Disclaimer: I am not making any galle... I mean, muggle money out of this.
A/N: I am very glad to see the lack of Dumbledore bashing in the reviews, and that people are asking for a Grindledore reconciliation. It was my intention to include one, for I do not think Albus deserves to spend an entire lifetime torn by guilt (about Ariana) and heartbreak (about Gellert).
As for the HP/TR, it will be slow. Before they can start to even remotely like one another, they must first go through the colossal stage of learning not to hate each other. It might take... a few chapters. Which means around 20 of them. But don't be disappointed, I update pretty much everyday as things stand now, so it will eventually happen. Only when it becomes plausible, though.
Also, I want my readers' opinion on something. Do they want me to include secondary characters (such as Abraxas Malfoy or Headmaster Dippet) more actively in the plot or not? My initial thoughts are focusing solely on my main characters, since they is a lot to be written about them, but your wish is my command. Sometimes.
And btw, a big thank you to all reviewers.
Chapter 7
Riddle's PoV
The worn-out, leatherbound book in front of me speaks of ancient soul wards and defenses of the spirit, subjects that would under any other circumstances be of immense interest to me, and yet, though my eyes fall onto the yellowed pages, I feel my mind drifting towards a completely differet direction. Malfoy and Black, along with these smirking retards, Cornell and Crowley, are playing something similar to wizard's poker, occasionally disrupting the very appreciated silence with unhealthy bounds of snickering, mocking and other such irksome sounds.
I find myself forced to lift my head and ask them to stop intruding the sensitive vestibular-cochlear nerves that lie beyond my already abused auditory canals, a request which I practically hiss at them, causing them to fidget uncomfortably and lower their pathetic, empty heads.
Out of both fear and respect they quickly obey me, and I find myself joyous not only because of the beautiful silence reigning once again in the common room, but also for the reason that I do love to observe, day by day, my power over Hogwarts students growing exponentially.
And yet, inside me, a traitorous, disgusting little voice is still asking, questioning me repeatedly. "Do you think yourself a clinical psychopath? Do you, Tom? Is it perhaps that this world is not ugly and monstrous, as you think it to be, but you are instead?"
I order this one to shut up as well, but it does not obey.
Later, I am staring at myself in the mirror. The Slytherin common room is the only one to have a full-body mirror, as much as I know, and I am not sure whether this is because Salazar's students are more vain than the rest, or just more beautiful. What I do know is just how beautiful I am, and I gaze with pleasure at my porcelain skin, my naturally red lips, my deep azure eyes, chiseled cheekbones and ebony hair, feeling myself enamoured with what the mirror shows me. What that loathed little voice is telling me though, and I would strangle it had I not known that this voice is entirely my own, is that if I actually need my eidolon to remind me of how much I like myself, I must not be feeling very well today.
I do not, I admit.
I am feeling profoundly intimidated by the equally terrible and interesting events that occured inside the Chamber of Secrets, fearing a little for my own life and sanity, but also strangely exhilarated and awe-struck by my intense confrontation with someone of my caliber, or even above it. That... Potter, why would he refuse to make his task unimaginably easier by just deciding to casually murder me, when, according to his story, in his future I bring nothing but war and horror? I must be missing something, a crucial key to his motives and his manner of thinking, a secret hidden inside his soul that I cannot yet see, and is causing me confusion.
Either that, or he genuinely does not desire to kill me. Which, under the violent, hateful circumstances, even more so now than before my attack against him, makes no sense whatsoever, even to my greatly revered brain.
One thing I can conclude with a certain ease concerning my future behaviour, is that I should not anytime soon attempt to kill him again.
That is the case not only because it seems I have found in him a wizard that can actually overpower my magic, which is humiliating to me even though he does not seem to have any intention to physically damage me, but also it would be a an actual waste of time and energy on my part. So I delete any plans of revenge from my mind, focusing instead on how to possibly leech information out of him about his wishes and his mission, while also disctreetly pushing him towards revealing his true identity.
Something that can safely be deduced is that the man is clearly a time-traveller, for if I ever had any doubts about that even after his own admission of it, the basilisk's comment has now and forever banished them away.
Suddenly a horrible, bothersome, hideous emotion blooms inside me; one of admiration for a man that can travel through time, can cast spells without wands or words without their power diminishing, that can read the thoughts behind my eyes and tell me, in my face, what he thinks of me. As truly hard as I try, and as violently as I grit my teeth, I cannot help that emotion from blossoming inside me, filling me with an odd relief at the fact that someone like him truly exists, someone I can learn from and not look down to, someone to break my insane, horrific loneliness here, at the top of the world.
It is a relief, a guilty pleasure, to be able to feel admiration for someone; I had thought this emotion long lost to me.
My body, sweating, collapses onto the velvet-covered sofa, as repugnant, loud snores fill the common room from behind a number of closed doors. Why is it that a small, twisted, crazy portion of me is relieved to have been defeated, relieved to have been uncovered for the beast that I am, relieved to have been unmasked and seen and truly spoken to? Conflicting thoughts clash brutally inside my already greatly strained mind, and I feel as if I am drowning inside a nausea I can't quite explain.
Am I becoming tired of pretending, perhaps, of acting the part of the perfect boy, that it would be so liberating to be able to drop all pretense before someone?
Break dawns and I still find myself completely unable to drift to sleep, unwilling to face my ever disturbing but often strangely sensual dreams of pain and death and horror, these dreams that present themselves both as desires and as nightmares.
I think of the green man, and how he is simultaneously the most threatening and most interesting occurance of my life, how he may destroy my ambitions and plans forever, but aso break the unnatural dullness, senselessness of my life.
Because, as much as I do not wish to die, my life does not really feel real, for days pass and days go without me feeling anything, loving anything, longing for anything, my heart grey and dead and heavy, filled with either indifference or hatred, disgust for my fellow human beings and contempt for their petty emotions. And perhaps, I suddenly think to myself and a dark dread I cannot fathom grips me, I wish to bring upon this world death and horror and pain and destruction, perhaps I wish for an apocalypse and an armageddon, all in a desperate attemp to wake my hibernating soul up, to feel something, if only pain, if only terror.
This terrorising thought I swiftly chase away from my tired mind, my heart beating quickly and full of panic, and I solemnly swear to never allow it to creep back into my head. And yet again I regain my calm, and my composure, bringing to mind how many grandiose visions I have created within me, and how beautiful it will be to achieve them, and the thought of power and achievement fill me with a twisted determination and an inner peace. I will not so easily betray myself.
I am Lord Voldemort.
In the Great Hall, at breakfast, I am serene, my face blank, free of emotions. I act up as my usual quiet, charming self, and those around me, like pitiful, helpless flies get unwittingly caught inside the elaborate web of my boundless charisma.
I even meet the green man's eyes, without letting anything show, anything about my tormenting, sleepless night and the nightmarish thoughts that have been so unexpectedly plaguing me. I know that these thouhts he wakes up in me, they are his war against me, his weapon in steering me away from my destined path, and of course, being Tom Riddle, I refuse to lose a war, any war. Yet, I thank Hogwarts for the fact that I've no Transfiguration lesson today, for I do not honestly believe I myself reasy for yet another blunt, powerful attack, psychological or otherwise, conducted by the green man, my very own self-proclaimed saviour.
Potter's PoV
Yesterday, I was ecstatic. This one timid "I ...don't know", this miniscule moment of genuine vulnerability on Riddle's part had felt like a great victory to me, in spite of all my doubts, all my fears. My straight-forward question had shaken, must have shaken Riddle, causing even the tinest crack on his adamantine-hard shell. But today, in breakfast, he was nothing like what I had expected him to be.
Cool, composed, perfectly calm, perfectly beautiful, perfectly self-assured, his eyes emmiting a chilling cold and a dark determination.
It is only then that I truly realise just how difficult a road lays ahead of me, for this shy-looking boy has already lost most of his soul to his own bottomless loathing.
I watch how he looks at his peers, and although no one else seems to notice this, his face is seems to be saying "you are all children to me, pathetic, incomplete little children", and his lips are curving upwards a little, in cynical disapproval. How can I possibly stir him away from his future path when he has already so fully immersed himself into it, indifferent to anything not related to his own ambitions?
And yet, I remind myself, I must. And I have already made a decent start. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Neville, so many lives destroyed I can repare if I can only save Riddle. My hero complex is, in the end, always my most faithful source of motivation.
Later in the evening, I am walking towards the library when I come face to face with Riddle in an otherwise empty corridor. I stop walking, and after a moment of hesitation, during which I suppose he examined the option of simply ignoring me and walking on, so does he.
"Do you know now? You must have had time to think," I tell him in a simple, straight-forward voice. I try to keep my face as empty as his, so that I can show him just how discomforting this blankness can be.
"No. Besides, is there a difference really, whether what I am is nature or nurture?" he replies, and the tone of his voice is low and nearly seductive, a smirk twisting his lips. I deduce he has found his self-confidence again, and his sarcastic streak. It is almost eerie, how quickly he seems to have recovered from yesterday's events.
"Yes. In one case, I will have to teach you how to live a fulfilling life while pretending to be a human being. In the other, I might be able to help you actually become one," I state, and in spite of the smooth perfection of his mask, I can sense him digesting my heavy response.
"I doubt I will let you try any of these two, sir," he says, mockingly, and all of a sudden "sir" sounds like a vulgar insult to my ears. His void blue eyes are glowing and I decide he could make millions in the horror movie industry only with these two truly disturbing orbs.
"If you leave me no choice, I will unfortunately have to... simply dispose of you," I threaten, my voice cool, and I purposefully let my magic flare up around me, twisting into violent little tongues, having noticed that he can, somehow, sense it.
"Really? I doubt you would. You do not seem to want to," he answers once again, and his face is now a little less calm, giving me the impression that he is not exactly as insanely confident as he was before, even if he is still very much in control of himself. I find myself somehow angered, nonetheless, at his mockery and sarcastic tone, so I decide to push a little harder. Little bastard; I should have known he would identify my kindness as vulnerability and would seek to use it against me.
I tire of this game. After years of war, one loses the desire to exchange pleasantries.
"Listen now, little Tom; if I have to slaughter you, I surely will. You seem to forget that I, in fact, already have. I've seen your deformed body shrivel and burn, I've heard your inhuman shrieks of despair and I have stared right into your horrified eyes, or at least what was left of them. Do not ever mistake the fact that I have certain moral standards I abide to for weakness, because you will not live to regret your misconception. I do not desire to kill you, little boy, but if I have to, I will, and I will probably enjoy it," I hiss, and he looks like I've just spit onto his face, eyes widening, and wisely chooses to say nothing.
For a few seconds he is silent, the description of his death probably not sitting too well with him, but then he looks into my eyes, and offers me the most creepy, wide grin.
"That sounded just like something I would say. I'm beginning to get the feeling we are terribly similar, don't you think?" he notes, and looks happy, in a twisted way that no human should be. I repress a shiver, his words creeping under my skin. Our odd similarities: another weapon his future self had used time and time again against my then vulnerable mind. I can let it affect me no longer.
"I grew up believing I might turn into you, you know, knowing how similar we actually are. I didn't. So I have the practical experience required to help you not turn into you either," I reply with a note of black humour, ignoring the vicious intentions behind his last comment. Suddenly his face contorts a bit, and another facett of him comes into the surface, a part full of confusion and despair.
"How can you have such deluded opinions of me, you idealistic fool, when I can tell that at least you, unlike all these pathetic, pitiful worms around us, you can see me for what I truly am? I am a monster already, and you know it, and I know it, and your endeavours cannot change this, because this is who I am. I tortured little animals when I was still but a toddler. What part of it don't you understand? I feel nothing. I feel nothing," he declares spitefully, his voice rising, and by the end of the last sentence his tone has lost its usual monotone, flat quality. There is a strange flame burning and twisting behind his eyes, and his facial muscles are twitching.
One would see insanity in this, but all I see is despair. A few seconds later he is still panting a little, and he seems petrified by what he has just said. In a twisted way, he looks almost endearing in his evident denial.
"I beg to differ. An outburst like that is a clearly emotional phenomenon. What I think is that you feel many things. Even psychopaths feel things, you know. You are simply very afraid to face them," I say calmly, even gently, because he looks like he is on the very edge of reason, and about to cross over. His eyes lock into mine, full of renewed hatred, and he looks like wants to murder me for having uttered out loud any implications of weakness, of vulnerability, of trauma.
"So, what has hurt you Riddle, and made you into this?" I ask, very quietly and softly, unsure about my question, and its possible effects. His face instantly becomes a mask.
He draws his wand and throws a bone-breaking curse at me, that I barely have the time to deflect it, taking into consideration our physical proximity. While I do so, and without looking back, he runs off.
Dumbledore's PoV
I read the letter again, for the seventh time I think. I can tell I am smiling, and I can tell the world looks brigther today. I swallow a lemon drop. And yet, the bastard, he had me scared for a moment. Always a playful tease, my Gellert. I stare at the parchment again. Eighth time, by now.
Dearest Albus.
I am afraid a measly letter is not enough to make me steer clear of my path to power. Seeing as my plans seem to be advancing so incredibly smooth, I would find it very hard to abandon everything just now. Yes, an insignificant little letter means little to me now, for I am on my way to glory...
...
In order to abandon my grandiose ambitions, I would require at least a dozen more letters, and a live meeting during which you can convincingly argue that your love is worth more than world domination. Oh Albus, you fool... You probably have no idea how much this petty little piece of parchment you've scribbled on, with your familiar, unreadable letters, meant to me. Have you forgiven me then, dearest, for Ariana, and for our fights? I wish I could turn back time and bring her back to you, for I regret nothing more than having caused you such pain. I never thought you'd want to see me again.
My old friend, even war is less challenging to me than the endless conversations we used to have. Power is such a beautiful, addictive thing, but if you come to take me away from here, I might come with you, Albus. I used to have dreams for this society, when I was young. I had the world of Plato in my heart, a world where the wise would rule the commonplace men, for their own good. For the greater good. But I am older now, and I am still carrying on with this war for there is nothing else for me to do and Merlin knows I am angry, and I am bored.
I have blood on my hands, and I know you hate that. I doubt you will want me back once you see what I've become. Aurors have a price on my head, and the years have been unkind to me. I would still like to see you, though. I want to show you how close I am to finding the Deathly Hallows, because finding them without you by my side means so much less than it should.
Come and convince me then, Albus, for my German Muggle allies are becoming more insane by the day, and I fear I am beginning to hate them more than my own enemies. My followers adore me while I despise their weakness and narrow-mindedness, and no one seems to understand the beautiful ideals I once held dear. There's probably no hope for me anyway, for I know that should I take this too far, you'll surely come and try to stop me; and we both know that of the two of us, you were always the better duelist.
Maybe it was the plan all along, who knows. If I can't be your lover, I shall be your enemy, and at least, this way, still haunt your soul.
Albus, you are welcome to bring an end to my madness if you can.
Gellert.
