Notes:
This is in reverse chronological order except for the opening and closing parts, which are italicised. (Those are meant to be one scene together, set somewhere vaguely between the others.)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction that uses characters from and the world of Harry Potter, owned by J.K. Rowling.
"I love you, Professor."
"Crucio! "
Alphard screams hoarsely again, writhing on the floor of the Room of Requirement. There is no audience present as there usually is—this is a private occasion for the two of them alone.
Tom always revelled in casting the Cruciatus Curse on others. It's invigorating—it reaffirms how much control and power he has over them. They plead mercy, and depending on his mood, he grants it now and then, but they can't fight back for fear of harsher retribution. Sometimes, they even want the punishment they so rightfully deserve.
… Yet it isn't enough. This time… this once, the pleasure he should feel fails to wipe away the sickness that has burrowed its way into his heart.
He ends the curse.
"My Lord… please…" Alphard croaks weakly, still twitching slightly, tears streaming disgracefully down his face. "It won't happen again… never, I swear…"
Pitiful. Tom should never have allowed Alphard to enter his ranks. He gives him a last loathing look before turning away for the exit.
"Of course not. Get out of my sight, Alphard. I don't want you near me ever again."
Dumbledore sighs tiredly from his desk, propped up only by the backrest of his chair. There is a ink-dipped quill in his hand and a messy stack of papers in need of grading before him, but it's clear he isn't paying them any attention.
"It will be gone soon, Tom, and we will never have to speak of it again," Dumbledore says, and he sounds almost regretful. "Mr. Black is not the most proficient in Potions, I hear."
"I'm sorry for the trouble, Professor," Tom apologises, dipping his head courteously. He already feels the compulsion waning, and it is like waking up from a long night of restful sleep—slow, gradual, peaceful —but that which you cannot force to return, no matter how you try.
Everything will return to normal, he knows. Despite its influence, Tom remains, for the most part, rational. He remembers how much he despised Dumbledore… and how much Dumbledore despised him back. How he still must.
He remembers, and he understands why they felt the way they did, but he feels none of their past animosity now.
He should be angry at this situation, but he isn't. He should be indignant at having to suffer this shame, but he can't. He should be able to quash these feelings, but he won't.
"No, Tom. You are not at fault for this."
"I wish none of this had happened," Tom admits quietly. He doesn't know if Dumbledore heard. He doesn't even know what he means by 'this'.
He just wishes it didn't have to end.
"Tom, would you mind giving the class a demonstration?" Dumbledore asks with a beckoning gesture.
"Of course," Tom replies, stepping forward with a bow. "Draconifors! " With a slash of his wand, the statue of a snake resting on a plinth at the front of the classroom sprouts scaled wings and transforms into a small golden dragon, hissing and spitting little bursts of cheery orange flame.
Tom looks back at Dumbledore, who smiles at him. "Well done, Tom," he says, applauding politely. "Artfully executed."
He sounds proud.
Dumbledore has never praised Tom so genuinely before. Tom likes it.
"You'll never love me back," Tom states. It isn't a question.
Dumbledore shakes his head sadly as he looks down at Tom, who is sitting on the edge of a bed in the Hospital Wing. "No, Tom. You are only feeling this way due to the influence of Amortentia. Nothing could ever happen between us." There is a tone of pity in his voice.
It can't be.
They were brewing Amortentia for Slughorn today in Potions, but… it feels so real. Tom doesn't think he's ever experienced anything like this before. He knows he hasn't, and he is utterly transfixed by it. It is everything, all at once—it is all that matters. So many other things should matter more, but they don't. Not anymore.
It is the most wonderful, freeing feeling. Like how he imagines unaided flight might be, air brushing breezily against his skin.
So why does it feel like something has a choke-hold on his heart?
"You hate me," Tom accuses, twisting white sheets in his fingers.
"I don't hate you," Dumbledore says patiently.
"You do, Professor," Tom insists, "I see it every time you look at me. You despise me, and I absolutely revolt you. But why? Did we just get off on the wrong foot? What have I done to offend you to this degree? Sometimes, I wonder if we could get on if only we hadn't met the way we did. I know I've done things I'm not exactly proud of that you'd disapprove of if you knew, but I had my reasons, you have to understand—my father—"
"No more," Dumbledore interrupts. "You will regret speaking of it later."
He can't regret it now. He needs to confess. He needs to make Dumbledore understand… before it is too late…
"Please hear me out."
Dumbledore continues on as if Tom hasn't spoken. "The potion will wear off by the end of the day at the latest. Until then, I ask that you refrain from doing anything you normally would not."
He means it. He won't listen. He refuses to.
He doesn't want Tom, and Tom would only make it worse by trying to insist otherwise.
"I… I understand, Professor," Tom says hesitantly. It hurts. Why does it hurt so much? "It's just the potion, of course."
How foolish of him to believe.
"Headmaster, with all due respect, keeping Mr. Riddle in the Hospital Wing would prevent any unfortunate incidents from occurring before it loses effect! Surely you understand how unpleasant this is—will be—for the both of them!" Madam Orpin protests.
"Madam…" Tom tries, "I won't do anything rash, promise." He smiles sweetly at her. It wouldn't do to behave badly. That would only get him barred and under her watch for the rest of the day.
They must allow him to see Professor Dumbledore. Tom… needs him…
"No, you wouldn't, would you? You've always been exceptionally well-behaved," Dippet says with a friendly pat to his back. "One of our star students, and a Prefect to boot. No, Madam, I'm afraid we can't lock Mr. Riddle up in here all day. I'm sure Albus can handle it—why, Mr. Riddle could become his assistant for the day!"
...to what?
Again, Dumbledore is on Tom's mind as he sits in Slughorn's classroom, the day's assignment already complete. Tom hates him to his core, but he can't seem to stop himself from spinning in circles thinking about his most detested professor.
Alphard's cauldron explodes, and hate turns to obsession—
"Amortentia merely simulates love, Tom. This is but a warped, disfigured imitation of it."
But why on Earth should that mean that it is not desirable?
(Like mother, like son.)
Notes:
Totally referencing the quote from Dumbledore:
"But why on Earth should that mean that it is not real?"
—J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, "King's Cross"