Vow
Riddle stared at the ceiling, body convulsing in odd bursts.
It was his own fault, really.
Now and again he had seen a softer look enter her eyes as she looked at him- usually after he spouted something particularly brilliant, witty, kind, or clever. She had looked at him with new eyes, like she was not seeing the irredeemable, like she was not gazing upon the Devil himself with affection in her eyes.
That was when he made sure to commit a particularly cruel act and have her watch. He had her there, helpless to stop him, forced to confront the reality that Tom Riddle is not a boy you fall in love with.
She had done him no such favours.
When he was cruel, she was kind. When he was angry, she was soothing. When he was uninspired, she was brilliant.
She captured his heart in no more than a few short months. A Herculean task even without the time limit.
She was his undoing.
(And yet, he loved her.)
Eventually, Dumbledore spoke.
“It’s time, Tom.”
“No.” Tom snapped. The threat in his tone was somewhat diminished by the fact his words came out as barely a rasp, vocal cords wrecked from coughing. One of the many flower bouquets littering his section of the ward caught his eye and he stared at it disdainfully. He had had enough of flowers for a lifetime.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from making his opinion of Dumbledore’s master plan perfectly clear-
“I won’t let you.”
Dumbledore’s voice was coaxing, pleading. The bed-ridden Head Boy ignored it.
“Tom. You are dying. Unless I perform this spell, you will die.”
Once upon a time, the thought of death would’ve had Tom scrambling for a solution, begging for a cure. That changed with the arrival (and departure) of a certain Hermione Granger. That and the words of the girl in the smoke.
“I will not let that future come to pass. If you remove my memories of her, whatever she did to change me- to change how I feel- it will be undone. I can’t let you do this. I refuse to harm her and those she holds dear.”
Dumbledore sighed. This would all have been a lot easier if that girl in the ritual had not told Tom of his future self and Tom hadn’t- despite all of the odds- fallen in some kind of love with Miss Granger.
To tell the truth, he had thought it impossible.
The flower petals decorating Tom’s chest seemed to disagree.
“If you don’t live on to become Voldemort, our universe could become stuck in a time loop. It could erase their reality- ours- all of time and space! It could break time! End the lives of millions! Anything could happen!”
“Exactly.” Tom cut in, eyes still sharp despite the cloud fogging his brain. “Anything could happen. And what about the millions that will die if I do become that- that thing?”
He refused to call his future self Lord Voldemort. That thing he would become was a mere shade of what Voldemort was supposed to be. Splitting his soul had truly driven him mad, it seemed, and he refused to have any part in it all. He would not kill the Potters. He would not harm Hermione. He would not allow the Wars to be waged. He would not let Dumbledore take his memories from him.
He coughed again, slowly sitting forwards as his whole body shook.
Dumbledore watched grimly.
Tom Riddle would to find a way to beat this disease without losing his memories or die trying. That was a promise.