Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. Tom Riddle isn't mine either. Nor is Albus Dumbledore. Or Gellert Grindelwald for that matter. Are you beginning to see the pattern? Creepy huh?
A/N: Did any of you actually expect Riddle to accept Harry Potter's offer of custody? This battle is not going to be won so easily. So no need to worry, Rubedo dearest, I am not going to just throw them into each other's arms with no good reason. It's just not my style. I am all for long, hard roads.
To NougatEvolution: Actually I have more in mind than just explaining why the grandfather paradox hasn't affected Harry yet. It's only that I am not yet sure whether I will use this plot device or not. I just needed to have the theoretical foundations ready. About Elend's Charis... Well, I listen to it in repeat for hours when I write, it makes sense it would actually suit my writing style. Elend's Wake of the Angel also makes a good side song; I mean, it does open with "I am the eyes of the Basilisk", how much more suitable could it be?
Furthermore, as you can see this is the second chapter I write in one day, so please be lenient with typos and such. I am afraid that if I write any slower, my inspiration will forever be lost, like sand between my fingers. I am eventually, and soon enough, going to re-edit all this mess, but first I need to get it all out of my system, regurgitate it now, while it's still all crystal clear inside my mind.
A small note on timetables, for nitpicker freaks only: In my imaginary third year of 1940, students have a Transfiguration lesson 3 times a week. On Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, to be exact. The reason that during Harry's first week in the past he only had two lessons with Riddle was because he arrived on a Monday evening, and therefore missed the Monday class.
Chapter 12
Riddle's PoV
Breakfast in the Great Hall is the same annoying ordeal it usually is, with emptyheaded children producing senseless noise, gossip and general auditory garbage, all amidst clinging forks and breaking plates; a mess of Howlers, giggles, flirting, tears and then some other meaningless little tragedies. My stomach refuses to allow any nutrients in, so I push my plate away from myself in disgust, feeling uncomfortable and irritated, a real outsider in this hideous carnaval of immaturity and emotional outbursts, for which I feel only scorn and contempt.
I cannot even bother putting up my usual act, my usual mask; smiling at the students that fancy me as to keep their interest alive, chatting with the Slytherins, these worms that think they are snakes, and exchanging a few sarcastic pleasantries with the Gryffindors or the Ravenclaws. Instead, too tired of this meaningless exercise in social etiquette and manipulation, I show myself as he really is, gazing over the world indifferently, detachedly, erasing all traces of friendliness from my handsome face. The other students, in spite of their moronic ignorance and cheerful stupidity, their gigantic inferiority shining in all it's appaling glory, do notice a tangible difference, and a catch a few glances of worry and concern.
They probably think I am upset over something, or sad, I deduce and I can't help but inwardly laugh at their innocent assumption; they would never understand that what I am right now is just me. Only a pair of eyes looks at me without childish curiosity, without silly concern, worry or desire; and it is a pair of green eyes, steady and bright, from the far end of the Hall and right into me.
All lessons seem to pass in a breeze, for I needn't even break a sweat, I needn't even be mentally present in order to answer all questions and fulfill all tasks I am presented with. So once again, I am showered with enthusiastic compliments, eyed with admiration and envy, pointed at as a model student and followed as an exampled, a standing ovation during which my mind is barely there, most of it lost in the dark folds of my twisted past. A great clock in ticking inside my head, counting down to my Transfiguration class, to the next event of any actual importance to me that is, and it ticks and ticks while I watch life flow by uninterested.
When I walk into Double-dope's classroom, I am immediately told by the meddling old fool to join Potter in the neighbouring classroom, so I quietly take leave and walk to the otherwise empty room. There I find him, sitting on a desk with an inebriant, intoxicating magical aura surrounding his strong body, and as soon as I come in, his eyes, steady and bright, nail themselves on me. He hops off the desk, and approaches me in a simple, bold manner that feels nothing like the Slytherin predatorship I am used to, his lips ever so slightly curving into a smile.
"How are you feeling today, mr Riddle?" he asks, and although his voice is void of sarcasm and perhaps even concerned, I decide that he simply must be mocking me, for he knows full well how unpleasant these days have been for me. How dare he, this arrogant, foolish man, ask me such a preposterous question, as if he hadn't witnessed my agony, my devastation, I think to myself, and I can't help but grow offended, if not infuriated.
"Better than the time I was forced to eat my childhood companion, if that alleviates your worries," I bite back venomously, stressing every word, and I have a seat in front of the young man, who flinches a bit at the cruelty of my reply, as I gladly observe.
"Although I must admit that recently I have been feeling something... missing. Perhaps my two toes. Or a few layers of skin off my legs. But that's just a wild guess. I might have been marginally better if some people had not chosen to bring these details to my attention so thoughtlessly," I continue with unfaltering poison tainting my voice, somehow turning my own horror into hatred, presumably because I am only too used to hating. I am unsure of the reason myself, but somehow I suddenly feel the need to take my anger out on the green man, and although I know that I seem to be accusing him of an event for which he is not the slightest bit responsible, I cannot control this irrational urge, and so I throw at him a glare of furious resentment and enmity.
I see him cringe a little more, and this time I am not actually satisfied by that, because I can tell I am being neither logical nor self-disciplined. Then his eyes begin to shine dangerously, and I can tell he is irritated by my behaviour, his squared jaw clenching and his eyebrows frowing ever so slightly.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle, has it ever occured to you that when I look at you I see the murderer of my parents and the man that threw an Avada at me when I was still an infant? And that I also discern the killer of many of my friends and classmates, and generally a twisted, cruel creature that is responsible for my entire life having been drenched in blood and death? And I can tell that even right now, at the tender age of thirteen, you are fully capable of murder, of turning your wand against a newborn babe if that can help you attain immortalty," he suddenly says, and his voice is threateningly low, deeper than it usually sounds, richer, and also very, very cold.
Is he right? As things stand now, would I thoughtlessly kill an infant if it would help me further my goals? Yes. Yes, I probably would, I think detachedly.
He approaches me even further, leaning towards me so that our faces are but inches apart, and for a moment I fear for myself a little, as pathetic as that is, wondering if he is perhaps having second thoughts on disposing of me in a easy and swift manner, and paling at the thought. Yet I cannot help but having occur to me that this man grew up as an orphan because of me, and that I therefore inflicted upon him, in a sense, the very same bleak past that shaped me into a hollow person, something which he could rightfully kill me for.
Only I am really not quite fond of the concept of death, for I am very tied with my consciousness, and I thus discover my hand fidgeting inside my robes, looking for a wand to grasp just in case this whole confrontation takes a rather unfortunately turn.
"If I, being the foolish Gryffindor that I am, can still manage to control my well documented anger, I am sure that you, a cool and collected Slytherin, can manage to not spitefully accuse me when I am certain you realise that I'm simply trying to be of help. It is really unbecoming, and unwise," he concludes, sharply, and I do unfortunately recognise he has a rather valid argument, and feel disappointed with my own silly outburst, for being a bitter and feebleminded loudmouth is very unlike me.
I am composed, and I am discreet and elegant, so this kind of behaviour is clearly unacceptable even to my own standards. To him I simply nod, trying to chase the outrage of having been so bluntly criticised, something which I am very obviously unused to, for I have never before lost my perfect composure, let alone been criticised about it.
"It was uncalled for," I respond quietly, in a forced factual tone, and this is perhaps the closest to an actual apology I have ever offered in my life. To my unimportant, unrefined, banal classmates and my ludicrous, ignorant teachers I can easily say 'Of course Sir, I am so sorry Sir!', but this is only because I am using these words a web, without giving them meaning, a web in which these weak people are caught and forced to like me. To Potter I cannot offer an empty, calculated, hypocritical apology of this sort unfortunately, for I fear it would only offend him even more, so I give him the best I can possibly do to sooth his dangerous anger.
He seems mildly pacified, and he physically retreats, probably happy to have intimidated me, this horrible, aggravating wizard.
In the back of mind, a small, traitorous voice observes that in spite of how vexing most of my encounters with him are, they are the moment of the day when I truly come to life. And of course, as usual, I hate him for that.
Potter's PoV
"Can you cast a fully corporeal, matter-dense Patronus yet, Riddle?" I then ask, in a light, neutral manner. I even smile at him, in a lets-just-ignore-the-animosity way, and he seems to get it. So he simply answers, like any old student would.
"Not exactly. My silver cloud has been taking the form of a snake, but the outline is still considerably blurred and the body of the Patronus spell is not nearly as dense as it should be," the boy replies, and his features clearly convey his irritation, for academically he is a really compulsive perfectionist. I can tell he clearly does not enjoy having to admit an incomplete success, and I am pleasantly surprised he does anyway.
"I'll show you my own Patronus. It will probably help you visualise your goal," I tell him. I have always liked showing my Patronus around, and it is not only because it is magically excellent and I always got complimented on it, but also because my stag simply makes me feel good. So I let my mind dig up cherished memories of a laughing Ron, of flying on a broom, and Remus ruffling my hair, and I lovingly whisper the incantation.
Between me and Tom Riddle appears a very large, solid stag, slender and majestic, shining in all his silver glory, with a magnificent pair of glistering antlers. Riddle face looks mildly impressed, and I can therefore infer that he is extremely impressed. He extends his hand, his movement slow and mesmerized, and he gently scratches the Patronus' neck. Thank you Prongs, I will be seeing you around, I think and dismiss the Patronus, causing Riddle to look a little bit disappointed.
I suddenly feel the urge to tell him that what he just saw was my father, this proud, regal being, the father that he robbed me of, with his sick obsessions and twisted ambitions, but I hold myself back, for more accusations serve no purpose.
"How can you actually achieve such a... splendid Patronus? It doesn't seem to me that you have too big a stock of blissful memories, either," Riddle asks quietly, his eyes still looking a little bit fascinated, and I am astonsihed by the word "splendid" coming out of young Voldemort's mouth. This apathetic, cocky boy, he scarcely ever attributes positive characteristics to anything, so this word is received by me as a very unexpected compliment. Skillful magic, I gather, is a kind of beauty even he can appreciate. I also notice that the soft blue hue colouring his irises right now gives them an appearance of innocence as opposed to coldness, and I unwillingly note to myself that he'd be loved by Renaissance painters.
"It is not about how many good memories one has. It's about whether he treasures them as fondly as they deserve to be treasured. How did you feel when you first laid your eyes upon Hogwarts?" I ask him, remembering full well my own initial astonishment and endless joy. Having come from the grey, hostile world of muggles, like I did, he must have felt some measure of excitement at the sight of the famed castle, I reckon.
"I was... somewhat impressed," he replies dispassionately, arching one of his eyebrows elegantly. I can translate that into "actually, I am really disappointed with Hogwarts. I have nothing more to gain here".
"I can see that you have demystified Hogwarts in your mind, since it can no longer catch your interest like it once did. But I need you to try and remember how you really felt when, as age eleven, you first lifted your eyes towards this majestic, ancient castled, bathed in moonlight and magic," I stress, urging him to put some effort into it. He gives me a disinterested look.
"Alright. Lets do this together then," I say, and without warning I invade his mind with a silent Legillimens. I am careful not to examine any other memory but the one I am here to get, because I do not want to violate whatever trust there could be more than I did simply by casting this spell. I find the memory easily, for Riddle pushes it towards me, aware of what I am looking for, and I silently thank him for his cooperation. We dive into it together.
I am Tom Riddle, eleven years old, and I try to be a somewhat introverted but infinitely polite little orphan, so as to make everyone like me. I am sitting in a boat, proud of how everyone already seems so taken with me, looking up to the night sky. The stars seem unusually bright, and although I always knew I was different from the stupid, disgusting people surrounding me, I can still hardly withold my excitement. I squint in order to be able to discern the shape of a castle appearing from within the darkness, my heart beating faster than it should.
Soon the castle is in front of me, and all these kids around me are gaping like silly fish, which I try not to, although the sight is absolutely amazing. I can barely believe my luck, because this magical place will now be my home, and I will no longer have to put up with the oily man and his kind all year, and perhaps I will one day be able to make them into toads. Instead I will be here, in this magestic, ancient monument, learning how to be a strong wizard, how to transform things and fly on a broom. My chest swells with anticipation, and joy as the boats approach the shores of the lake. I grab this last thought, and plunge into it again.
My chest swells with anticipation, and joy as the boats approach the shores of the lake.
My chest swells with anticipation, and joy as the boats approach the shores of the lake.
My chest swells with anticipation, and joy as the boats approach the shores of the lake.
I very abruptly pull out, and before I can even adjust to the material world, I urge Riddle to cast a Patronus. His slightly dazed eyes meet mine, and I can tell he wants to tell me something about having entered his mind without warning, but I urge him again, now that the emotion is fresh, and he complies.
"Expecto Patronum" he casts in a somewhat breatheless voice, and a blast of silver comes out of his wand, twisting swiftly into the form of a large and elegant snake, a reptile as majestic and sublime as a Basilisk. Soon enough the silver clouds of light around it are absorbed into the body of the spell, and the form becomes clear, the contour solid. The bright snake hisses gleefully, and slowly climbs around Riddle's body.
I can tell it is a very potent Patronus, dense and radiant, and I cannot help but admire its imposing form. The young boy seems to be glowing in delight, staring at the beautiful reptile with uncovered fascination, perhaps even affection. He places one of his hands on the snake's graceful head, and the silvery animal rubs itself on it with great pleasure. Riddle, caressing his regal companion, seems to be very proud of himself, and then he turns around and beams at me, the first genuine smile I have ever seen from him.
With his features lit by the pure glow of the Patronus, and a smile on his face, I am astonished by how angelic he looks. I can barely believe how much darkness and violence is still hidden behind this deceitful appearance, but I can at least unerstand why none of his other teachers would have noticed his twisted personality. If he were a hideous creature, deformed and repugnant like his future self, ugly enough to be in harmony with his equally ugly inner world, he would at least be a creature of balance.
And in this sense, Voldemort, the future Voldemort, is exatly what he looks like, predictable and plain. Tom Riddle is different, for his face is lying to you by its shape alone.
And it is this very contrast between his beauty and the heinous soul he carries that makes him, to my eyes, the most frightening, absurd monster there is.