An Occurence in the Chamber of Secrets || 2, 042 words
Of all his Death Eaters, he had always treasured Bellatrix. Wily. Clever. Insinuous and dark, with a lovely figure that would have seemed innocent but for the poison in her very breath. She was worth more than Rodolphus, who was a borderline Hufflepuff, as she often put it. Always looking for something to please (or pleasure) her master, with a mind that was darker than her name.
Thus, he was not surprised when the doors of the Chamber of Secrets yielded with a hiss to her, one of his most loyal supporters. They were always coming to find him these days. London was plundered and the wizarding world was in chaos, after the slaughter of seventeen Hogwarts students. They held the castle now, and the Death Eaters who were not out pillaging and raping found their amusement inside Hogwarts. Several of them had been working on how to gain access to the Headmaster's study, but he had not heard anything more of their progress. Until now.
Bellatrix solemnly stepped forward, and placed a small stone basin in front of him. His glittering eyes took in the sight greedily and as he saw the deep runes engraved into the sides of the basin, his intake of breath was audible.
"My lord," she said, inclining her head. "We found several weaknesses in the spellwork and fought our way through this afternoon. This was one of the first things we thought to bring to you."
"How thoughtful of you, Bella." He said slowly, his voice low, and his gaze fixed on the basin now, with no more attention to his loyal Death Eater. "Go, now. I will be in the netherchamber."
"As you wish, my lord." Bellatrix stepped back and retreated with a slightly curious glance at the basin, as if it contained some secret she was not privy to. Moments later, the Chamber doors closed again and the groan of the hinges as they shut drowned out the hissing of the twin snakes, whose green eyes glowed unnaturally. But Voldemort was here to see none of this.
For the moment Bella had disappeared through the doors, he had seized the basin and walked to the head of Salazar Slytherin at the far end. Opening his mouth, he hissed.
"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."
With a hollow noise, the mouth of the statue opened into gaping darkness. Without any delay, he ducked beneath the teeth and walked into the netherchamber.
Minutes later, he stood at the end of a long hallway, illuminated by torchlight. There was a single stone door without a knob where he stood, and extending his free hand forward on the door, he whispered a word in Parseltongue, that caused the door to open noiselessly, revealing a long room. It was not unlike the Great Hall but only smaller in size, with a bare table in the middle that stretched to either end. Carefully, he placed the basin onto the table, and stepped back for a moment to regard its swirling milky silver contents. What did it hold? Secrets and memories. Memories that no one else had anymore. A second passed before he reached out with his left hand, dipping it into the liquid, which drew him forward and forward until he was falling into it, into Dumbledore's Pensieve.
Two weeks ago, he had taken another tour of the castle, carefully avoiding every screaming portrait and found himself in the Transfigurations room. Each desk was still in place, and the teacher's desk at the head of the room was still intact, with a few scattered papers here and there. Minerva McGonagall had been dragged away cursing and screaming, he recalled.
It seemed like ages ago since he had seen that room in its original form. Students filling the room with their books and parchments, quills and long black robes, murmuring and talking amongst themselves. Students that were slowly exiting the room in twos and threes. He was part of the shadows in the back of the room, watching them pass him without noticing any dark figure. But if he had stepped out of the darkness, there would have been no stray glance that could see him.
And he did this now, walking past the desks, the last straggling students, and to the front of the room, where a black-haired boy stood in front of the Transfigurations professor, whose hands were clasped in front of him and looked up through half-moon glasses benevolently.
"Yes, Tom?"
"Sir- I mean, Professor Dumbledore," began the boy, who couldn't have been more than a second year, with his diminutive size and the Beginners for Transfiguration book he held in his right hand. His eyes, however, blue and clear, did not bely his young age, and neither did his voice, which seemed to be older than its speaker.
"I happened to finish this term's course work yesterday evening, all the way up to Chapter Fifteen: Inanimate Objects and Plants. Do you think there is possibly anything I can do to prepare for either the end-of-term exams or the O.W.L.s? I'd like to start on Chapter Sixteen: Aspects of Animation if you could give me more background information, or maybe I should-" The eager flood of words slowed to a stop as the Transfigurations professor put a hand up to quiet the young student in front of him.
"Tom, it is very heartening to see a student with such enthusiasm for Transfigurations," he smiled, not unkindly. "It is, however, a difficult art that takes much practice and patience. Even the most skilled of wizards must take care with Transfigurations, and practice it often. As for the end-of-term exams, you will not hear your teachers mention them for a few months yet, and the O.W.L.s are even further off. Focus on your other subjects if you have excess time, and practice the practical parts of Transfiguration often-"
"But professor, I'm already very good at each practical exercise that the book lists," the boy protested, looking a bit indignant. "Would you like to see, Professor?" Without waiting for an answer, he drew out his wand and whispered a spell to his Transfigurations textbook, which quickly morphed and changed color. Seconds later, a flowerpot of marigolds in full-bloom was sitting on the desk. The professor did not seem dazed by this feat by a second-year student but looked over it carefully and prodded it in strange places.
"A very good attempt, Tom. The texture of these leaves are not unlike that of the paper from your textbooks, however, and the clay of the pot has the same feel as your cover. You must take care with all aspects of Transfigurations. Appearance is not everything." He admonished gently, then picked up his own wand and with a gentle tap, turned the flowerpot back into the book and extended it back to the boy, who looked a bit put out.
However, the professor did not seem to notice, and was rummaging in his pocket for something. As the boy turned to leave, he called him back.
"Tom, I have something for you."
The boy looked back, astonished at what the professor was holding. In his hand was a bird, with the appearance of a dove but with shining silver feathers and keen grey eyes, alert but docile.
"I Transfigured this from a box. If you find how to turn it back into the box, which I have much faith that you will, you may take interest in its contents." With these words, he extended the bird forward, which suddenly took off into the air and seconds later, alighted on the boy's shoulder, quite unruffled. The boy looked a bit overwhelmed but grinned eagerly and nodded, thanking the professor, who smiled.
"I do believe you have a free hour next. Feel free to stay here or go back to your dormitory. Best of luck, Tom." The professor inclined his head and smiled again at him, then left the room.
The boy, however, had not heard his teacher's departure. He was already enraptured by the bird, which was now standing on his desk, and was very obedient, letting him stroke it and examine it. The boy's expression was one of wonder and innocence. A passer-by would have guessed from his awe-struck appearance that this was the first time he had seen a live thing Transfigured from an inanimate object. And this passer-by would not have been far off the mark.
The boy named Tom turned the bird around slowly, examining everything, while the tall man in black, who had seen everything, walked to the desk slowly, and regarded the boy slowly.
So innocent. So young. As a boy unaware of his magical ancestry, a secret which lay in the box that his professor had Transfigured, he marveled at everything that was magical, even a mere trick that the fool of a Muggle-lover had tossed him. Voldemort felt some digust welling up in him.
But the child's attention, held rapt by the bird, was so gentle. Such care he took with the bird, to see everything and treat it as if it was made of spun-glass. His expression of adoration was clear in his eyes. So innocent, so young... For a brief moment, Voldemort was attracted to the strange young boy with his naivete and innocence. Still watching the young boy, he let out a breath which he half been aware he was holding, satisfied. This was what he had been searching for all those years, was it not? The immortality that existed in youth. This youth, in fact, and his insatiable appetite for knowledge, life, and magic. The lure was so strong and irresistible, the taste of youth so palpable and alive and the attraction so magnetic that he was tempted to stretch out a hand and touch this boy, this personification of immortality. Everything he had been looking for lay in this one boy and the fathomless oceans of potential behind blue eyes.
The moment seemed to span out towards forever, each instant slower than the one before, as he gave in and stretched out with one arm to touch him, with no real idea of what to do and why he was doing it, but the impulse was too strong, to touch this boy, the person he had been. He had such a presence, so strong that his outline seemed to glow... or was that just his imagination?
It was not his imagination. The air around him began to glow, as did everything else in the world around him, and with a sudden jolt of alarm, he recognized that the memory was about to end. His time in this universe was about to be over. There was no time left, and in the instant before his finger touched the hand of Tom Riddle, the entire scene was blotted out by a white flash that covered everything and nothing at the same time, for there was nothing left.
There was only, he realized, the Pensieve before him, with the pearly milky contents that were slowly swirling to a stop, and the bare table which he was holding onto tightly with chalk-white knuckles. Suddenly, impulsively, he seized the stone basin and with a harsh scream, whirled the Pensieve and its contents to the floor, where it collided violently, shattering with a hollow noise into a thousand fragments. The liquid inside seemed to sink into the very stones that made the floor, and within moments, all traces of the silvery thoughts that had once belonged to one Albus Dumbledore were no more.
He left the room hurriedly, closing the door with a forced whisper. He strode down the hall with such an aura of unadulterated hate and poisonous anger about him that even the torchlight on the walls seemed to shrink away at the very shadow of himself, which seemed larger than usual as he headed towards the mouth of the statue. Each step lengthened the distance between himself and the broken remnants of the stone basin with each step he took. Farther and farther away.
There was nothing more that he wanted to preserve in that Pensieve. Dumbledore, the fool, was dead. Harry Potter was dead. Fudge was dead.
Tom Riddle was dead.