Chapter 22
“Other times I fixate on how endearing people are. We sleep on soft surfaces; we like to be cozy.When I see cats cuddled up on pillows, I find it sweet; we are like that too. We like to eat cookies and smell flowers. We wear mittens and hats. We visit our families even when we’re old. We like to pet dogs. We laugh; we make involuntary sounds when we find things funny. Laughing is adorable, if you really think about it.”
-- everyone in this room will someday be dead, Emily Austin
.XoX.
Tom had walked hours. Riddle Manor burning behind him, he’d ignored the yells of the neighbors -- the lot of them gathering in front of the lawn and, implicitly, being unable to go any further -- and he walked. He walked until their screams became monotone and until he could no longer hear them at all -- and he had walked further still.
Harry. He is thinking of Harry and only of Harry and it is that thought that compulses him to put one foot in front of the other. Only when Muggles start staring at him and when his head clears does he realize that walking is not the most effective method.
He closes his eyes, focuses his magic, and does something he hasn’t done in a long time, too trapped with nowhere to go -- he Apparates. He stands before the gates of Hogwarts, the sun long ago set, and the idea of subtly does not even occur to him.
He is feeling less and less green by the day -- if Salazar saw him now, he’d surely call him yellow. And what a thought that is. Belonging now to the rival House of one of the only things that matter now, and the only person that ever did.
He could’ve killed Harry. The realization comes to him with a vapid surety and the force of it nearly knocks him off his feet.
He could’ve killed Harry. And he had tried to, had lied to him about it -- is still lying to him about it -- and the only reason he didn’t is because he’s got far too much magic to drain.
And he swears, overwhelmed by secondhand betrayal, that it is one of the many things he’s going to come clean about. One day. It is a promise.
He waits by the gates and then thinks, dully -- his mind still in something like jet lag, his hands still aching with a ghostly pain -- that perhaps he should do something to grab their attention. He’s learned that waiting, on his own, does nothing. Change does not occur without prompting.
So Tom raises his hand and shoots off a firework spell.
He watches the sparks of color illuminate the blank darkness of the sky in streaks of blue and bronze and allows himself, just for a moment, to mourn. Mourn for his fellow Horcrux -- the one that he thinks could’ve been on his side if only things had been different; the one that had to die; that he had to kill. Mourn for Marvolo and the ring and the other two, left unnamed -- because they have to die, too. It has to happen. There’s nothing else Tom can do, not really.
And he mourns for himself. He mourns for the life he will never get to experience, the flesh he will never have, the relationships he will never form nor deepens. He stops living at sixteen and whatever he’s been doing since -- and will be forced to do, for the rest of his too short existence -- pales in comparison.
He watches the fireworks, mourns, and moves on.
He has work to do here. It is not yet over. He was a monster once, and is one now, and this is punishment. He will serve his time and he will kill and die and he will call that fixing the problems he caused.
He watches as Professor Dumbledore -- who has long outgrown that title and fitted into a new one, and looks exactly like it; an old man past his prime -- watches a slow path across the meadow. His eyes slide from the fading smoke of fireworks to Tom.
When he makes it to Tom, he places his hands -- old, wrinkled things -- around the bars of the gate and observes him. His face shows no signs of emotion, so Tom is left guessing. Is he surprised? (Curious, that god forsaken word?) Suspicious?
Tom has no way of knowing. So he thinks the only way to figure it out is to ask.
Tom takes a step forward. He places his hands -- near transparent, bluish things, proof his condition, of his abnormality -- on the bars beside Dumbledore’s and says, voice light yet sounding so loud in the hollow of the meadow, “Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore. I think we have some things to talk about.”
“Do we?” asks Dumbledore, voice the same level of breathless. He knows by opening this gate -- by evening just responding to Tom’s indirect call, by accepting this conversation -- he will be changing things forever.
And he’s okay with that.
Albus Dumbledore is a betting man at heart.
“My name is Tom Riddle,” he says, “and I’d like to ask about Harry Potter.”
.xox.
Dumbledore sits with his hands folded in front of him, a pleasant smile on his face. Marvolo’s cup of tea sits in front of him, untouched, and though everything about Dumbledore’s posture is surely intended for them, Marvolo hasn’t even glanced at him.
His eyes -- and focus -- is entirely on Tom. Shock and disbelief and anger paints his face. Unbecoming and unfitting for Voldemort (though not for Tom.)
Beneath Dumbledore’s hands is a newspaper -- Muggle, certainly, from the looks of it -- that’s headline reads, boldly: ‘FIRE IN LITTLE HANGLETON, ONE DEAD: FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED.’
“Well,” Dumbledore says, jollily. “If this isn’t a sight for sore eyes.”
Marvolo makes a choking noise. Tom thinks, finally able to get a good look of him, and with himself there for comparison, that it’s a wonder he’s been able to pass for a teen. He looks like a full grown adult -- is only Tom able to see it? (Is only Dumbledore?) Detous had used glamour, and this Horcrux isn’t even trying.
His eyes give him away too easily. There’s not a drop of youthfulness in them.
Marvolo sputters out, “You’re supposed to be dead.” And it’s almost an accusation, the way he says it -- like Tom has done something scandalous by existing.
“I’m not dead,” says Tom simply. He turns his head to address Marvolo, taking in fully his palpable distress. “Why would I be dead?”
Marvolo keeps staring, his jaw dropping a bit.
Tom rolls his eyes, turning away from him. “Always the elegant speaker, my brother is.”
“Your brother,” repeats Dumbledore, tilting his head. “What an interesting title -- given that it’s not public knowledge that Voldemort had another son.” Though,” he chuckles, “it’s safe to say he hid the first one rather well, too, didn’t he?”
“So it’s as I suspected,” says Tom. He eyes Marvolo. “He knows. Doesn’t he?”
“Know,” says Marvolo, slowly, “what, Tom?”
Tom gestures between the two of them. “What we are,” he says. He raises an eyebrow, addressing Dumbledore, “You do know, don’t you?”
“I do,” says Dumbledore, more interested in Tom’s reaction than anything. “What I would like to know, however, is Voldemort’s fascination with Harry Potter. I recall you asked me about him, Tom, when you first arrived… and, Marvolo, I recall much, much more.”
Tom puts up a hand. “It doesn’t matter,” Tom says sharply. Because it won’t, not if Tom has anything to do with it. “Mavolo, how come Dumbledore knows we’re Voldemort? And -- and why does he know about the Horcruxes?”
Marvolo looks startled to be addressed so bluntly. “It’s,” he says, strained, “a natural side effect of being in the position we are with him.”
“The position of what?” Tom laughs. Dumbledore’s face gives nothing away -- he is no Harry; his eyes rest only on the surface -- but you know what? That’s okay. Because he’s not only here with Dumbledore. He’s here with himself, and they both know all their tells. “The position of two war generals in, I dunno, a war? I had thought that when you’re in that sort of position,” Tom’s tone seeps with venom, “the goal was to avoid giving the other side valuable information -- not to give it up freely.”
“We have a very intricate relationship with Dumbledore.”
And Tom knows his sore spot. He hits him where it hurts, “Like we have with Gellert Grindelwald?” (Like you want to have with Harry?)
Dumbledore all of a sudden goes very still.
Marvolo stares at him with a face, the beginnings of a flush breaching his cheeks. “That’s not -- I didn’t--”
“You went to him,” Tom continues, “when you had issues with the Chrysalis Club -- because you trusted him. And not only does he,” Tom lays out a palm toward Dumbledore, “know about Horcruxes, he knows you’re one. And I think that’s because you told him.”
“It’s one of the many things we discussed,” amends Dumbledore, able to admit what Marvolo cannot. “Have some maturity, Marvolo.”
Marvolo glares hard before taking a deep breath. “Alright,” he says, still faintly. “Maturity.”
“Besides,” says Dumbledore, the beginning of a laugh able to be heard. “I am not under the impression that Tom came all the way here just to bicker about our… ah, relationship, no?”
Tom sits up straight. “It’s not,” he admits. “But it’s a nice touch.” And it is a fraction of what Marvolo deserves for trying to shove Harry into a relationship, for planning to possibly kill him.
A smile plays at Dumbledore’s lips. “Why are you here, then?”
Tom shifts in his seat. “Because,” he says, plainly, “lying has lost its fun and I’ve lost my tact. And I think we all share some common goals…. Or, rather, we all should.”
“He should’ve killed you,” hisses Marvolo. His anger and composure is back. Tom understands how easily it is to lose it. Tom understands because he is Marvolo -- and Marvolo is him, just the same. “He should’ve killed you.”
“And yet he fucking didn’t,” Tom says, same conversational tone, “and yet he fucking failed -- by your terms, I’m not the only one who isn’t Voldemort, hm?”
Another sore spot that he knows Marvolo has because he has it too. What is more heartbreaking than your own, mind, body, soul, self deeming you to be… insufficient? Replaceable. And it is heartbreaking, whether or not you acknowledge you have a heart.
And he hopes to spawn the seed of doubt that Detous rightfully had. When there is a single rogue Horcrux, it is the Horcrux’s fault but… But Tom believes there is nothing singular about his rebellion.
What sense he got from Detous, during their time together, is that he was mildly into mutiny. He had his own ideas of running things and would’ve spared Tom, if given the chance. He wanted to spare Tom.
He has the feeling he is not the only rogue Horcrux.
And he has the feeling he is not one now.
Voldemort is the big, bad, in charge ‘main self’ -- but everyone single Horcrux he has created is more of a man (of a person) than he is, and they’d have to be stupid not to see the unfairness in the situation. And that’s one thing about both Tom and Voldemort.
They’re not fucking morons.
“Anyway,” says Tom -- there is only so much he can do right now. The best doubt is that left to fester. “We both want the complete and total destruction of Dark Lord Voldemort… and we both know there’s only so many ways to do that.”
“You know the implications of that… on a personal level, yes?” says Dumbledore and is it not an outright rejection. Cautious, absolutely. But Dumbledore is always cautious… and that means there’s hope.
Tom tilts his head. He has half a mind (ha!) to let Dumbledore read his thoughts, to prove his intent… but some things are personal. His soul is his own to eat. And if Harry has taught him anything, it’s that not allies are friends.
“I understand,” says Tom. “In all honesty, I welcome it.”
Dumbledore hums. Marvolo stares at him, searching for something -- Tom does not know what -- in his face.
It is almost pleading. Almost an apology.
Almost, but not quite, and the distinction is clear. The distinction matters.
And, beneath that, perhaps he thinks that all horrid thoughts about Tom are being confirmed right now. But thinking it does not make it true.
Tom is more sane than he’s ever been. (Though it is uncommon of the insane to think otherwise. And does his sanity matter? Clear head or not, it is his heart that’s in control now. And what his heart wants, he will fight tooth and nail to get.)
“As a show of good faith,” Tom says, “I’ll ask, first, if you know how many Horcruxes there are.”
Marvolo laughs, finally having made up his mind. “You’re rogue, sure, but you aren’t suicidal.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re not really doing this.”
Dumbledore does not give in so easily to his doubt -- if he has any at all. Dumbledore is like Harry in that way; infinity intuitive. “I have my theories, having a more personal relationship with Voldemort throughout the years, but, no,” he says. “I’ve yet to come to an exact number.”
“There are six.” Tom neglects to mention the possibility of Harry becoming a Horcrux -- he has no reason to put Harry in danger like that and Tom’s working to make sure the possibility does not become a reality. “I am his diary -- Marvolo, here, is Slytherin’s locket,” Marvolo gasps, some reality of Tom’s perceived insanity finally sinking in. “There’s also the Gaunt ring. Two ones I do not yet know. And there was, lastly, Rowena’s diadem.”
“Was,” repeats Dumbledore dully.
“Yes,” says Tom, boldly. Proudly. “Was.”
Dumbledore sits in silence for a moment. Then he grins widely, holding out his hand to shake. “Hogwarts,” he says, “could always use more ghosts.”
Tom understands that this is more than an invitation into his castle. It is an acceptance of what will be a shaky yet useful alliance and Tom does feel insane. If you would have told him at eleven years old that he would one day be siding with Dumbledore to kill pieces of himself (or that, even, he’d be semi-accepting of his own demise), he’d laugh in your face.
Time changes everything, though, and time’s changed him.
Tom takes his hand firmly and grins back.
“There’s one more thing I’m wondering,” Tom says, casually (like it is an afterthought instead of a main priority), ignoring Marvolo’s bewildered expression, his soft protests. “If you don’t mind answering one more question?”
“Anything,” Dumbledore says, and it is almost the truth. The things he would do for his greater good -- the things he would do for his allies -- are vast.
“Something went wrong,” Tom says. He swallows and wonders where this anxiety has crept up from. “With the Tournament, I presume -- and I knew it had to do with Marvolo… or Harry. And Marvolo, why, you seem to be doing fine.”
Marvolo blinks at him. Shame, Tom thinks. There is shame in his eyes. Something close to regret, if Voldemort could feel such a thing. (Tom can and has… he wonders which version is leaking through more now.)
“Oh dear,” says Dumbledore softly.
And then he told him how Harry Potter died and rose again and Tom has never felt more sorrow. He swears that he will do everything in his power -- in Dumbledore’s power, in
He has been making a lot of promises lately. It is a good thing he has no reason not to uphold them. He is a dead man walking and it is an easier thing to do with a clear conscience.
.xox.
“Are you insane?” Marvolo asks. They’re leaving Dumbledore’s classroom and it seems Marvolo’s wits have finally returned to him. “He’s an enemy--”
“No.” It is said calmly. “We are, Marvolo. We are a danger and an enemy to everyone -- including ourselves.”
“You made yourself an enemy,” snarls Marvolo. Tom sees where he’s coming from. He sees that he thinks failure is a choice and it’s one Tom’s made clearly. He has made his bed. And now he will lie in it.
It’s a flawed argument, though, and that’s what Marvolo doesn’t see. The possibility that he could very well be wrong. This is the dividing line between Tom and Voldemort. It is a line one, a blurred one, and the fact that he used to be on the other side of it (and the fact he still sort of is) is the only reason he’s able to locate Marvolo’s fickle connections.
And it is the only reason he’s able to use them against him.
“And you’re putting Harry in danger by associating with him,” says Tom, shrugging -- but he’s like Voldemort in that moment, exactly like Detours and sort of like Marvolo; there’s nothing casual about it. His maneuvers are calculated and they are cruel. “We’ve lots of enemies. And… he did die during the Task. I wonder how that happened, Marvolo. And I wonder…. If it wouldn’t have if you weren’t there.”
Marvolo gawks at him, hands balled in fists at his side.
Tom keeps walking, diary tucked under his arm. “I do not want to fight you.”
Marvolo scoffs.
“-- But I will, if you give me no choice. We are on the same side, you and I -- or we could be. I am opening the door to the possibility.”
“Yeah?” says Marvolo, bitterly. “And what side is that?”
Tom looks back at him. “Harry’s,” he says. “Harry’s side.”
He walks away, leaving Marvolo to what will be growing distress.
It is not like he wants to join forces with Marvolo -- he’s far too intrusive with Harry, far too brash for someone so fragile -- but it would make this whole ‘Horcrux Hunting’ scenario easier. Marvolo… if he does join him, will not do so right away. And he will certainly not do it without being pushed.
So Marvolo will experience what it is like to be his enemy. He will be shown the light of having him as an ally instead.
And Marvolo will listen, join him, or he will stick his fingers in his ears. And he’ll leave, and that’ll be that.
Either way, Marvolo will die. It is just a matter of how much destruction he causes before he does… and how willingly it happens.
.XoX.
“My sick soul seeps of something sodden;
Dab up the juice of my wrung out trust.
What I see, I deny, and what I deny, I refuse to see.
Am I aware in my change? Am I changing? Am I aware?
Questions haunt me and I haunt them back.
I wash the bad memories off my songs and put my music on,
So loud that I cannot hear my screams.”
-- Harry Potter, “Five of Cups.”