Imploding
TW for a brief mention of suicidal thoughts of a sort at the end of the chapter!
“The cure for pain is in the pain.”- Rumi
Tom is desperate, now.
Each day brings new difficulties and another attack from the plants creeping beneath his skin.
Dumbledore’s pleas had progressed into warnings until finally, the old man reached the end of his patience.
“It’s time, Tom.”
He gave him one day- one evening to “prepare” and “say his goodbyes” (for Tom was not the same man he was a year ago. Removing his memories was not going to be like waking up and forgetting what he’d had for breakfast the day before- it would be the death of Tom Riddle. The rebirth of Voldemort.)
But Tom had made a vow, and he intended to keep it.
The boy had researched every potential “cure”- potions, spells, rituals- even a surgery, though he had dismissed it at first, thinking it too muggle for his tastes. After a few minutes of silence, the reproachful words of Granger and the cutting remarks of the girl in the smoke permeated his thoughts again and he gave the document a quick once-over, reading through the method described and the surgeons who might perform it for him. He’d have considered it if it weren’t for the fact that a common side affect was mysterious and unexplainable memory loss…
Whatever he tries, every text highlights his three problems-
One- The Hanahaki is triggered by his powerful magic reacting to his unrequited- feelings- and emotions for Hermione. He cannot remove or diminish his magic, obviously.
Two- His emotions are linked to his memories of Hermione. He doesn’t want to lose any memories. His fears of what could happen- what he could become- if he did are just too strong.
Three- He can remove or diminish his emotions but then he will lose his memories and become something he doesn’t want to become (anymore)- Lord Voldemort.
Whatever he does, he’s stuck. All the available methods affect his power, his memory, his emotion, or even all three.
He’s exhausted the library’s resources.
He has few options left….
But he still has time. Dumbledore should’ve known better than to give him a whole day.
With the desperation that only a dying man can muster, Tom pushes plans into motion. He sends his knights scurrying about the castle, writing letters, procuring ingredients from the depths of the most notorious alleys in England and Scotland alike, and pouring over the darkest tomes in Tom’s private collection.
By the time the school clocks strike 6, Tom is whisked far away from the infirmary on the backs of his Knights, his… Dare he say it, his friends.
Avery looks at him worriedly, Tom’s arm still slung over his shoulder. Mulciber has his other arm, and Abraxas leads the way with Nott bringing up the rear. Lestrange and Rosier had remained behind, much to their protests. Tom had insisted they go to dinner, to reduce Dumbledore’s likelihood to act. If all of his Knights were missing, Dumbledore would send out a search for them immediately. If two of them stayed behind, the headmaster might hesitate before causing a scene. Maybe. He has to hope. He can’t afford to leave all of his knights behind, his risky plan would be just too unlikely to work.
“Are you going to be alright, Riddle?” Avery asks hesitantly.
Tom feels a brief flicker of irritation at the boy’s doubt but the concern for him still leaves a slight impression of surprise and gratitude in his chest. It doesn’t feel quite like pity- he may be allowing his Knights to be a tad more casual and amicable with him but he will not condone pity and he’d been very firm about that from the start of this whole business.
So he nods decidedly and forces his lips to turn up through the pain.
“I will be fine, Avery. You trust me, don’t you?”
Avery nods quickly and Tom smiles a little wider.
“Good. Now hurry, come on.”
Tom forces his legs to move faster, and his eyes follow the bobbing blonde blur of Abraxas’ head as he walks ahead of them, all pretences of normalcy fading as they get closer to their destination. Only one more corridor.
This had been coming for a while, now- the second to last option. His last play for his survival.
Weeks of planning and fearing and failed spells, all resulting in this.
They turn the corner and Tom stares at the wall which will give him the room where this whole mess began. His knights exchange nervous glances. Tom nods to them.
Mulciber and Avery support him while Abraxas begins to pace, face screwed up tight in thought as he envisions exactly what Tom described to him. They have little time but this step is crucial, he knows. He has to get this right. Abraxas stops pacing and turns to face the wall, watching as magic ripples outwards from the bricks at the centre, transmuting dusty stone into sleek brown wood.
It’s time.
The five of them file into the room and Tom is gently lowered to the floor. The Head Boy shears and Vanishes the vines one last time (being careful to leave the roots as they are) and breathes through clear lungs for the first time in weeks. He grabs the tools offered and rushes to work- he has almost memorised this ritual and doesn’t have long before the flowers begin to grow back.
Whatever parts he is shaky on he will have to improvise.
Tom sweeps through the Room with an air of quiet determination. His movements lack a little of their usual elegance but don’t hold him back in the slightest as he teases magic from the air itself, coaxes it from the ground, twists and reshapes its purpose as he sees fit. He invites it into his hands, his fingers, the ingredients he crushes between his palms and the freezing stones beneath his feet. He ducks and dives and twists and turns and weaves the magic- his magic and the magic of the world around him- into a spiral, a staircase, an eight-pointed star.
He is dimly aware of the awed looks on his followers’ faces and grins. Magic of every form is his calling. Always has been, always will be.
Tom works for the best part of an hour in the centre of the symbol he has drawn and his followers move carefully around the outside, inscribing sigils, runes, and numbers where he instructed.
He has no spare attention to pay them now- all his focus is contained in maintaining the swirling ball of magic, of pure elemental energy he has collected. He shapes and reshapes and reshapes it, keeping it moving constantly, ensuring it does not have the briefest of moments to escape or reform in in a way he doesn’t want or can’t control. He has to trust in his followers- abandon all fears of incompetencies, of betrayals and jealousy. He has to trust them to perform their jobs properly before time runs out. He doesn’t chance a glance at the door. Tom Riddle knows better than to take his eye off the metaphorical ball with a ritual this risky.
Eventually, they reach the critical point- the magic nearly burns in his grip as he holds it, and it trembles with energy, with life. He cannot contain it much longer.
His arms begin to shake as his friends intone the final words of the ritual and he cannot hold it a moment more, he can’t contain it-
The doors of the room burst open with a BANG and Tom’s head whips to face the door and he realises his mistake all too soon as searing pain tears through his body.
His eyes lock with Dumbledore’s as he sees his friends go flying, as pure magic burns in his veins, as he drowns in energy and feels that he may collapse and implode like a dying star-
And then he is gone.
There is no trace of Tom Riddle in the Room but a dark black burn exploding from the centre of the stone floor.
“Where is he? Where is Tom Riddle?” Dumbledore questions in a thunderous tone, looking sharply back and forth between the dazed Knights.
“Where is he?”
“Gone.” Abraxas croaks, “He’s gone. You can’t hurt him anymore.”
Dumbledore’s stormy expression softens into one of grief.
The knights stare up at him defiantly as he thinks, desperately trying to piece together where on earth the boy could've-
Oh.
He looks at Abraxas with an incredulous stare.
"You can't be serious-"
But he is.
Tom has gone to the only place where he won’t have to change his memories, emotions, or power to survive.
Where he doesn't have to become Lord Voldemort. Where he may be able to redeem himself.
Her.
She is his second to last option.
((Death waits in her shadow- his last resort. He knows going to try and win over Hermione is a long shot (especially in his state) so he keeps it in mind as a genuine possibility. He would rather die than become the monster in her memories.))
//