appendage that left a soaking imprint. Her forearm was limp and the long sleeves of her shirt did well to hide the damage done.
If not for the isolated surge of dark magic that circled around the injury like moths to a flame, he would have ignored examining it in favour of the necklace that began to glow conspicuously brighter as he slowly moved his hand to touch her.
Rays of light gradually began to spread like cracks through a crumbling wall. From the corner of his wary eye, fingers hesitating, Tom could see the centrepiece from which an hourglass reflected. Its gimbal started on a slow yet steady rotation.
He narrows his eyes in defiance, reaching forward and seizing the last inch.
What should have been cold blood was instead a blistering dip into boiling liquid as Tom’s skin made contact.
Slight curses of pain fell from silent lips.
A chilling, tremulous scream took its place.