team: tutshill tornadoes
position: seeker
prompt: indominus rex: write about the invention of a magical object, potion, or other creation.
a/n: thank you to my lovely betas, victoria (heads not hearts) and audrey (halcyon epochs)—who also helped me with the title!
paenitentia
[regret]
words: 1725
Tom sees her before she notices him, a spectre glowing in the dim moonlight, a sorrowful expression on her face. His steps are quiet and cautious, and he hardly dares to breathe. He knows that she's flighty, unwilling to talk to most people and that one false step would probably mean that he would never get a chance to learn about what he sought.
As he approaches her, she turns, a wide-eyed look on her pale face. Tom gives her his most winning smile and cautiously sits on the steps opposite her.
"I'm not here to harm you," he says, keeping his voice steady and pleasant. He remembers the way he coaxed out the younger ones at the orphanage when they were hiding from Mrs Cole's wrath, sweetly, softly. He remembers the way he persuaded the same children to follow him into that cave, the pure evil he felt in his heart as he watched their horrified awe.
"I'm sure you're not," she says, turning around to meet him. She's rather pretty, even with the extreme sorrow clouding her ghostly features. Her tone is pleasant enough, but there's an undertone of… something, accompanying it. "Do you know who I am?"
Tom laughs at that. "That's a rather silly question, don't you think? Of course, I do. You're the Grey Lady."
She looks down at that, and Tom is intrigued. "Oh. Most people don't know me, you see. I prefer to haunt these corridors, where no one will disturb me."
"I can understand that. The excess of people upstairs does get tiring after a while, doesn't it?"
"Yes. Yes, it does." There's a faraway look on her face, something that speaks of more than just… annoyance. It's more like fear and apprehension.
Tom raises one eyebrow. Could it be? Was she truly afraid of the population of the school? Or was it because of their opinions?
He's heard of the Grey Lady. How she was Ravenclaw's beautiful, intelligent daughter; how she had envied her own mother and stolen her diadem in a clumsy attempt to feed her vanity and be cleverer than Rowena herself; how she had ended up killed and caused the death of her lover—the library could be quite useful sometimes. Tom was terribly amused by their follies, but it also told him one thing—if he wanted to get this particular artefact, Helena Ravenclaw was the only person—ghost—he could approach.
Perhaps she is afraid that they thought her selfish, silly, and envious. Personally, Tom thinks that too.
But then again, when has truth gotten him anywhere?
"Especially with their decided opinions and judgements… their company gets quite tedious, really." Tom throws a sidelong glance at the ghost and sees his comment hit its mark.
Gracefully, Tom gets up, dusts his robes and offers the lady a last smile. "Well, I must be off, then. It was quite a pleasure to meet you."
Tom walks up the stairs, watching as the ghost's pale glow ripples in the darkness, a satisfied smirk on his face.
"It's quite a pleasant day, isn't it?" Tom begins. The Grey Lady turns toward him with a blank face but offers him a cautious smile as she sees his expression.
"Yes, it is." Her ghostly form is almost transparent in the afternoon light and Tom feels frustrated as he watches her—the ghost hasn't been offering up anything but answers to his direct questions and Tom is getting impatient.
"Was it the same during your time?" Tom asks, a little bluntly and winces as soon as the words leave his mouth.
"I beg your pardon?" A ripple of indignant emotions brings clarity to her face for a moment, before it disappears again.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I was… well, I was just rather curious about how it all was, all those years ago." His tone is charming and his eyebrows are raised with curiosity. Tom has a moment of déjà vu when he remembers a similar situation last year, in the opulent office of his potions master—an incident without which he wouldn't be standing here at all.
"Oh, oh, of course." A touch of silvery colour rises up her cheeks, and Tom wonders—how long has it been since anyone paid attention to Helena Ravenclaw? "Well… it was as lovely as it is now, perhaps even lovelier. There was so much vivacity and brightness, and…" She trails off, and Tom looks at her.
"And I had to ruin it all to pamper my vanity." The confession is almost lost in the autumn breeze, but Tom's keen ears pick up her words.
Before Tom can offer soothing words and finagle out the information he wants from her, she disappears soundlessly.
Tom grits his teeth in irritation. His hand almost twitches towards his wand, but he takes a deep breath to reign himself in.
Patience. We'll get there soon enough.
"Well, if it isn't Helena Ravenclaw. Fancy finding you here," Tom says, a small touch of sarcasm colouring his words.
Helena blushes at his words and Tom smirks. "Hello, Tom."
Tom has been sauntering into the frigid dungeons that the ghost haunts every other evening. He doesn't speak often, but he has spoken enough to gain the close-lipped ghost's confidence.
Tom decides that he has stalled enough—that he's flattered the ghost with honeyed words far too long. Time to get what he wants, before his impatience gets out of control. "You know, Professor Binns was telling me about Ravenclaw's—your mother's—diadem today, and I was wondering if you could tell me something about it? After all, you'd be the most reliable source." He flashes her the charming smile which always makes her speak far more than she usually does.
It works, of course. "Oh." She bites her lip and turns away, tendrils of silvery hair framing her face. "Oh, of course. Though I must say that it's not my favourite story to tell."
"Everyone makes mistakes, you know, and yours were grave, but I think you can be forgiven, yes? You can trust me with your story, your secrets." Tom employs his most gentle, most persuading tone.
He watches her shoulders fall. He watches a tremulous smile appear on her face.
"Very well," she sighs. "I shall tell you everything I know."
Tom hides his smirk from the obliging ghost as she begins her story, of that one cold night where she fled, to a distant country, the diadem in her hands…
Tom's ears are filled with the sounds of the forest and the distant sea as he approaches the tree, the hollow one at the very edge of the forest. The locals inform him that there is something strange about it, some kind of impenetrable power which prevents the gnarled old tree from being cut down.
He finds it out soon enough, aided by a few spells. The tree is heavily protected, and Tom wonders who placed the enchantments to do so. It's no matter—Tom breaks them soon enough.
There's a crack and groan as the ancient tree finally crumbles, its branches bending and breaking. There's a glint which catches his eye, buried under the twisted brown roots. Tom bends down to inspect it, trying a Summoning Charm and every other spell he knows to dislodge it.
It doesn't budge.
Finally, Tom crouches down to dig with his hands, the sharp bark scratching at his palms and the wet mud clinging to his nails. Tom sneers with disgust—he isn't overly fond of getting his hands dirty.
He unearths a small, plainitive box, covered with moss and dust. Gingerly, he opens it, surprised by the well-preserved velvet lining its insides. The diadem itself lies ensconced in the deep purple fabric, shining brightly in the moonlight.
It's beautiful—the sapphires as blue as the sea and the silver as polished as ever, and Tom lets out an exultant laugh at the sight.
He thinks of the ghostly light of the Grey Lady, of how she might have felt as she held the diadem, a beacon of wisdom and power at her fingertips. He feels the magic of the little crown coursing through him, and he smiles.
He grips the diadem tightly, preparing for the excruciating pain that will follow.
He will be giving away a part of his soul, after all.
"What have you done to it?"
Her voice is a bare whisper, interrupting Tom's thoughts as he opens the Room of Requirement.
"I'm rather surprised you left your pathetic little dungeon, Helena." His smile is as charming as ever, but with a darker edge to it.
"You traitor!" she screeches, and Tom closes his eyes. Exactly what he needed—a furious ghost on his trail. "You said I could trust you! You said you would keep it safe! A-and now I can't even recognise it!"
"Oh. I did say that, didn't I?" Tom's expression is bored. "Well, now you know that you shouldn't trust silly little praises and flattery. I just used your information to make your mother's diadem something far more powerful than it ever was, Helena. Aren't you pleased?" Tom's voice is charming again, but his hand fingers his wand impatiently. He knows quite a few spells to banish her in painful ways… he wonders if he should use them.
"You're a liar, Tom Riddle." Her words are venom. "I sense dark magic in the diadem… something too dark to ever be spoken of. I should've never trusted you, never even talked to you. And now look what I've caused." Despair fills her eyes, and Tom knows what she's thinking: she failed her mother, all over again.
"Well, there's little you can do about it, Helena. If we're finished here, may I be on my way?" There's a hint of threat in Tom's voice, and Helena retreats.
"You might overpower me, Tom, with your words and your wand. But there is someone out there who can stop you. Who will destroy the monster you have become. However long it takes, how many times you win, you will have to fall one day."
Tom suppresses the shiver down his spine as her cold aura passes him. He looks at her disappearing around the corner with wonder and a hint of contemplation.
Tom blinks once before facing the blank brick wall. He grits his teeth and raises his wand.
No.
I shall never fall.