Fear
“Wise men say
Only fools rush in,
But I can't help
Falling in love
with
you.”
-Falling in Love by Elvis Presley (Amazing cover by Haley Reinhart)
Tom remembers what it was like, in the beginning.
The overwhelming panic, the fluttering feeling in his lungs like a bird had flown inside the cage of his heart and was trying to tear its way back out.
All thought, all logic had left his brain in one fell swoop as Tom Riddle had stared at the thing curled up in the palm of his hand.
A rose petal.
It shouldn’t be possible. And yet it lies there, its very existence taunting him. He crushes it, whole body stiffening as he thinks.
His first instinct is to perform the spell. It will rip these flowers from their roots and his memories from his brain. Not painless, not lacking consequences, but a great deal preferable to death.
His fingers twitch against his wand.
Slowly, laboriously, he pulls it from his robes. Looks at it. Stares at it. Balances it between his fingers as if waiting just a moment longer will cause an alternate solution to spring into existence.
It doesn’t.
He thinks of her- golden eyes, golden laugh, golden heart- and agony strikes again.
He remembers the pain like it was yesterday- he thought it was bad then. He was hilariously, horribly wrong. The pain was nothing compared to the fire burning in his chest now.
His wand slips from his grip and slender fingers spread across the planes of his chest. He presses them firmly into the flesh as if the pressure will relieve the pain or push the skin back to reveal bloody thorns beneath. Neither happens.
Tom hears the rush of questions again, the fears that leapt and danced through his mind-
How had this happened to him?
Was the disease contagious? He was certain it wasn’t. How could one catch feelings from another?
He remembers the look on her face when she spoke about them on the rare occasion she shared her carefully-tailored stories. At first it was a distant, cautious tone. Flat, sorrowful eyes that occasionally creased with pained mirth. But then she dove right into the details, talking of potions and wand fights and dragons and werewolves- of presents and hot chocolates and Christmases by the fire. Books of all shapes and sizes, arguments, jokes, laughter. Loud moments, quiet moments, secret moments. Sorrow would soar into radiant joy and her triumphant eyes would meet his and just for a split second it would be like he had been there too, right alongside them, right in the thick of it. Like he had cursed the person chasing after them, like he had been at her back when Grindlewald grew near. Like he had been one of ‘her boys’. Then her face would slowly fall. Her eyes would glitter with building tears. And the voice that danced and swooped and sang-
It would fall silent.
He doesn’t realise his hands have curled into fists until the pain registers and he opens his hand to find a row of bloody crescents dashed across his palm.
No, you couldn’t catch feelings from another.
But you could catch feelings for them.
She was like a wildfire, burning through the class rankings, through the centuries old gender roles, through the text books and every spell the school could throw at her. She was a diamond among coal, a swan amongst ducklings.
She was everything he could desire in a follower.
(In a partner.)
She’s also everything he can’t have.
He lets the crushed petal fall from his fingers and reaches into his pocket to check that the slip of paper is still there- it is.
Careful fingers trace the swirling letters.
He runs his fingers along his wand, staring at the hospital wing ceiling.
He should let Dumbledore perform the spell, he knows. He tried it himself. But the thought of forgetting her-
Well. To him, it’s a thought worse than death.
THEN
Tom picks up his wand in one elegant motion and points it straight at his chest, pressing the tip into his skin. He closed his eyes. Just a simple spell. Just a simple spell and everything can go back to how it was.
His hand trembles.
A Dark Lord does not have room for love.
He performs the spell.
Tom twists his wand through the air, envisioning the flowers falling and changes it ever so slightly at the very last moment.
He shears the flowers at their roots and vanishes them from where they fall. He plucks out the scattered seeds and burns away every last trace. His memories, however, he leaves intact.
He knows it won’t work and he knows why, but he has to try.
The Slytherin leaves the room with a creeping sense of unease and dismisses it. He ignores the ominous tickling in his throat and wakes the next morning to blood flecks on his lips and the thick perfume of roses in his lungs.
//
The next few days are a nightmare.
Lessons seem to drag on in a way they never did before- Tom loves knowledge, loves magic, craves it like an addict. Every spell sends a thrill through his chest, every success leaves him smirking, barely biting back a smile...
But not this week.
He’s barely keeping up in class and the teachers that have gotten used to his and now Hermione’s-
A sharp twist in his chest-
He braces himself, knuckles going white as he grips the desk like a drowning man grasps at a raft.
The teachers had gotten used to the two of them fighting to answer every last question while the rest of the class watched, some amused, some irritated, some intrigued.
Now they ask questions to a silent classroom, to unwilling hands. Slughorn has called on him nearly three times now and each time he’s barely managed a sufficient reply between muffled coughs.
“I guess the stories are true”, he muses. “Love really does make you deaf, foolish, and blind.”
//
Homework normally completed weeks in advance begins to pile up and assignments go unfinished. Extension after extension is given and people are beginning to enquire after his health, after his mind.
Tom grins and bears it.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Tom?”
“No, sir.”
Disappointed eyes follow him. Tom never thought he’d miss the twinkling.
So what if his skin is pale and his eyes are bruised? So what if his hands tremble and every other word is punctuated by a cough? His mind is foggy? So what?
So everything. Every plan, every contact, every opportunity. The rich and powerful don’t mix with the mad but Tom can’t quite bring himself to care.
Dying really does bring everything into perspective.
He’s invited down to the lake by a sweet Ravenclaw with wild brown hair and shining eyes.
He accepts. He makes it as far as the first oak tree-
He leans against the wood, raising an eyebrow with almost-playful derision. “Really, Granger? A sticking charm?” She grins at him, ever so pleased with her primary-school level tactic and pulls out her folder.
“You should know better than to mess with me, Riddle. Besides, I can’t have you wandering off in another huff before we get this assignment finished.”
He smirks and with a witty comment or two the pair of them are grinning, eyes flashing as they launch into another ‘debate’-
The Slytherin bolts back to the safety of the castle and explains through a long and apologetic note that he really isn’t up to it, but he sends his sincerest apologies-
Tom Riddle, in every sense of the word, is coming undone. And yet he still tries to hide it.
With the determination of a Slytherin he pulls himself together, tearing mercilessly through his assignments. He burns through candle after candle in the dead of the night, going through a whole ink pot in his endeavour to regain a sense of normality (Tom Riddle, esteemed Head Boy and Slytherin is always two steps ahead, never behind-) and applies glamour after glamour until his skin is unblemished, the deep bruising under his eyes has faded, and his rumpled uniform appears pristine.
The questioning gazes fade back to the normal adoration and the whispers go quiet.
His hand is back up as often as before and he can almost hear the school’s collective sigh of relief- nothing is amiss.
(Nothing except the flowers that just won’t go away.)
Slughorn doesn’t help matters with his probing questions and obnoxious comments- “Ah, Tom, my dear boy- I daresay I was worried for a while- you took the loss of our dear Miss Granger rather hard but I am glad to see you back to normal! It is a shame, the two of you made quite the pair-“ and Riddle fights back the rising itch at the back of his throat. He smiles, albeit not quite as charmingly as usual, and thanks the professor for his concern. He tries to ignore the painful pressure of tendrils creeping beneath his skin as Slughorn continues to waffle about the loss of one of his ‘most promising students’.
//
Every free period is spent in the library, pouring over ancient texts. He thinks and he strategises and he plans but no book lends him answers. None he’s satisfied with, anyway.
Riddle examines the first book- the book that first told him of what ailment had befallen his best Knight- and reads the two treatments detailed there.
Neither will do. He’s not willing to forget Granger, he’s not quite that desperate yet (it’s an almost suicidal stubbornness that stays his hand- normally, the threat of death has him mentally quaking but whatever this is, it isn’t normal. What he feels for the witch is like nothing he’s ever felt before and besides, he cannot become the thing he was told about).
The only problem is, he can keep cutting back the flowers all he likes, but his- his ‘love’ just makes them grow back- sometimes faster than before. Time is running out. There has to be something else.
He tears through section after section but no solution jumps to attention and his frantic recounts of his conversations with Hermione yield no clues, only a steadily growing pain twisting throughout his body.
He precariously balances schoolwork with research and wonders how long he can last in a race with no finish line.
NOW
Tom coughs, expression twisting in discomfort. It’s almost pitiful, how far he’s fallen. He’s confined to a hospital bed, wearing the same robes as the week before, avoiding looks of pity and wistfulness.
His knights hover around him and with a sharp tone, he sends them scurrying.
Only one remains.
Tom purses his lips in thought and rolls over.
“Malfoy.”
“Yes, Riddle?”
“Get me one of these, will you?”
He holds out a list, raising an eyebrow expectantly.
Abraxas nods. He takes it.
“Of course.”
Tom says it like an order, but notices the phrasing all too late. He’s gone soft, treating his followers more amicably, even in private. Not that Abraxas really counts- he’s been more of a friend than a follower these past weeks. (Ever since the boy had found out what Tom had done for Hermione- he’d always had a bit of a soft spot for her so when she went missing and Tom didn’t flip out, Abraxas had assumed the worst and threatened Tom at wand-point. Tom easily disarmed him and, in a rare show of empathy, revealed that he had sent Hermione home.)
Tom reaches for the next book in the piled stacked haphazardly between vases and knickknacks.
Six months ago, he would have been horrified. He would’ve found away to scare them to hell and back, to reclaim the dominance he’d relinquished.
Three months ago, he would’ve ignored his discomfort in favour of seeing the slight smile, the spark of surprise light up in Granger’s eyes.
He turns to the first page.
Today, he grudgingly accepts it. Tom Riddle acknowledges, for better or for worse, Hermione Granger has caused some form of change in him.
And he’s decided that he doesn’t really want to give it up.
He will find another cure.
Another one of Dumbledore’s owls flies into the infirmary (much to the irritation of those in charge) and Tom incendios the letter- the plea- as it lands.
He has to.