"For her seed is my seed and her voice is my voice. And she sees unto the farthest reaches of possibility. Yea, unto the vale of the unknowable does she see because of me"
Dune, Frank Herbert
He kept walking.
He didn't walk towards London, that was Evans' goal and Evans' goals were suicide, but he kept walking all the same. To sit still was to die, that didn't mean he felt better about walking without direction.
(In his dreams Evans' screams echoed pitifully in the distance, sounding, strangely enough, closer to the call of a trumpet than a human voice.
Tom ignored it.)
He could go anywhere, America perhaps, many had already gone to America. Or he could go South, past Europe somehow and to Africa. There was old and ancient magic in the dark continent, akin to that the druids had practiced, before they had been eliminated by the Roman wizards.
(But when you can go anywhere the truth is that you can go nowhere.)
It was easier, in a sense, quiet. There was no more battle of wills with the bastard, no more needless bickering over things that clearly would never happen. Tom was once again free to be whatever he liked, Voldemort or not Voldemort.
His destiny was his own once again! He was alone and could plot, plan, and prepare as he so chose. He could start somewhere new, somewhere exotic, gain all the knowledge he would need and…
After the third day he stopped.
Sitting alone beside the fire he'd made he stared into the depths and for the first time in a long time he thought about what it meant to be alive. He was surviving, but that was all. Each day was focused on strengthening wards, where to go next, how to get out, but nothing more than that.
Everything had stopped for him, nothing had purpose, he was existing merely to exist.
He had wanted more than that; once.
Not too long ago Tom Marvolo Riddle had had dreams of grandeur, of subjugating his pureblood peers who had routinely dismissed him as well as the mudbloods and muggles whom Tom should never have been lumped with in the first place. Slughorn had said, earnestly, that Tom could perhaps become the youngest Minister of Magic Britain had ever seen.
That Tom, Voldemort, would have been revolted with the Tom Riddle he was now.
Somewhere out there Evans was dying for nothing, perhaps he was already dead, his wand handed down to some other lesser wizard. Tom had once wanted to kill him, he'd wanted to make it slow and painful, but more he'd wanted to do it himself.
The Chamber of Secrets, taking Voldemort from him, Tom had never truly forgotten that pain he'd just… Put it aside.
But now that he kept looking for Evans as he walked, kept expecting to hear his voice and remembering that soon Evans wouldn't even exist anymore, it came bubbling back to the surface.
That agony and rage.
And perhaps was that single blinding thought that was the cause of Tom's momentary lapse in sanity.
The thought that Evans owed him that, not his life, but his death. Evans' torturous, bloody, agonizing death belonged to Tom and Tom alone. It belonged to Tom as he could have been, as Voldemort, and it belonged to him now.
And he wasn't going to let the Kraut pigs touch it.
So on that third day he turned back in the direction he'd come, his eyes blazing, and slowly but surely retraced his steps letting that irrational black part of his soul rise to the surface with the need to remind and reinforce and make everyone who'd ever doubted him look him in the face and remember his name.
Orphan, mudblood, bastard, let them see it and let them see him in spite of it.
Let them think it as he drained the blood from their bodies, the breath from their lungs, and branded their corpses so that even as the carrion picked at their flesh they would always carry the reminder of their own personal grim reaper.
They would remember his name.
The dreams became more frequent, and with their frequency Tom found he was willing to suspend disbelief and take Evans' starring role as evidence of his still being among the living, that and… these things had a curious weight to them.
An unquestionable clarity that one didn't usually have in dreams, as if he was not truly dreaming but traveling outside of himself, to somewhere dark and unfamiliar but wholly Evans.
This time Evans was muttering, not bleeding, but still hardly recognizable curled in as he is on himself. He seemed younger, thin, haunted, and terribly afraid.
Sometimes Evans screamed, sometimes he raged, sometimes he seemed perfectly aware of Tom's presence and screamed, "Get out!"
And then Tom would be flung into reality, sitting upright, sweating, with the feeling that he had narrowly avoided some terrible fate.
But this time, this time, Evans seemed perfectly content to allow Tom to linger next to him in this small cramped space with only a mattress thrown inside.
"Evans," Tom started, waiting for the other to react, but Evans only curled into himself tighter, "Evans, you need to tell me where they took you."
Evans didn't respond, didn't even twitch, just kept muttering almost incomprehensively.
"If you don't tell me where you are it will make it difficult to find you."
At this, finally, Tom got a response.
It started with small chuckles and transformed into wild laughter, the walls cracking under the weight of the sound, and Evans rolled over to stare at him, "Find me? You're coming to find me? Well, isn't that just bloody wonderful? Did I ever say I wanted you to come and find me?!"
No, and the Evans Tom knew would not appreciate it, not from Tom but that didn't matter. Nothing really mattered except that Tom would do this, was bound and determined to do this, regardless of how Evans felt about it.
(Evans owed him, it didn't matter that he'd saved Tom's life from the Germans, that he'd spared him in the Chamber of Secrets, Evans owed him.)
"Would you rather be cut apart by Germans?" Tom asked and Evans flinched, twitched a little, but he still had that twisted grin on his face and was shaking his head.
"Oh, like you wouldn't cut me up either, Riddle? I know what you really are and I know that no matter how bad they are you're worse than…"
"But I'd kill them first and I'll kill the rest of them first too." Tom moved closer, grabbing Evans by the shoulders, ignoring the way Evans leaned back with true terror in his eyes, "I swear to you that I will kill every last one of them before I touch you."
"God, you're sick! You're... demented!" Evans said, and Tom didn't disagree, because even before all of this even at the age of eleven he knew that he wasn't quite like the other orphans.
He'd never felt wrong, off, sick, but he'd never felt like anyone else either. So if that was what society chose to call it, then yes, yes he was. But he wouldn't choose to be anything less either.
"Did you know that I have a weakness for muggle sayings?" Tom mused, watching as Evans continued to fall apart next to him, desperately trying to seem as if he wasn't breaking at the seams, "Perhaps it's my legacy as a mudblood bastard orphan, they just can't help but stick. The wizarding ones… They pale in comparison, frankly, and I can never seem to remember a single one."
"Maybe I'm the one whose sick, dreaming about you, you talking about killing people left and right…" Evans mumbled, seeming hell bent on ignoring Tom, on curling in on himself and letting the anger distract him.
Tom interrupted him, "There's one I think applies very well to this situation. Better, Evans, the devil you know then the devil you don't."
For a moment the anger drained away from Evans face leaving something hollow and exhausted behind, "You know, for a while there… I almost thought you weren't Voldemort."
"I'm not, I can't be." The Voldemort Tom had dreamed had been wrenched from him first by Evans then by Germans, he couldn't go back to that Voldemort, had no real desire to, "Not that Voldemort anyway, but I can be a different Voldemort… I can be more than this."
Evans just shook his head, his mouth a grim line, "You… You really can't change, can you?"
No, he already had changed, but perhaps like always Evans was saying what he so desperately wanted to believe. Only this time, this time Evans couldn't bring himself to believe it anymore.
Evans let out an agonized sob, leaning forward abruptly into Tom, sinking his nails into Tom's arms, the kind of pained sound of someone attempting to breathe and function while their soul is being torn in half.
"I… I… I don't want… I don't want…" He repeated over and over, his head digging into Tom's shoulder, as if trying to bury himself in it.
Tom didn't ask what they were doing with him, why after so many days they hadn't just killed him already, what they thought could learn from him or what they even wanted from him, in a way that didn't matter.
"We'll retake England, Evans, we'll play the heroes you so desperately want to be. And then, then, when that's over. Then I'll kill you and you can die like you've always wanted."
The sobs tried to turn themselves back into that wretched laughter Evans had started with and become something halfway in between, and in between the monstrous noises and the shaking of his thin frame, Evans said, "There… There was a prophecy, you know… Tom… There was a prophecy and… And… And I didn't get to hear all of it. I didn't hear it…"
Tom didn't say it was alright, that it would be fine, that Evans would pull through, instead he only commanded, "Now, tell me where you are."
And Evans did.
It was more of a gut feeling than actual coordinates, a sort of magnetic pull of walking in the correct direction, and an increasing feeling of assurance that this was the way he was meant to go.
He was feeling, strangely, more assured than he had in quite some time.
Underneath his clothes, pressed against him, was his old diary, one which he hadn't written in for some time, since before his disastrous confrontation with Evans. Not owning anything of worth or importance he had once had the idea of being sentimental when it came to his first horcrux. The diary, he'd thought, because in a way it was as much a part of him as anything else would be.
That, after all, must have been why he'd kept it with him, from the beginning of the German invasion until now, this had always been some part of his plan. Tom had just forgotten it in the heady rush of survival
But now, now with the approach of this confrontation, this goal of reobtaining Evans and killing every German he found along the way… Now, that pushed aside plan of horcruxes was well within his mind.
The only thing in his mind really, rational thought, the ability to stop and question had faded on the way and hadn't made a reappearance.
So he only slowed when he caught sight of the German camp, he didn't panic, he just stopped and looked and thought about how best to go about this. It would do no good to go in guns blazing, again why did he always go back to those merlin damned muggle idioms, and it wasn't really his style. That distinct lack of plan stank of Evans' suicidally Gryffindor turn of thought and just rubbed Tom the wrong way even without the thought that it would probably get him killed.
If his only goal was to merely grab Evans and run he could try to approach closer to where he was being held. Given his mudblood status, if he hadn't been left to die yet, then he probably wasn't being watched too closely. But while this was safer than Evans' usual plans it also wasn't nearly satisfying enough.
It was a small place, had once been a magical village, Tom imagined that not too long ago this little town had looked something like Hogsmeade. A cheerful bustling little village complete with its own baker, butcher, and everything you thought you might need in a simple world for those who lacked both talent and ambition.
But, like Hogsmeade, it had taken on a new charred quality as the original foundations of the village had been burned to the ground. In their place were newly, magically erected, grey buildings that were clearly more of a garrison than anything else. Likely this was simply a check-point, a place between Hogwarts and London that could be easily apparated to, most likely set up before the invasion of the castle.
This was probably where they sorted through prisoners, decided which ones were worth keeping and which were not, and if they were worth keeping for what reasons. Dark magic, cutting edge dark magic, often required sacrifices as well as test subjects for the truly experimental endeavors.
As a supposed mudblood Tom doubted Harry Evans was being kept around as a hostage.
Watching as Germans wove in and out, so assured in their movements into the town, as if two or three guards around the perimeter and a few well-placed wards were enough, Tom had a feeling that he'd like to test some dark magic of his own. After all, in Hogwarts, he never really had a chance to let loose as it were.
And some of the texts in the restricted section, the older ones that are too useful to be contraband but would be too dark to be printed now, said that fiendfyre looked beautiful. Like a fierce summoned god of fire who when brought into the world could not be taken out.
And as Tom had hoped, when the flames first caught at the edges of the buildings, the Germans had gotten a little cocky in their victory. They'd set up anti-apparition wards, guards, but they hadn't prepared for the truly reckless. Those who would take the risk of destroying themselves if it meant destroying this one meaningless outpost.
Tom waited, circling around closer to that siren's call of Evans, counting the panicking Germans as he passed. One, two, three, four… More than enough for a dozen horcruxes if he really wanted, but no, he really only wanted the one out of this. When he had more suitable containers he'd think about it.
Just when the Germans had transported themselves to the start of the flames, attempting to contain it and guard against it, Tom cast the spell again from the other direction, the flames from both spells racing towards each other and battling for dominance.
And then, when the fires had raged for some time, began to approach where the magnetic pull of Evans was originating from Tom slowly walked into the village ducking out of the way of rushing Germans and blasting through those who made unfortunate eye contact.
And beneath that cool assurance was a silent thrill that he'd only experienced in the Chamber of Secrets. Like this was what he had been born to do and had just been wasting so many years in Hogwarts ingratiating himself to professors and playing the perfect student that he'd never realized it.
He was… Almost having fun.
Probably later, when this odd mood wore off, when the brutality of their situation returned the panic and horror and exhaustion would consume. For now though, for now he would enjoy himself and his newfound purpose.
He walked through the door of a ruined building, the guards having fled to the fires or else been killed by Tom on the way there, stepping through his eyes roved over various bodies some twitching and some horribly still.
And in the corner, there was Evans, looking across at him with blank tired eyes.
"Evans," Tom greeted and although Evans tried to remain impassive his lips twitched slightly as if he was fighting back a smile.
"Riddle," Evans responded, his voice hoarse. Tom's eyes drifted over to Evans' hands, shaking and twitching, covered in small fine cuts.
"Did you light the town on fire?" Evans asked, and it was as if they were talking about the weather or their latest Potions' assignment. Like there was nothing at all strange about this reunion or the fact that Tom came back for him and somehow found him without even knowing where he had gone.
Like Evans had also somehow felt Tom's soul growing closer with each step.
So Tom answered just as nonchalantly, "It seemed appropriate."
Neither mention that it was best that they leave soon. Instead they just stare, looking across at each other, or in Evans' case staring blindly into his general direction given his lack of glasses.
Evans glanced at those around him, his expression mournful but also beyond exhaustion, finally he said, "I don't think any of them would make it if they came with us… I lasted the best, out of all of us."
Tom didn't say that he hadn't offered to help them escape anyways, Evans probably knew that if he wanted these people freed he would have had to do it himself.
He only stepped in, stepping over the silent groaning bodies, wrapped his arm under Evans' shoulders and lifted him up so that Evans was leaning against him. Evans flinched for a moment, then settled, using Tom as a cructch as Tom walked them silently out of the building.
(That was how the war really started, for both of them, walking shoulder to shoulder quietly into the night as dark fire raged behind them.)
Author's Note: Or, I somehow must always have at least one chapter in any given fic where Tom Riddle flips shit and goes crazy for a little while.
With that I have a little note to say. I've recently realized that I just have too many ongoing fics to consistently update all of them. To pay attention to one is to neglect another. With that said, this one was always intended as a relatively short fic with an actual outline so if I focused on this for a little while I could conceivably finish it fairly quickly. That said, this means other updates will slow down. So, I guess what I want to know is, for those who read a lot of what I write. Is there an order you'd like to see things updated in of the main things I'm working on? If there isn't I'll just continue to sort of meander and rotate through at my leisure but if people really want something updated and worked on significantly versus others, again, let me know.
Right, as always, thanks for reading and reviewing and reviews are always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter
