For the fourth time in the four months after her promotion to Junior Auror, Tildy was late to work again. The Floo entrance was being rebuilt, so just getting to the Atrium was a battle of will. Forget about trying to catch an elevator in a timely manner.
The air of the Ministry was harried and thick with unease. Ever since Grindelwald's rise in Eastern Europe in '39, Magical Britain held a collective breath, waiting for what seemed inevitable to come. Crime had increased, particularly between wizards and muggles, which was hardly a surprise. War had its way of hanging over everyone like a storm cloud, and the end of this one was nowhere in sight.
With quick, aggravated exhales, Tildy walked briskly across the Atrium, her heels clicking against the marble floor. Her navy robes billowed behind her, brown curls bouncing on her shoulders, as she held her head high. A key to behaving like an Auror was appearing to have control, masking any type of apprehension, which was felt among all Ministry workers but never spoken of.
"Good morning, Matilda," chatty Judy Baker greeted as Tildy stepped into the elevator. "You look quite tired. Are you sleeping enough, dear?"
Judy, a secretary in the Treasury Department, was at least eighty years old and tended to speak candidly. Her back was hunched, her coiffed hair a stark white, and her robes were from the nineteenth century by the looks of them.
"I suppose so, Mrs. Baker," Tildy responded patiently, for it was easier to let Judy do all the talking.
"You've got to rest up, dear, so your skin won't wrinkle before you find a wizard."
The only other one in the elevator was Praxidike Warner, who threw the other two a glare. Tall with perfectly curled hair and pencil-thin eyebrows, Praxidike was a formidable figure on the fourth floor. At only twenty-five, she was a lawyer for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.
"Treasury Department," said the cool elevator voice as the doors slid open. Judy ambled out, giving Tildy a wave over her shoulder as she slowly made her way over the threshold. Praxidike rolled her eyes and tapped her stiletto against the floor. Tildy was also having difficulty refraining from impatiently glancing at her watch. Once the elevator doors closed, she checked it—9:10. Swell, ten minutes late.
After a tense minute of standing alone with the other witch, Tildy arrived at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Trying to keep the trot out of her pace, she headed straight for the Auror Office. Once she pushed open the double doors, the first person she scanned the tiny entrance area for was the Head Auror, James Corner. He wasn't waiting for her by the front desk with his arms crossed, which was a good sign. Unfortunately, that was negated by the light shining through the window of the Containment Room. Someone had been caught performing Dark enough magic to land him in there, waiting to be shipped off to Azkaban.
Probably another Grindelwald fanatic, Tildy thought as she pulled a quill out from her robes. She turned to Catherine, a plump blonde in her mid forties, behind the front desk.
"Don't worry, Tildy," Catherine said before she could speak. "Corner's left somewhere." For a secretary, Catherine wasn't very tidy. The desk was covered in scrolls and timesheets. It took a minute for Tildy to find hers. Once she'd jotted down the time, she placed it neatly on a pile of what looked like other timesheets, hoping it wouldn't get lost in the mess before payday.
Catherine nodded toward the Containment Room. "He was brought in about an hour ago."
Tildy walked over to the door and peered in the narrow rectangular window. The glass was charmed so that anyone passing by could look in, but the occupant couldn't see out.
Inside the tiny, yellow-hued room, a tall, pale wizard with dark wavy hair sat on the bench, hands joined in his lap. Upon closer inspection, Tildy realized that he was not a man but a teenager.
"Why, he's just a boy!" she exclaimed.
Catherine nodded grimly. "Sixteen, I believe. The report is on your desk."
"Thank you, Catherine." With one last look at the boy, Tildy headed past the desk and down the narrow hall to her office. As she passed Bruckner's, the older wizard openly gaped at her legs before catching himself.
"Good morning, Tildy," he said. She returned the greeting without pausing or looking at him.
Though she was the first to collect information from the suspect, her time with them was very brief. Her specific duty as Junior Auror was the intake scroll: collecting the bare-bones but necessary data of the suspect, plus the usually-fabricated version of their whereabouts on the specific day and time, in an objective, formulaic manner. Once the scroll was filled, her contact with them came to a swift and permanent end when whichever Auror was around escorted them back to the Containment Room.
Tildy took a seat at her bare, compulsively organized desk and glanced down at the report. There were more components to a report than what she was usually given, but she wasn't privy to the details beyond the first section.
Date/time: 11 August 1943, 22:10
Curse: Stunning Spell
Wand: yew, phoenix feather, rigid, 13.5"
Owner: Riddle, Tom Marvolo (Ollivander 1939)
Tildy frowned in confusion. All this fuss over a stunning spell? Firstly, that wasn't even Dark magic and secondly, one of the law officials sent to the kid's house was sufficient enough to take care of this.
She rose from the desk and went back to Bruckner's office. "Karl, I don't understand," she told him, brow still creased as she held up the report. "Says here the boy was caught on a stunning spell. That's for the Trace blokes to sort out, isn't it? What's he here for?"
Bruckner ran a hand through his sandy hair and beckoned her over with his knobby fingers. "And close the door behind you."
Tildy's female-leaning instincts gripped her for a moment, but curiosity and trust in Bruckner, who was generally harmless, won out. She closed the door and stood in front of it. The artificial blue sky through the window provided the only light. Tildy had a window as well, but she kept the charm depicting cloudy grey skies constant, so as not to remind the suspects of their impending loss of freedom.
"Rumour has it that the kid took out three wealthy muggles."
"Good heavens!" Tildy burst out disbelievingly. "Where on Earth did this occur?"
"No idea. Still waiting for that report." Bruckner shrugged and looked down at the parchment on the desk. "I've just received his transcript from Hogwarts. The kid appears to be brilliant. Wonder if he's really the one."
Tildy had no verbal response to that, but for an unknown reason, her heartbeat sped up. Uncertainty is a familiar acquaintance to an Auror, but this was beyond her realm of experience—she'd never had a murder suspect.
Bruckner caught on to her reaction, raising an eyebrow at her. "It's just a boy, Tildy. I'll be right down the hall if he tries anything."
"I—" she started, but in the same second, a rapid tapping came through the door. She opened it and let in a great grey owl clutching a letter in her beak.
"Thank you, Maisie," Bruckner said, giving the soft feathers of her wing a pat as she set the letter on his desk. Giving a tiny hoot in response, she flew back out.
His facial expression was indescribable as his eyes scanned the parchment. After an odd few minutes of this, he raised his eyebrows and shook his head, passing Tildy the scroll. "Good luck, dear."
Trying not to frown, she took the scroll and returned to her desk. This page was in identical format to the last one, but the information was significantly more damning.
Date/time: 12 August 1943, 1:01
Spell: Killing Curse x3
Wand: Walnut and thestral hair, rigid, 10"
Owner: Gaunt, Morfin (1912)
Without context, the report was a source of confusion: was the kid Morfin Gaunt or Tom Riddle? The latter, of course, since Gaunt was much older if he'd gotten a wand in 1912.
But Gaunt was not here, meaning he wasn't a suspect despite his wand history, so that would only mean that the working theory was that the boy, Riddle, had taken the wand and committed the murders. Tildy shook her head, feeling like she was sinking underwater. Why would this boy kill three random muggles? Unless they were not random…
Unfortunately, chances were greater that she wouldn't find out until it hit the Daily Prophet. You're only intake, she reminded herself, but if she continued her performance, it wouldn't take long to shed her junior status.
She tucked the reports in the top drawer and pulled out her handheld mirror to check her appearance: curls intact, red lips pursed together, eyebrows raised to give an impression of cold impassivity. This look she'd crafted rather quickly helped the suspects, especially the males, speak more freely, trying to elicit a response from her.
Yes, of course, a snide voice replied in her head with sarcasm. It's not because it's simply easier to talk to a pretty face. Tildy often wished to appear similar to Praxidike Warner, but her large round eyes prevented her from doing so. Too many viewed her as a naive young girl despite her turning thirty next year, possibly due to her appearance or to the fact that she wasn't married yet.
She sighed, returned the mirror to its proper place, and stood. No use ruminating over that rubbish now; the kid had to be processed before Corner decided to grace the Auror Office with his presence. Regardless of when that was, he'd be in a foul mood and ready to lay in on someone.
"Alright, Karl, ready," she called to Bruckner, adjusting her clothes and clearing her desk of all else besides the lamp, scrolls, and writing tools.
As soon as she heard footsteps approaching, her rear hit the seat. Her back straightened and her hand curled around the quill, pressing the tip to the parchment. She looked up just in time to see Bruckner nudging the suspect into the office. "Sit down, please," he ordered gruffly.
The boy did as he was told, his dark eyes on Tildy, who ducked her head as she printed the date: 12 August 1943. Once he was seated, the chair gave a jolt in response to warn him that it wouldn't be wise to try anything funny.
Bruckner disappeared down the hall. If the suspect was already in compliance, there was no reason for him to stick around.
"Good morning, my name is Matilda Menem and I will be conducting a brief interview to collect basic information," Tildy recited. "May I have your full name, please?"
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," the boy answered in a calm, detached sort of tone, though she could feel his eyes burning into her cheeks as she kept her gaze on the parchment. "Would you like me to spell it?"
"No, thank you." The first question was posed to glean more than just a name. If the suspect lied, the process from there on out would likely be marginally harder. "Date of birth?"
"December 31st, 1926."
The math took only half a second; he was indeed sixteen. "Residence?"
"One-seventeen Vauxhall Road, London."
Because Tildy had spent most of her life, aside from her Hogwarts years, in London, she was familiar with many street names, Vauxhall Road being one of them. All muggle over there—he must've been muggle-born, though he'd have to confirm that himself. Aurors were forbidden to mention anything to do with blood status.
Never having dealt with anyone underage, she realized only then that she'd have to add a crucial question to the scroll for this case. "Do your parents know where you are?"
"My parents are dead."
Tildy glanced up against her will. His eyes immediately caught hers and she saw that they were almost black, seeming to absorb the surroundings, recording and analysing. Despite his cold, almost menacing demeanour, she had to admit that the boy was beyond handsome. His thick, wavy hair was even darker than his eyes and his skin very pale. He gave off an air of regality, as if he was some sort of ruler instead of a teenage orphan.
"Who are you in the care of, then?" she finally asked, scolding herself for failing to conjure a more professional-sounding question.
He was the one to come up with a well-articulated response. "The address I've given you is a building called Wool's Orphanage." The re-phrasing in his answer did not go unnoticed by Tildy, but it fit the criteria well enough. She moved on.
"You attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, yes?"
"Yes."
She could guess his House immediately just by his arrogant aura: Slytherin. Top student, according to Bruckner. Tildy had been a Ravenclaw, also one of the best in her year, and she had steered clear of the Slytherins. Aside from being swotty and prejudiced, they caused a fair amount of discontent in the school. But then again, Slytherin didn't accept muggleborns…
"You have just finished...fifth year?"
"That is correct."
Only the sound of quill against parchment filled the air for another moment before she returned to the formula. "Alright, Mr. Riddle, please tell me what happened last night, August 11th, around ten in the evening. Where were you, then?"
The boy raised his dark, prominent eyebrows as if surprised to be asked such a question. "Haven't the Aurors concluded that already?"
Despite her best effort to keep her face neutral, Tildy felt her lips tightening. This young boy wanted to go head-to-head with her, then. She glanced up and gave him her best no-nonsense look. "I don't deal with that, Mr. Riddle. My job is to take your account of the time frame we are discussing. Will that be an issue?"
His switch back to compliant was so abrupt, she wondered if she'd imagined the previous minute. "Not at all, Miss Menem. To answer your question, I was in a village called Little Hangleton."
Though Tildy could see how many a witch could be immersed in his charm and full attention, she could also see a spark of defiance in his eyes. He hadn't liked her response. Well, pity on him, she thought, for he was the one with the compromised freedom. Why was it turning out to be so difficult to keep that in mind?
Perhaps it was his unwavering, analytical gaze. The boy, even in this position, exuded command. With his looks and high marks, she could imagine how popular he was at Hogwarts with both students and staff.
"And what were you doing there?"
"I was visiting a relative," he answered, looking away for the first time. "I'd gone looking for my mother's family and found only her brother left. We had a brief discussion about the muggles that lived in the manor house upon the hill. Once my dear uncle had exhausted all of his knowledge, I paid a visit to the muggles." Then, as an afterthought, he added in the same light tone, "The last visit they'll ever receive."
Tildy couldn't help it; she froze, her eyes widening, not daring to look up from the parchment. "And then?"
"I exchanged a few words with them and then left. Turns out they weren't so pleased to see the youngest descendant of their worthless bloodline. No matter." He shrugged, looking somewhere near the desk lamp.
A Junior Auror did not have the authority to ask a suspect outright about the crime, but he had told her enough to chill her blood. The youngest descendant of their worthless bloodline. Tom Riddle was a half-blood, then, and not very pleased about it. My parents are dead, he'd said with such certainty, though he was newly orphaned. Yet his attire and lanky frame suggested at least a few years in an orphanage. Had he known of his father prior to the previous evening?
Evidently her questions were written on her face. "Is there anything else you'd like to ask me, Miss Menem?" He tilted his head to the side in amusement, surveying her.
"I suppose not," she said at last. "Would you like to add anything to the report?"
"No, thank you."
She continued to write, not on the intake scroll but on a piece of scrap, using a shorthand of her own invention. It was easier to decipher and translate later when she could take her time and write neatly than amending the god-awfulness directly on the scroll.
Once she lifted the quill off the parchment, she made the profound mistake of meeting the boy's eyes again. They were both haunting and mesmerising, the way they looked directly into her as if exploring her soul, turning it over in his own mind.
In an effort to shake herself out of the trance, she tried to piece his story together. He lived in an orphanage… Vauxhall Road was perhaps the last place any Londoner, magical or muggle, wanted to be on account of the bombings. Pair that with his newfound discovery of a still-living, wealthy father in the countryside, and it was almost clear how the intent for a Killing Curse had come to be. Almost.
An odd pang passed through Tildy's chest as her mind played a film from her imagination, which tended to take on a trajectory of its own, independent of her thoughts and feelings. At quick speed, the film starred Tildy herself, falling onto the boy's lap, taking his face into her hands, and kissing him fiercely… His long fingers digging into her hips as a burst of desire spread across her lower body… Are you mad? He is sixteen! Yet despite her logic, the scene continued to play until it morphed a minute later, this time into a memory.
Tildy was sitting in the tiny room of the women's boarding house she shared with four other witches and their landlady, Mrs. Briggs, who forbade them to bring men near the house. As a result, Tildy had gone to her dates' homes a few times, where she found it much harder to decline their advances, especially after a few glasses of champagne. A month prior, Tildy had returned to her seat by the window and kicked herself. This is why you can't find a husband, a snide internal voice admonished her. Wizards need good girls to stand by their sides in the time of war, not easy lays. Why on Earth was she bringing up this ill moment now? Unless the boy...no, impossible…
Still holding her eyes, he held a finger to his chin and then disappeared from view as flashes enveloped her vision—her office, her room, a pub in Diagon Alley, at Hogwarts, getting ice cream with her mother at Florean and Fortescue's. Belatedly, she confirmed her suspicion: the boy was employing Legilimency against her. It hadn't even occurred to her to use Occlumency with someone so young. Panicking, she shoved him out of her mind and ducked her head.
"Karl?" she managed to call out, hating how shaky her voice came out. Clamped on top of her thighs, her sweaty palms stuck to her robes. "Ready!"
No response. The faint sound of his voice was travelling down the hall, but it was low and unintelligible. He was either speaking to someone in his office quietly or on the telephone.
"Karl?" Tildy repeated louder. It mattered not if she sounded desperate, as long as he came and got this boy out of her office. "Karl!"
"I am on the telephone, Tildy," Bruckner called back impatiently.
Trying not to sigh, she signed the bottom of the scroll, Matilda Menem, in her neatest script. She decided to transcribe the notes to the scroll, but she'd hardly written a word before her eyes met his again without permission from her mind.
Though she kept him out of her head, the damage had been done. How on Earth had he gotten such a good grasp on Legilimency? He must have been natural-born.
He gazed relentlessly at her, a smile playing on his lips. Goddamn, he was so attractive and knew it, too, by his playful, almost leering expression. Whatever attraction she had toward him was reciprocal, or he wanted her to believe that, anyway, Merlin knows why—he is sixteen, for the love of God, how indecent. It became her mantra—he is sixteen, he is sixteen—but soon the number was meaningless, for it was glaringly obvious that the boy sitting so still across from her was no normal sixteen-year-old.
After another insane minute trapped in the web of his presence, Bruckner finally appeared in the doorway. "Take him back, then?"
Tildy snapped to attention. "Yes, please. The interview is complete. Good day to you, Mr. Riddle." To her relief, she was able to keep her tone cool and her body language aloof as she turned back to the scroll, dismissing him.
Of course, he had to speak and lure her back into his mind-game. "Good day, Miss Menem. It was quite a pleasure to meet you."
With that, Tom Riddle stood from the chair and walked away, smirking over his shoulder at a rigid, tense Tildy, those malevolent eyes glittering with amusement. "Or perhaps I could call you Tildy?"
"Oi, shut your trap, boy," Bruckner snapped, glowering at the boy, who stood nearly a head taller than he, and snatching his arm.
They left the office and Tildy could finally breathe again. Now that Riddle was no longer in front of her face, her mind was working properly again. Anger flooded through her as she set her quill down and leaned back in her chair, sighing. The nerve of that little boy, attempting to seduce her by thought alone!
Though ultimately, it was her fault; she was the Auror and he the criminal. She had not a shred of doubt that he turned his uncle's wand on his father. He was cunning and twisted enough. What in the hell was wrong with her, letting him toy with her like that? She was supposed to be above such behavior. It was she who'd been acting like the bloody teenager!
Nothing to do about it now, she supposed, picking up the quill and resuming. Hopefully Tom Riddle would be sent to Azkaban and she'd never encounter him or anyone similar to him again.
However, Tildy knew from somewhere in the depths of her mind, indicated by the prickling of her stomach, that this wouldn't be the last of him. The boy was Grindelwald-level ruthless. Not even Azkaban could keep wizards like him at bay.
-x-x-x-x-
The swine Bruckner gave Tom a push back into the tiny room before slamming the door behind him. He was back in isolation again, free to keep planning. Outside the door, there was a scratching sound, and then a tune from a record filled the air. The throaty voice of the lady behind the desk sang along.
He'd messed up somewhere while removing the Trace. It had been quite reluctant to leave his body, clinging on until it felt like he'd been ripping off the top layer of his skin. He likely missed a tendril in some obscure place, damn it.
He'd simply have to try harder once he was back in possession of a wand. Getting caught by the Ministry had admittedly been a large setback, but it wasn't the end. Tom had plenty of setbacks; it wasn't a walk in the park being the greatest wizard in the world. The Ministry might have strong enough enchantments to contain him for now, but they'd have to transport him to Azkaban somehow if they determined him guilty.
However, Tom was not going to Azkaban, nor back to Wool's Orphanage. He'd never step foot in another institution again.
That would also include Hogwarts, which was unfortunate, since he'd grown partial to the castle. He had enjoyed last term in particular, how the spoiled little Slytherin boys had flocked to him, their faces filled with awe rather than contempt. Now Tom was the contemptuous one, for it was he who'd won his status on his own by carrying out Salazar Slytherin's noble work.
No matter—he would have all the time in the world to return to Hogwarts. One day the castle would be his, along with the rest of Magical Britain.
The night hadn't been a total loss. Tom had finally come face-to-face with his disgusting muggle father and eliminated him. Such filth didn't deserve to walk the same Earth as Lord Voldemort. You were alive sixteen years longer than you deserve, he'd told the object of his deepest loathing.
Grinning to himself, Tom closed his eyes and replayed the events in his mind: creeping into the manor on the hill, fist tightened around his wand, heart fluttering madly in his chest. Light footsteps on the carpeted hall, surrounded by ugly muggle portraits depicting a bloodline that was about to die out…springing upon those three dolts sitting on plush velvet, sipping tea in fine china cups, which shattered on the floor as they jumped in fright…
Hello, Father. He'd been waiting to speak those words since he was a little boy. Except here, the meaning had changed; he was no longer expecting his father to save him from the orphanage and take him in. He'd shed that naive rubbish immediately after hearing his uncle's ugly story.
Calmly, genially, Tom told his father the truth: that he was a worthless waste of life for running out on his family. Why had his weak bitch of a mother chosen him, anyway? What a shame to muck up Slytherin's pure blood, to go and die, leaving the product in a London orphanage. Perhaps Tom had been better off without her, but he couldn't imagine much worse than Wool's surrounded by muggles. Everyone else at Hogwarts had a mother, why hadn't he? His fists clenched in his lap involuntarily; he hated thinking of her.
Back to his victory: Afraid of magic, Father? Or simply afraid of power you're too worthless to understand? His father's face, which to Tom's distaste was identical to his own, showed pure terror, a touch of pleading in his dark eyes. Oh, had he begged, all three of them had, but it was too late for that. As satisfying as it was to hear their desperate snivelling, Tom was not there to show mercy.
The sensation that overtook him when he'd cast the Killing Curse, the green light filling the room, his voice morphing into Avada Kedavra and escaping through his lips...it was unparallelled. Tom had never doubted his superior magical ability, but this felt like he was made for taking life. His success brought on a wild euphoria he'd never experienced before, not even when he'd discovered the Chamber of Secrets.
So strong was this power that he immediately unleashed it twice more on the muggle's just-as-useless parents. As their bodies hit the floor, Tom was already walking back down the hall, leaving the house with his head high. It had taken only minutes to diminish the unworthy Riddle line.
His good fortune had ended there. When he returned to Gaunt's hovel, he planted a false memory his mad, inbred uncle's mind, revived him and returned his wand, but not before taking the ring with the black stone, his birthright. The Aurors had caught up to him shortly thereafter. The memory in his uncle's head would likely sort all of this out on its own, but having a back-up plan for every outcome was important.
Tom slipped a hand under his robes to trace his fingertip along the ring in the pocket of his trousers. Soon this ring would have even more value than bearing the Peverell coat of arms.
The Auror Office was a dull place, even more so than Wool's. The room wasn't much different than his own, except this one didn't have a bed, wardrobe, or window. They likely wanted him to go mental in here, ease him up a bit for the Dementors. He pictured them standing in front of that heavy door in a day or two, peering in the glass and taking bets on when he'd crack. Well, it would take a lot more than this to break a will as strong as his.
He glanced at the small window. No one was there, but he could still hear the record and the secretary, who couldn't sing worth a damn. She was more likely to drive someone mental in here rather than confinement. Perhaps he'd see the wide amber eyes of the pretty thing that took his information. He liked girls of that sort, those who wore a proper facade but had a few dirty secrets.
With fondness, he recalled his only sexual experience, which took place less than a month ago. He was stuck at Wool's and Bea, this priss of a matron, had stayed just a month. She'd been terribly snappish and ornery to everyone, but Tom hadn't had much of a problem lifting up her skirt. Witch or muggle, girls were usually dolls to be played with, all sweet smiles and curls until properly seduced. He could turn the most well-bred, virtuous lady into a whore for him.
He'd taken Bea on his bed with the door locked, hand over her mouth to muffle her cries. Since he didn't have much interest in females in general, Bea remained the star of his imagination when aroused, but she could retire for a minute to make room for this Junior Auror.
Tildy. A scene played out in Tom's head: her office, locked, with that louse Bruckner tied up in the corner, watching with envy as he gripped the witch's dark hair and brought his mouth to hers, drawing blood… He skipped to another position, leaning over the desk as he pumped into her, hand over her mouth, her doe-eyes bulging with the rare golden mix of adoration and fear.
Enough already. It wasn't as if he'd have the chance to touch himself for a bit, and he'd wasted too much valuable time on fantasy. He had to get the rest of the Trace off without a wand and figure out how to obtain another in case he was marked for Azkaban. His yew wand was another thing he would regret to let go, but it wasn't as if he'd be any less clever or talented without it.
A good decade would have to pass before he could start his ascent if they wanted him in Azkaban. He'd have to take care to evolve completely, shedding all traces of Tom Riddle. It was surely possible—he'd been planning it already for years. If he could make a Horcrux, he could get himself out of this situation.
He ran the pad of his thumb over the ring. And if he could make one Horcrux, he could make more. If he could make more, he'd be well on his way to becoming Lord Voldemort, the strongest and most powerful sorcerer in the world, ruler of a greater society that would bow to him alone.
But first, to get the goddamn Trace off…
-x-x-x-x-