Disclaimer: In sooth I claim not the Rowlinged works of Parry Hotter.
A Child Among Titans
Prologue: Part I
1980
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sat lumpenly in his excessively gilded chair. As per usual, his attire consisted of violently garish robes – rancid yellow with miniature unicorns cavorting coquettishly around the hem – which clashed rather nastily with his pointed purple boots.
The epitome of fashion and taste he was not. His piercing blue eyes twinkled menacingly, and his beard twitched with his quiet mutterings as he frantically poked at a pair of his spindly silver instruments.
A large, doleful looking phoenix squatted morosely upon a delicately crafted perch, its tail feathers elegantly sweeping the floor. Tilting its scarlet flecked head, it peered beadily at Dumbledore, observing his dastardly shenanigans. The ancient Headmaster continued to mutter and prod, squinting though his half-moon spectacles.
The occasional word could be picked out before it became lost in the labyrinthine fuzz of his beard – "Trelawney... Butterbeer... Hogs... Aberforth" and emphatically, accompanied with a particularly vehement prod, a muttered "Stop that you obnoxious dunderhead!" Fawkes seemed to sag wearily, a perplexed crinkle above his beak.
There came a sharp knock at the door.
Dumbledore paused abruptly, and in one smooth motion, he swiftly drew out an enormous silken handkerchief from his breast pocket, and spread it gently over the quivering instruments. With one gnarled and wrinkled finger, he poked his glasses further up the crooked bridge of his nose, and hurriedly brushed down his robes.
Leaning back casually, he gripped the armrests of his ostentatious chair, and called out – not quaveringly as one might expect from such an old man – but clearly and strongly. "Enter" he declared.
The heavy door sighed a melancholy creak as it swung open to admit the man to the office. The occupants of the many portraits dotted about upon the panelled walls leaned forwards interestedly. The deceased Headmistresses – and a not inconsiderable number of the old Headmasters – assumed would-be seductive expressions, and a sudden wave of rushed primping quivered the scenes depicted within the various frames. Phineas Nigellus Black waggled his eyebrows lasciviously, and Armando Dippet blushed coyly.
Dumbledore frowned, "Good evening, Tom."
Tom Marvolo Riddle, Head of Slytherin House, and esteemed Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, stood silhouetted against the doorway. Elegantly, he rested a hand on the frame, his dark robes cascading richly around his tall and narrow frame.
He paused for a moment, intense eyes briefly settling upon Dumbledore's attire, a faint sneer beginning to twist his mouth before he schooled his expression to one of supreme indifference, and stepped languidly into the office. Dumbledore's prancing unicorns suddenly froze, glared in Tom's direction, and hissed malevolently.
The door grumbled to a close.
Albus smiled benignly, and gestured for Tom to sit down. The chair was considerably smaller, uglier, and more uncomfortable than Dumbledore's gilded monstrosity – so subtle, these delicate power politics – yet Tom returned Dumbledore's smile with an utterly charming one of his own, unwittingly inducing a sudden intense bout of eyelash batting from Dippet.
He inclined his head towards the chair, and with a murmured "By your leave, Headmaster..." he flicked his wand in a rapid figure of eight movement, and transfigured the stubby little chair into an immense, luxurious affair – green velvet and mahogany, with silver inlays.
Emitting a soft, deliberate sigh of satisfaction, Professor Riddle sank languorously into his, well, throne, and graced the Headmaster with an innocent blink.
He tapped the chair, and added, somewhat unnecessarily, "It's for my terrible back problems."
Dumbledore peered at him frostily, "Is that so?"
"Indeed. Also, rather unfortunately, an immensely large and unsightly boil has decided to befriend my left buttock, and is exceedingly vehement in propagating its festering throbbing pulsations and sporadic expulsions of the most disgusting sticky yellow-"
"Fascinating", the Headmaster interrupted loudly. "I do hope that the pain isn't too excruciating. Incidentally, Madame Pomfrey has a most excellent salve – it's pink and rather delicious smelling – that is quite wonderful for slathering upon buttocky ailments. Once I had these terrible warts that congregated rather enthusiastically around my scrot-"
"At approximately the time you knew Grindelwald, I presume?" Tom murmured politely, his gaze momentarily caught by a diaphanous silken handkerchief that rippled haltingly upon Dumbledore's desk.
The Headmaster's left eyelid twitched a minute fraction, yet his expression remained pleasantly open. He paused, furrowing his brow thoughtfully, "Actually, I do believe that it occurred when Hagrid became Groundskeeper here."
Tom's smile became rather fixed.
Dumbledore's mouth pursed musingly upon further reflection, "Or it may have been when dear Filius and I indulged in passionate-"
"As enthralled as I may be to hear you expound upon your diseased and dissolute youth, Headmaster, I must admit that I am rather at loss - you have, ah, quite neglected to elucidate your motives behind summoning me to your office so arbitrarily."
Petulantly, Dumbledore compressed his lips, yet a faint glint of smug satisfaction glimmered faintly and briefly in his eyes. "I do apologise, my dear boy, you are correct, I have been remiss in my obligations towards you", he said softly. "However, you wound me deeply with the word "motives". Do you think so little of your old Transfiguration teacher that you would accuse him of something sinister and ulterior, when he may have wished only to engage in a long overdue chinwag?"
"I hardly think that you are one to indulge in idle chatter, Dumbledore", Tom insinuated tautly, his voice clipped and cultured.
The Headmaster allowed his features to crumple into an expression of unwarranted hurt, "Upon the contrary, dear chap, upon the contrary" He leaned forwards seriously, his eyes flashing grimly, "But since you are here, Tom, I have something very pressing that I wish to ask you..."
"Sherbet Lemon?"
S
With an outward demeanour of impenetrable calm, Tom exited the Headmaster's office, and lingered upon the landing until the door had ground shut. Then, with sweeping wand strokes, he rapidly Disillusioned himself and cast a powerful eavesdropping spell upon his ears. The insufferable old codger was certainly up to something, and what's more, it was rather glaringly obvious that he wanted Tom to find out.
He gave an internal snort at the memory of the innocently fluttering handkerchief. Of course, it just happened to be poking upwards in mysterious places; it would be ever so foolish to surmise that it might, actually, be deliberately 'concealing' something. Specifically, that 'something' being two of Dumbledore's spindly instruments, which, Tom noticed, had clandestinely disappeared from their usual places.
What on earth was the desiccated old fart up to?
Dumbledore's mumblings floated mutedly to his ears, "Trelawney... Butterbeer... Hogs... Aberforth." accompanied by a soft puffing and tinkling noise, presumably from the silverware – although, Tom wouldn't have put it past Dumbledore's gargantuan and suspiciously extensive beard.
Cursorily cancelling the eavesdropping charm, Professor Riddle stood upon the first step of the revolving staircase, compressing his lips in distaste as the excessively gilded imitation phoenix rotated steadily, gradually lowering Tom to the entrance concealed behind two particularly hideous gargoyles.
Tasteless.
His mind working quickly, rapidly weighing the various possibilities and alternatives associated with Dumbledore's words, Tom decided to instruct an underling to keep an ear to the ground, in an attempt to shed further illumination upon the Headmaster's convoluted plots.
He knew precisely the person to use.
S
Easily maintaining the Disillusionment charm, the Professor strode unhurriedly into the murkier depths of thecastle, descending several capriciously moving staircases, and stepping through the murky gloom of the damper corridors until he eventually reached the dungeons. He paused outside a distinctly unimpressive door, and rapped sharply upon the small, yellowed glass pane.
The door swung open almost immediately to reveal a slim, sallow skinned young man with raven hair - tinged with the faint sheen of grease peculiar to the prolonged exposure to potions fumes - framing his narrow face. His black, expressionless eyes surveyed the Slytherin Head of House briefly, before his head lowered deferentially as he stepped back from the door to let the Professor enter.
Briskly, Tom entered, and wandlessly shut the door behind him. With a subtle hand gesture, he caused the lock to click ominously. He turned to meet the man's eyes.
"Good evening, Professor Prince"
Prince averted his gaze and stared at his feet, "Good evening my L-Professor Riddle"
"Severus", Tom murmured sibilantly, mildly reproving, yet lazily surveying the delicate angles of the man's face. Languidly, he stretched out a pale hand, and gripped the Potioneer's chin with his long, cold fingers, his knuckles carelessly brushing the man's neck as he did so.
Unconscious of his reaction, Severus shivered, the subtle movement immediately caught by Tom's sharp eyes.
A mocking smile curved his lips, and he couldn't resist inserting a jibe, "What were you about to say, little Severus? My love? My leg? My-" here Tom batted his eyelashes, "- lascivious desires?"
He wrenched the man's jaw upwards, until the unfathomable eyes flickered unwillingly to meet Tom's. With a rapidly thought Legilimens, Tom pierced the mind of the young Potions Master, casually flitting past the Occlumency barriers, and brutally projecting one spearing, demanding word.
Wards?
Severus nodded with difficulty, his dark eyes fluttering furiously as he tried to dispel the few pain-induced tears that had welled wetly onto his cheeks upon the violation of his mind.
Satisfied, Tom relinquished his pinching grip, and savagely forced his mind from Severus'. He then proceeded to hijack the Potioneer's office chair, one elegant leg languishing over the armrest. His eyes travelled boredly around the dingy room, occasionally resting interestedly upon the occasional jar that captured his attention.
One jar contained an oozing slimy object, which was suspended somewhat morbidly within a pulsing, translucent gel – it vaguely resembled a deformed foetus, its tiny limbs malformed and twisted, and its eyes reminiscent of engorged frogspawn.
Tom smiled lightly, "I commend you on your distinctly cheery taste in decor, Severus"
There was no response, other than a rasping cough, as the Potions Master struggled to wrest some breath back into his lungs. A moist, dribbling strand of blood trickled stagnantly onto the flagstoned floor, originating from the corner of his mouth.
The sickly sound caught Tom's attention, and he peered idly towards the crumpled form of the young man. The startling crimson of the blood secured his gaze, and fascinated, he slid swiftly off of the chair, and crouched next to the ungainly body sprawled inelegantly upon the floor.
Slowly, indolently, he extended a white, tapered finger, and dipped it into the shallow pool of scarlet liquid. He examined it raptly, mirroring crimson flecks tainting the deep blue of his eyes.
Thoughtfully, he tasted the bloody tip of his finger.
A faint hint of revulsion, mixed with fascination, trembled across Severus' pale visage.
Holding Severus' gaze, Tom, with a subversive glee, slowly traced his lips with his tongue. Then, a wet film of saliva tinged with blood still clinging moistly to his fingertip, he reached forwards, and patronisingly patted the young man's head.
"Poor Severus", he murmured pityingly, gently running his fingers through the glistening black hair. He stroked his head rhythmically, as one might do to a pet cat, causing Severus' wary and tense expression to gradually become more relaxed. Then, with a soft, gorgeously charming smile, that induced Severus to respond with a hesitant smile of his own, Tom wound a strand of inky hair around his fingers, and gave a vicious, spiteful tug.
Severus' face tautened in surprised pain, and an ugly flush of humiliation mottled his cheeks. His lips thinned, and his eyes flashed woundedly. Determined not to appear vulnerable, he made as though to stand up, his back tense and rigid.
An insistent weight kept him down. Tom threw him a sweet smile.
"Sit", he commanded, his voice resonating throughout the stuffy room, and tainted with a gently cloying undertone. His eyes glimmered strangely in the half-light of the gloomy office.
Severus had no choice but to comply, his hands shaking slightly. The Dark Lord was clearly displeased with something, and by Merlin, it seemed as though he was going to be the recipient of his Lord's sadistic fury – Gods, and he'd thought that his position was secure, as Riddle's prime informant at Hogwarts, and what with his contacts in the less savoury divisions of Wizarding society and his unparalleled mastery in Potions and he was babbling wasn't he and by Morgana's lactating tits was that his wand, oh shi-
Rather arbitrarily, Tom's eyes dulled, the glimmer of gleeful madness dampening, as, bored by his previous sequence of actions, he abruptly turned away. Standing with his back to the shivering Potions Master, he rapidly and monotonously outlined the events as they occurred in Dumbledore's office, summarily explaining the various conclusions that he had drawn.
Severus' heart thrummed rapidly in his chest, and his lungs seemed to be strangely airless. Internally, he struggled to comprehend his Lord's bewildering, flickering array of moods, but failed dismally. Clamping down upon his emotions with his Occlumency shields, he attempted to contain himself, so as to pay attention to Riddle's words.
Eventually, Riddle lapsed into silence, and deigned to resume his seat behind Severus' desk. His eyes were cold, and surveyed the Potioneer flatly.
Severus' stomach cramped and twisted nervously within his grimy, potions-laboratory robes. How he abhorred this quavering uncertainty. Oh hellebore, he was well acquainted with this chain of moods, from the innumerable Death Eater meetings he had frequented in the past. Loathing uncontrollable outbursts of emotion as a rule, the Dark Lord nonetheless would occasionally experience, well, moments, whereby he would become particularly ... unpredictable.
Thereafter, he would degenerate into an icily silent monument of taciturnity. Only - the Dark Lord's temporary cold solemnity threatened the average bystander considerably more in terms of lethal repercussions, than the average sulky grumps.
Gargantuan festering turds in a cauldron, Severus thought emphatically.
"Severus", Tom murmured, his eyes hooded, and his large hands delicately caressing his wand.
The young Potions Master observed the Dark Lord warily, "Yes, my Lord?" he intoned tentatively.
"Pay a visit to your unsavoury little Mudblooded friends, won't you? Interrogate them. I wish to learn the reason behind Dumbledore's erratic conniving. I particularly suggest that you offer that dirty hound Mundungus Fletcher a sufficient incentive to babble – as he associates with the Bloodtraitor, and distinguished member of the Order of the Flailing Duck, Arthur Weasley, rather frequently does he not?"
Severus nodded rapidly in assent.
An idle smile played gently upon Tom's sculpted lips, a frightening contrast to his flat, humourless eyes. "Off you trot then, my dear little Potions Master" he drawled softly, inclining his head towards the door.
Severus paused uncertainly.
Tom lazily arched an eyebrow, seemingly nonchalant, yet his eyes maintained their hard veneer. "Is there something amiss?" he inquired coolly.
Severus opened his mouth to respond, yet the words somehow became garbled and petered out incoherently. Clearing his throat rapidly, he quelled the rising heat in his cheeks, and began again – slowly.
"Ah – may I just retrieve my travelling cloak from, er, f-from the back of your chair, my Lord?"
The Dark Lord smiled wolfishly, and sinuously twisted his body so that his legs were draped over one of the armrests, and his back was resting against the other.
"By all means" he purred, entwining a lithe arm around the back of the chair, clasping it in a loose embrace.
Severus approached the elegantly reclining Dark Lord as he would a venomous Runespoor; he never knew which of the three heads – or in his Lord's case, the various personalities - would strike. Angrily attempting to dismiss his nerves, he stepped closer to the Professor, and –
Tom gazed at the wall blandly.
– attempted to gently tug his cloak free from under the Dark Lord's arm.
In his peripheral vision, Tom noted the faint glister of perspiration pulsing from Severus' pores, pasting a damp layer upon his somewhat oily forehead. His pulse was visible, jumping nervously in his throat, and his Adams apple jiggled nervously each time he swallowed. A faint, yet clearly tangible scent of sweat wafted unpleasantly from his moist armpits, and his robes – like his hair – were coated in a thin film of potions grease. A brown crust of dried blood lurked unappealingly in the corner of his mouth.
Tom tensely, yet imperceptibly, held his body away from the direct vicinity of his pungent Potions Master, his aristocratic nose crinkled slightly in fastidious disgust. He resisted the impulse to cast a rapid Scourgify. He immediately dismissed any notions involving Severus' seduction – he was just too unclean. Not to mention the furore that would grip Pureblood society if it was discovered – as it inevitably would – that their darkly handsome prospective leader, heir to Salazar Slytherin himself, was fornicating with smelly Halfbloods.
At least Lucius washed his hair regularly.
Unable to bear the sweaty proximity any longer, Tom slid gracefully off of the chair, and stepped briskly to the door.
Severus stared at him dumbly, awkwardly clutching his bat-like cloak, and his large nose crinkling perplexedly.
Tom would have to see that the silly man attended some etiquette classes, that gawping expression was immensely unattractive.
So uncouth.
He gave a merry wave of his hand, just to elicit a dumbstruck expression from the Potions Master, and purred some parting words over his shoulder, "Adieu, my slithery friend – creep well!"
S
A deep sense of forbidding anticipation roiled in his stomach, as he watched his Lord stride off, the usual impenetrable mask clamping down upon his unfairly handsome features. Mad he was, indubitably, yet it was the sociopathic capriciousness that made him so appealing – if, that is, one had a certain proclivity for adrenaline induced thrills. Also, that sense of unadulterated power that enforced and accompanied his presence was unequivocally intoxicating. Severus was utterly bewitched by that raw, untempered potential that all but thrummed around the formidable – man?
No, far greater than a mere man.
A merman?He suppressed an irreverent smirk. He imagined the Dark Lord standing seriously before his swooning following of Purebloods, a grave expression encroaching upon the sly half smile he usually wore. An intense, profound pause, the old family patriarchs observing his Lord solemnly, then, breathily - "I'm a mermaid"
He wouldn't put it past the Dark Lord to do such a thing in one of his dangerous bouts of whimsicality, either. That seemed to be a rather peculiar trend among Dark Lords – the particularly powerful ones even secured places in the local mythology. Loki the Trickster was the first who sprang to mind. Essentially, trickery seemed to be associated with rather, well, Dark and destructive forces.
Slytherinesque.
Unconsciously, Severus placed a hand over his dizzily fluttering heart.
That he is mad, 'tis true, 'tis true, 'tis pity, and pity, 'tis, 'tis true, a foolish –
He did not just quote a Muggle text. Besides, Severus was no Polonius – he was no greasy crawling sycophant sliming with servility!
Oh wait.
Hellebore.
S
Arthur Weasley, Ministry employee, ginger, and resolutely courageous Dumbledore supporter, ambled furtively along one of the more unsavoury backstreets of Diagon Alley. His scruffy cloak was drawn tightly around his narrow body, and his voluminous hood concealed most of his face. His steps seemed eager, yet slightly hesitant, and his head swivelled frequently as if searching for something – or someone.
A narrow cul de sac extending secretively to the left of yet another secluded alleyway caught his roaming attention. Unobtrusively, he attempted to ascertain if there were any dodgy figures loitering about in the gloom, squinting his pale, blue eyes with a vigorous, concentrated intensity – when a grubby hand snatched his ankle.
"Globbering lobalugs!" Arthur yelped vehemently, violently whipping out his wand.
What he had initially taken for a pile of mouldy old rags quivered turbulently. It snatched its hand back rapidly, and burrowed it into the depths of the immense, tattered robes. A petulant voice whinged mournfully from the recesses of a gargantuan, baggy hood.
"'Ere Arfur, you nearly took my sodding 'and orf, you blarsted ginger prat"
Arthur's tense and startled expression slackened into that of an acute relief.
"There you are Dung, you old scoundrel" he rejoined somewhat irritably. "D'you think that you could, er, bloody well refrain from pulling that stunt again?"
The unkempt bundle belched moistly in response, which Arthur diplomatically decided to take as an affirmative. Then, with a rolling, wriggling wave of movement, a head emerged blearily from the mass of material. It – or rather he – blinked stickily.
"Cor", he muttered, surveying Arthur with an unfocused, bloodshot stare. "You look rough. Molly bin ragging you or summink?"
The Weasley patriarch smoothed down his robes somewhat self consciously, "No no, nothing of the sort, old boy, merely the usual fuss at the Ministry. The moneyed Purebloods are apparently forming their own political party, as a retaliation against Dumbledore's pro-Muggle Order. The old conflict between cultural traditions, and modernisation it seems. It's all distinctly tense, especially with the Malfoys-"
Mundungus Fletcher grunted plaintively, "Aaaaaarfur", he moaned. "It's too blimmin' early for this". He scrubbed at his eyes reluctantly. "'s'long as it don' affect me none, I don' bother finking abaht it" He tapped his head wisely. "Got ter keep some space for the important fings in life, yeh know"
Arthur made a noncommittal noise.
"Anyway", Dung interjected, grumpily slouching into a seating position, his back pressed against a battered vanishing bin, "Glad yer got my owl. Was beginnin' to fink you wasn't comin'. I 'ave some new bits and bobs in my mokeskin if you want ter – jus' a sec'"
He rummaged in a small, hairy brown pouch, and began to draw out disproportionately large objects.
Arthur's eyes widened in excitement as a particular object caught his eye. He reached out to examine it, a grin expanding goofily across his face.
"A genuine cluckoo cock!" he murmured, fascinated.
Mundungus shifted smugly, a fat smirk curving his blubbery lips. "Abs'lutely genwin", he agreed. He continued to withdraw items from his bag, including some strange pieces of metal, and odd shapes of rubber.
He leaned forward conspiratorially, sniffing violently to attract Arthur's attention. Once it was gained, he pointed to the series of metal bits spread out upon the grubby pavement. Arthur sucked in his breath, his eyes transfixed.
"Is that...Are they...?" he began softly.
Dung nodded importantly. "All you 'ave to do is fix the bits together – prob'ly even manage it with a Reparo"
"Bisexual parts", Arthur breathed excitedly. He paused, as though struck by something, and looked around. "But where are the wheels?"
Dung pointed brusquely to the circles of floppy, ridged rubber, and then to a roughly "T" shaped piece of metal, "Them's the ham bars"
Arthur shot him a superior look, "They're handlebars Dung. You use them to steer when you ride the bisexual."
Dung shrugged, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, "Yeah yeah. Arfur – I don' give a monkey's micky"
Arthur blinked rather sadly. "Oh", he murmured, clutching the wheels tightly to his chest.
Dung snorted loudly and wetly, and hawked into his sleeve, "So... 5 Galleons for the lot?"
Arthur just looked at him. He pointed to the large purple "M" embroidered upon the front of his shabby robes. "Need I remind you that I am the head of the Misuse of Magical Artefacts Dung? You know that it is only through my discretion that the Aurors turn a blind eye to your little Muggle artefact smuggling practice. If they ever found out that you were peddling this stuff in Knockturn-"
Dung blanched.
"Well, Malfoy would probably get you sent to Azkab-"
Mundungus scowled mutinously, "Yeah, bu' like you said, tha's a sodding bisexual, tha' is. It's worf a pretty penny – and the cock is bloomin' mech-mechan - well s'not eklectric. So there's no need to blackmail me Arfur"
Arthur's eyes narrowed, "Fine. 2 galleons – but not a knut more, or Scrimgeour will hear of your shenanigans"
"Alrigh' alrigh'" Dung whined plaintively, "Bu' I 'ave to earn my living some'ow, don' I? 'Ow's Dumbledore getting on these days anyway – the ole codger 'elped me out several times before, 'ee did. Woss 'ee up ter?"
It struck Arthur as being rather odd that Mundungus neglected to haggle, but ascribing it to his dastardly manipulative skills, he smugly gathered up his new purchases. Carefully, he shrunk them with his wand, and placed them into a hairy little mokeskin pouch similar to Dung's, except that Arthur's was a luminous orange. He flashed Dung a satisfied smile, and flicked him two fat golden coins. Dung snatched them out of the air, bit each one, and then squirreled them away into his pouch.
Arthur dropped his voice, "Well, apparently he's looking for a new Divination teacher for Hogwarts – d'you remember Professor Feicim? The fat Irish bloke-? Yeah, well, he's retiring, but he doesn't want anyone to know yet, and apparently – don't mention this to anybody now Dung old chap – Albus is interviewing that Trelawney one. Awful old hag she is, d'you remember the time she was in the Prophet for fraud? Feeding false prophecies to the Ministry or something. Anyway, Dumbledore's meeting her in the Hogshead – the Hogshead of all places! – for an interview next Saturday. Dunno why he'd bother hiring that nutcase, Malfoy would hit the roof-"
Happily launching into a bout of vigorous gossiping, Arthur completely neglected to notice the rippling patch of shimmering air that hovered menacingly behind the vanishing bin, or the faint, yellow-tinged glassiness of Mundungus' eyes.
A/N: So, this is my first fanscribble - I just decided to do it on a whim upon a proverbial boot in the derriere from the wonderful Moth Gypsy. I would gladly appreciate it if you took the time to review, as I'm slightly apprehensive about your prospective opinions (I'm being arrogant enough to assume that you actually read it).
Tally ho chaps!
Reinart