The Voldemort Diaries—Chapter 8 (Portrait of a Man)
September 18, 1940
"I said to myself it wasn't over when the Gryffindorks convinced Minerva to shun me," Tom hissed at the portrait of Salazar Slytherin. He paced back and forth before the picture, his dark eyes gleaming as he gloated over his revenge. He'd bided his time—all summer and two weeks into the new term—to avoid any association or hint of impropriety on his part, and it had paid off nicely. "That Alfred Bucket thought he was so tough, didn't he, then? He doesn't think so now, if he thinks anything at all."
"What did you do?" asked Salazar curiously. For a former teacher, he seemed remarkably unconcerned that a boy had been hurt.
"He's a Quidditch chaser. Apparently Minerva has an affinity for the game and anyone who plays it," Tom spat out, no longer looking pleased. "No one can prove I charmed his broom to go faster, and made it harder to control. It was inevitable he'd fall off, and good fortune he was high up when he did. I'd only hoped to make a fool of him in front of everyone, but this was so much more satisfying." Tom's mood brightened considerably as he dwelt on the ramifications of his spell. "The stupid Gryffindor will be in the hospital for a good long while."
Salazar nodded sagely, albeit a bit sadly. Godric Gryffindor had been his friend at one time, but after their falling-out, Salazar had left Hogwarts. He'd heard that relations between his House and Godric's had remained strained, though he'd assumed all these centuries would surely serve to lessen the divide, not exacerbate it. Evidently he was wrong.
At last, sighing, he said in ordinary English, "Why is it witches and wizards must fight one another? Is it not enough that we must band together against muggles for our mere survival?"
The teenager looked askance at him, eyes narrowed. "The world has changed a lot since you were alive. Hasn't anyone ever told you that?"
There was a deep-throated laugh of derision. "They've hidden my portrait in this labyrinth. I can count on one hand the number of students who have seen me, let alone taken the time to speak with me." He held up one bony hand beside his face. "And none save you in centuries. Were it not for occasional visits from a few portraits, I'd have had no company at all."
Riddle paused before responding. Most students never ventured further than the common room or dormitories, they had little interest in exploring the maze of hallways in the dungeons. If Slytherin had not spoken to a student for over two hundred years, he would naturally assume that things had gone on as they had for—well, forever. Until the Industrial Revolution, not much had changed from age to age.
"For the past century or so, the magical world has hidden itself from the muggles," explained Tom, carefully noting the incredulous set of the old Founder's face. "Now they no longer even believe witches and wizards exist."
Dumbfounded, Salazar murmured, "That's not possible."
"Of course it is. The muggles are stupid sheep; they believe what they're told to believe and see what they want to see," answered Riddle with a sneer. "I can't speak for the rest of the world, but in England it's so."
"But surely the beasts still produce magical children," Salazar argued. "What happens then?"
Tom pulled a twisted face. "Yes, the filthy creatures continue to be born, but their parents don't realize what it means unless a witch or wizard makes contact to explain it to them."
Salazar sat pondering for such a long time that Tom wondered if he was going to respond at all. When he finally broke his silence, a spark of hope tainted by disbelief shone in his eyes, and he spoke as if he were still alive and actively involved in society. "So if the general non-magical population is no longer aware of our existence, we need no longer fear their persecution. This is momentous news!"
Dipping his head in token acknowledgement, the youth replied, "True. On the other hand, why should we have to hide from them? We are the ones with power, we ought to be ruling the world, including subjugating muggles for our benefit."
Slytherin shook his head vehemently. "There are many more of them than us, Tom. I lived in a time when we were hunted and afflicted because they feared us. They outnumbered us, we could not fight them all. They would rise up and destroy your world if you revealed yourselves to them."
Tom ducked his head, pretending to think, his lips struggling to hold back a smile as he played on the old wizard's emotions. "Then perhaps I shouldn't bother letting loose the basilisk."
"It is all the more important that you do!" snapped Salazar in agitation. "Letting mudbloods into the school allows their muggle families to know about the magical world! It endangers all you've tried to hide."
Feigning a revelation, Tom conceded with a tiny smirk, "Of course you're right. Once the basilisk runs off the mudbloods, the teachers will see it is unwise to contact muggles and blab about our world. We can finally live in peace without interference from the lesser beings."
"Precisely," agreed the Founder, switching to parseltongue. "Which reminds me: I need to teach you spells and phrases to control the basilisk. We may as well begin now."
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Tom made sure not to arrive early for lunch in the Great Hall. He'd also instructed his followers to hold back until a good many witnesses were present to make their entrance, thereby excluding them from suspicion of illicit activity before the student body arrived. Oh, there had been that one order to Dolohov and Mulciber to 'prepare for the event', but they'd gotten in and out long before the first pupil showed up for the meal.
The gang settled in at the Slytherin table as usual, all on one side facing the Hall. As if not anticipating anything out of the ordinary, they filled their plates and chatted and ate like every other day. All around them, people talked and laughed and indulged, exactly like any other meal.
Then, all of a sudden, the thunderous sound of thick wood cracking filled the Hall; screams, horrendous crashes, and thumps immediately followed. All talk and eating stopped as heads swiveled, searching for what had occurred, and the spectacle was not hard to spot: every Gryffindor bench had simultaneously collapsed, their broken-off legs shooting out in all directions as the pupils tumbled to the floor on top of one another. Plates, cups, and remnants of food covered the floor and the children, who wallowed amid the wreckage trying to stand up and help their companions.
From the Head Table up front, the professors came running to assist students who were shrieking or moaning from various injuries, including twisted and broken limbs, and crushed fingers or feet. The reaction of the general student body ranged from undisguised hilarity to sheer disgust at such a dangerous prank. At the Slytherin table, none of Riddle's comrades dared more than an assiduously-practiced, wide-eyed expression of horror. They could laugh and congratulate each other later, in private.
Professor Dippett, the Headmaster, stood up and surveyed the crowd very sternly. "This was no accident. Whoever is responsible, bear in mind that we will be investigating this cruel, unprovoked incident. Go on to your classes now."
Tom timed his leaving to coincide with meeting Minerva, who looked shaken up but sound and healthy. "You weren't harmed, were you?" he asked.
"No, I'm alright," she said, glancing back at several of her Housemates on the floor yet. "Who would do such a mean thing?"
Shrugging in bemusement, Riddle answered in a sympathetic tone, "I don't know. I'm glad you're okay."
"Thank you, Tom," Minerva said, smiling up at him. "That's very kind of you." She waved surreptitiously, her hand low down at her hip lest her Housemates see, and slipped out the door.
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June 25, 2000
Sept. 18, 1940
This year is hopping along rather well so far. My fourth year teachers all like me, naturally…only Dumbledore seems cautious to trust me. I can't let my guard down around him. It's my own fault for blabbing to him the first time we met, but it was so exciting to learn I wasn't a freak, I'm a strong wizard. Nonetheless, he is also a Legilimens; I will exercise vigilance.
Salazar taught me a new spell today to aid in controlling the mind of the basilisk when I awaken it. I really should ask Salazar if the basilisk is male or female. I hate referring to the creature as 'it', when it will be, for all intents and purposes, my servant. Maybe even a sort of pet, though I find animals tedious and needy.
My vengeance on the Gryffindors has gone according to plan. Alfred Bucket has been punished for his impertinence, and Minerva is free of his domineering influence. I found it necessary to hex Dolohov and Mulciber for failing to protect Minerva when the benches at the table collapsed. I specifically ordered them to distract her, keep her from the Hall—I even provided one of her books that Rosier nicked from her in Astronomy class, which they were to return to her by way of a note directing her to its location. Had she been preoccupied retrieving the book, there'd have been no danger of her being hurt. Dolohov forgot to owl the note to her, and Mulciber forgot to remind him. Next time they will step more carefully.
I spoke briefly with Minerva after the incident, which is the only reason I didn't use the Cruciatus on those bumblers. I don't understand why I want to talk to her, only that it makes me feel good to do so. Except that strange, warm sensation that came over me today when she smiled at me; I really must go to the infirmary and have the mediwitch check to see that I'm not ill. When I told Nott, I swear he looked primed to tell me it was love. He's very weak that way, his whole family is the same. Instead, he kept his mouth shut, to his benefit. Why can't anyone else comprehend that interest, lust, or desire do not equal love? I would never be foolish enough to love, because love leads to weakness. And Lord Voldemort is not weak!
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Breathing in shallow, frenzied gulps, Bayly surveyed Snape's office briefly before heading for the desk. It was the most logical place to keep those diaries Aline had told him about, the ones making Professor Snape act so oddly. Everyone noticed it; even Professor McGonagall had commented on it, which wasn't her style at all.
As they put away supplies for the summer, now that all the children had gone, Aline had mentioned to Bayly that she intended to search her husband's office, only the man stuck to her like a shadow. She'd begun to wonder if he'd used Legilimency on her, if he knew her plan and was deliberately thwarting it. And so, like a caring friend, Bayly had taken it upon himself to ransack the office. Alright, ransack was a harsh, inappropriate word; but he had come to steal something, so it was hardly an innocent happening-by.
Every drawer of the desk was locked. No surprise there. If they hadn't been, that would have been a shocker and cause for real alarm. Bayly snapped his wrist and his wand flipped into his fingers. Alohomora was ineffective. He tried every variation he knew of every spell and charm remotely connected to locks or warding, to no avail, until he was becoming right panicky that the headmaster would catch him in the act and do unspeakably gruesome things to him.
"Why don't you try Dimitto binta, an ond eal," suggested Albus from his portrait.
The young man's head whipped up at the voice, his heart caught in his throat. "Oh, it's you," he whispered. "Thanks, I will." A moment later, the top drawer slid open easily, revealing a stack of old, leather-bound diaries.
"Severus may be wily, but I've known him most of his life," Albus smiled as he popped a tart cherry drop into his mouth. "He realises that almost no one would know that spell."
"Why's that?" asked Bayly, getting antsy to leave.
"Because I invented it, and it was never made public," replied Dumbledore, eyes twinkling madly.
"Why are you helping me rob him?" asked Bayly, more wary than curious.
"Because he's become irrational. He can't see how those things affect him, although everyone else evidently does. And because I've seen and heard enough of you to believe you're a good soul. That said, I strongly advise you to keep them closed, do not read a single word, lest they prey upon your mind as well," Dumbledore admonished.
"I'll do that, sir. Thank you." Bayly scooped up the books, closed the drawer, and hustled out of the office as fast as his Quidditch-strengthened legs would carry him.
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The Burrow, as usual, abounded with people. Any news gathered from outside quickly made the rounds here, including Charlie's impending journey to the Ukraine with none other than Draco Malfoy. In fact, the topic had been a hot one around the home ever since Charlie brought it up. At the moment, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Romilda Vane had kicked back in the living room on the ground floor, all discussing and dissecting the information.
"And Charlie believes that Malfoy can talk to dragons!" scoffed Ron with a snort thrown in for good measure. "Just because Malfoy claims he can. I can't believe that Malfoy git! He'll say anything, won't he?"
Ginny shoved her brother's feet off the coffee table to make room for her own. "Why would he lie about it, Ron? He'd be found out pretty quickly."
"I think it's fascinating," interjected Romilda as she cuddled against Ron. "My mum's great-aunt used to have a familiar she talked to all the time…but it was a cat. I've never heard of people talking to dragons."
"I have," said a deep voice. Charlie came in carrying a steaming cup of coffee and leaned on a support post facing the group. His long red hair was pulled up into a loose ponytail, his rolled-up sleeves displaying his powerful biceps. "It's a very rare talent. You all can't get enough of talking about Draco, can you? Are you jealous, Ron?"
Ron snorted again and made a face at him. "He's a liar, Charlie," he insisted, nudging Harry to back him up. Harry remained strangely silent as he had for the entire conversation, so Ron continued, "It's best you find out now. He's probably got some evil trick up his sleeve."
"Like what?" challenged the older Weasley. "If he meant to cause trouble, isn't going all the way to the Ukraine a bit of a stretch? And I'm hardly worried that he can outduel me."
Ron paused to ponder. "Well, maybe he—"
"Ron, can we talk about something else? Please?" Harry interrupted, looking disgusted. He sent a plaintive expression Charlie's way.
Charlie smiled and took the hint, along with a swig of coffee. "Ron, let it go. We all know what Lucius Malfoy did to Ginny with that diary horcrux thing, even if we can't prove it. Draco is not his father, and maybe you all hated each other in school, but you're grown up now. Try to act like it."
Shooting his brother a disgruntled frown, Ron opened his mouth to reply when he was cut off by a sharp rapping at the back door. Not waiting for an invitation, Regulus stuck his head in.
"Hey, all! Can I come in?" As he said it, he walked on in with nods and waves to the group. "Hi, Harry. I've been searching for you."
"Regulus!" exclaimed Harry. From the tone, one might guess he'd not seen the youth for ages. For the first time since the Draco conversation had begun, he looked happy. He got up to offer Reg his hand and made a motion toward an empty seat. "Did you get those tickets?"
In answer, Reg reached into the breast pocket of his robes and produced four tickets for a World Wrestling Federation event being held in Boston, Massachusetts. He waved them like a fan as he crooned, "King of the Ring competition tonight. The Rock goes for the WWF championship in the main event, a six-man tag team." He actually let out a gleeful giggle, followed by an embarrassed flush.
"The Rock?" repeated Ginny. "Is that some ugly bruiser?"
"Indeed not," said Regulus incredulously. "Geez, Harry, don't you talk to Ginny about your extracurricular activities? Ginny, dear, Rock is considered one of the buffest—that's the word, yeah?—and fittest men in wrestling. I'll have to show you the photo—muggle photo, mind you—that I got of me with the Rock in October of last year. He was in a steel cage match with Triple H, but I suspect you don't know who that is, either." Here he looked rather glum. "Sorry I haven't got a ticket for you. I know you'd like it."
"I didn't think you'd be interested," Harry protested at his girlfriend's inquisitive stare.
"You could've asked," said Ginny, a tad miffed. "I like sports, and you know I'm really into muggle stuff."
"Not me," Romilda cut in. "I mean about sports. I'd rather stay home with Ron." She shot a meaningful glance at her beau.
Proving that he was not always a thick-headed ninny, Ron piped up, "Ginny can have my ticket. I'll go to the next one." He squeezed Romilda's hand and smiled.
"Thanks, Ron, that's so…not like you!" Ginny responded enthusiastically, jumping up and down slightly on the sofa. "But it was so nice. This'll be fun, Harry!"
Charlie pulled an old "I Like Ike" campaign pin from his jeans pocket. "This is the portkey we'll use to get there and back. Make sure you and Sirius are here by midnight. We don't want to be late."
"If I can pry him away from Daphne," retorted Regulus, grinning good-naturedly. "I'm on my way to Hogsmeade, to that candy store I used to love. I'll get us some snacks to take along. Here, before I forget." He handed one ticket each to Charlie, Harry, and Ginny, all of whom began to examine them with interest. "I already gave one to Sirius. I'd better get going, I'll see you later!"
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The instant Severus entered his office, he knew something was afoot. The portraits stopped chatting, for one thing, and they all stared directly at him. Not typical. Usually they simply ignored his comings and goings. If he'd been in his normal frame of mind, he'd have asked if he had a milk mustache or had perhaps grown a hump. Since he avoided milk, as a rule, due to the associated cramping he'd developed of late, he was fairly sure the former was not valid.
Eyeing them all suspiciously, he slinked across the room to his desk and sat down. He muttered the unlocking spell under his breath, opened the top drawer, and stopped dead. They were gone. The place where they should be stood empty in silent testimony.
"W-what?" he stammered. A rising of blood caused a cacophonous pounding in his ears, accompanied by a desperate desire to vomit. He lifted his face, pale as a freshly bleached sheet; for once his deadpan expression was gone. "Where are my diaries?"
No one offered a reply. Phineas Black got up and vacated his portrait; several others followed suit.
Severus wheeled on Dumbledore's portrait, his frantic shock replaced by wrath. "Who took them, Albus? You must have seen!"
"Severus, calm down—"
"I will not calm down!" Snape bellowed, slamming his fist on the desk as he rose. "Tell me who stole my property!"
"No."
Snape aimed his wand at the spot exactly midway between the pair of half-moon spectacles. As fear of death was not really an option here, it carried far less weight than it would with a live individual. "I'll torch you."
Dumbledore shrugged. "There are plenty of other portraits of me."
Lips twitching convulsively from the furious outrage, Snape whirled again. Not one former Headmaster remained in his frame to be questioned. He turned back to the maddening Dumbledore…..he'd get no answers from him. He crossed the room in two strides and ripped the portrait off the wall, then flung it as hard as he could across the room before storming out the door. The portrait slapped the wall, chipping a corner of the frame, and dropped to the floor where it wobbled unsteadily and landed face down on the cold stones.
