Disclaimer: Only the following things worth mentioning are mine: an awesome military jacket, three dogs, a piano, hunderds of books. Notice how I am not including Rowling's characters? And it's not because they're not worth mentioning.
A/N: Dear RRW wonders if Nagini can protect Tom Riddle from his foster father. Here I simply must clarify a few things. Riddle's foster father is not actually abusive. You might have read the description of their relationship through Tom's twisted mind, that perceives things differently than ours, but you must have noticed that never has any sexual abuse occured, and there has only been one truly violent incident in seven years. Tom Riddle might be unable to understand, having grown up in a screwed up environment, why a man would want to hug and kiss him and ruffle his hair, and thus perceives it as some kind of abuse. But believe me, if you also adopted a silent little kid from an orphanage with an evident attachment disorder, you'd probably hug them and kiss them too, and dress them up and tell them bedtime stories. It's a completely natural behaviour.
Also, Riddle disgustedly mentions how the man "wakes him up", "caresses his cheek" and asks to be "called father". How are any of these abusive? He is expressing affection for his adopted son, so what? He is trying to get a kid that has been with him for seven years to call him father, so? My dad used to wake me up with hugs until I was, like, 16. Tom Riddle's foster father is simply an affectionate human being, albeit a uncultivated and simple man of no particular grace, and he is trying to create a bond between himself and the kid he is trying to raise. Tom complains about being "stalked". He is a goddamn preteen, is he expecting to roam free without his guardian's supervision? If you check out the domestic abuse statistics in the UK, Riddle's foster father is actually a very good case. With a difficult, insulting, cynical and violent kid like Tom, other parents would have either resulted to kicking him out, or beating him up regularly. Especially if it wasn't their biological kid.
Sorry for that ramble. I just don't want to make out of that poor, sad guy a villain that he isn't. Tom's perception of things is not the objective truth.
Also, Barranca, I do want the link to that smut story involving Darth Vader, Ringwraiths and Snape at some point.
Chapter 14
Riddle's PoV
I walk to the Slytherin common room, a gorgeous snakeling in the colours of emerald and jade curled up beside my neck, and it occurs to me that perhaps I should have thanked Potter for purchasing this impressive and rather expensive familiar for me, especially since he doesn't seem to have any money but his measly wage, which makes sense, since he is a time-traveller. I put that thought aside somewhere, but admit to myself that I will probably conveniently forget to express my gratitude during our next confrontation, since I am not extremely fond of such courtesy when I am not actually assuming the role of the endearing orphan prodigy.
As I enter the common room, a few pairs of idiotic eyes fall onto my tiny scaled companion in awe, and soon I am bombarded with irritating questions by impressed morons.
I simply state that I have purchased a familiar, shrug, and then I impassively add a few tasteful details about how brutally venomous and intelligent said familiar is, stroking the nasty little lady with my index hedonistically. Sliding between gaping mouhs and widened eyes and avoiding the random comments of appreciation thrown at me, ducking a few pathetic attempts of other students to reach my shoulder I find my way to my room, and, my eyes glistering with the pleasure of causing a tumult of gossip and excitement around my person, I bid everyone goodnight. I might be quite the solitary soul, but sometimes I simply love attention.
Behind closed doors, I bring my as of yet tiny companion in front of me, and mutter another few hissy compliments on its lovely colour and elegant contour, and then, taking into account a snake's impressively accurate perception of magic and emotion, I decide to ask Nagini a few casual questions.
"Ssso, are happy to be my familiar, dearessst viper, or would you have rather preffered the green-eyed man to have kept you, mm?" I inquire curiously, eyeing the little lady. I wonder if I sound envious of Potter's evident magical talents and outrageous confidence, but don't actually care whether I do or not, for Nagini will have all the time in world to form an accurate opinon of me.
"I find you to be a mosst sssuitable companion, even more ssso as we are both of a very sssimilar age. In sssnake years of course, you humanss tend to mature fasster than us Green Vipersss. But your friend wasss rather appealing too," she gently hisses at me, her bright yellow eyes shaped into sharp slits, staring right into mine, and I find her most seductive, in spite of her youth.
"Wasss he? I hear that your kind isss actually very ssenssitive to magical signaturesss, would you mind giving me your impresssion of my magicksss, and of hisss?" I add in a casual tone, hoping to extract a little more information about the green man, information that humans are unfortunately most unable to acquire through their senses.
"You assk a lot of questionsss, but I like that and I will anssswer the besst I can. Your magickss are not very well tamed. They ssseemed ssavage to me. But they are alssso very, very powerful, and perfectly homogeneousss, like a huge green wave. They are mossst impressive. That other man'sss magicksss... They are not much sstronger than yourss, actually. But they are cssertainly better controlled. The nature of its ssignature is mossst peculiar though. It iss very uneven, with a few patchesss of red, a large amount of green patchess, and even patchess of black. Ass if he hass incorporated within him the magical signatures of many wizardsss. His green magicksss... They are eerily sssimilar to yoursss, you know, like it would be between twinss." the snake replies after a few seconds of deep thought, and I feel enthused by the maturity of my familiar's character and her most exquisite intelligence, for in spite of her years she provided a more interesting conversation than any of my classmates could.
Furthermore the information provided was absolutely fascinating, and brilliantly detailed, causing me to plunge into deep, concentrated syllogisms. This strange similarity between my magical signature and a part of Potter's own magic is certainly difficult for my brain to provide a rational explanation to, seeing as he is at least fifty years younger than me, if the time-travelling is taken into account, and thus I highly doubt we could be first degree blood relatives, unless he is my son, something which is not only disturbing as a concept, but also cannot possibly be the case, since he claims I have murdered his parents, and he certainly tends to be strangely honest.
Perhaps I should take advantage of his foolish sincerity and desire to be straightforward, and slyly leech the information I seek by simply using the cunning technique of asking face to face.
Nagini inquires whether I could provide a possible nest for her to rest in, so I transfigure one of my regular pillows into a fluffy, bloodcell shaped one and generously offer it to my newly acquired companion. Snakelings that are still in their most rapid phase of growth do require a lot of beauty sleep, so I leave my exquisite lady alone to regain her strenght and begin undressing myself languorously, equally worn out from today's excitiment. I try to avoid sensorily ackowledging the two oddly smooth stumps on my right foot, for I know they will only trigger unpleasant memories, or even agonising nightmares, and I also carefully avoid touching the hairless, creamy surface of my calves.
Only all this conscious effort to keep my thoughts away from the well only pushes my mind further towards the horrid, atrocious experience, and soon I find myself, in spite of my best effort, plagued with gruesome images of death and decay. I thus lie montionlessly in my hard, cold bed, my mind reeling around abominable pictures full of blood and mould, and wonder just how long it will take for me to once again achieve a fairly healthy sleeping pattern. Nonetheless, in this disgusting moment of weakness and need, Nagini's soft, barely audible snoring, which does sounds more like a gentle and even hissing sound really, offers some sort of quiet comfort.
Sleep brings no peace to me, for it only unbinds my delirious subconscience, unrestrains my phobias an unleashes them upon me in the form of dreams.
And therefore I am in a dark, humid well, hard walls of weathered stone closing in around me, and far above me, barely visible but undeniably present, is the green man, bathed in sunlight. "I am trying to help you" he shouts mockingly, and his face distorts into something monstrous, inhuman, and suddenly it is not him anymore, but a crazed, sadistic wizard, with red eyes full of mania, laughing self-appreciatively.
I believe it to be the twisted picture my mind has constructed out of Potter's fragmented information on my future self, but this rational explaination matters very little in a dream, for what really does matter is the fact this man in throwing corpses at me. Heavy, lifeless bodies begin to crash around me, their limbs breaking like petty twigs, blood gushing out of abhorrent wounds, and the stench of death fills my little prison and my struggling lungs.
"I am trying to help you" the man from above repeats, but his voice now is now insane, snake-like, low and uneven, betraying a personality with no restraints, no logic. Cadavers still fall like some kind of sickly rain, pieces of entrails splashing around me and causing me to experience an emetic fit, while I am increasingly immersed in organic matter in a state of necrosis. Soon enough I am practically buried alive in this mass of rotting flesh, and I am terrified and nauseated, about to lose my senses and perhaps even my life.
I try to scream, but my open mouth emits no sound whatsoever, just like back then in the well, after my vocal cords has been so brutally damaged, and my eyes widen in increasing panic.
Yet, this repulsive rain comes to an abrupt end, and as I raise my eyes towards the mouth of the well, instead of a destroyed, deranged version of myself, I see Potter once more, glaring down at me cooly and with a slightly apologetic expression, which I am unsure of how I manage to discern, since he is so far from, so terribly far. "I can do nothing for you," he finally says, and walks away impassively, leaving me alone, hopeless in the midst of death and ruin, decomposition, blood and fear, screaming for end to my torment, my voice forever unheard.
When I wake up, my mouth is open wide but soundless, and my jaw is so tighly clenched that my lower facial muscles ache badly, while my body is gleaming with fresh sweat. I evidently decide against a further attempt at resting, so I simply try to let my body relax while my tortured brain is clouded and restles, bather in mental agony. I think about waking my precious little familiar up, for perhaps in her endless reptilian wisdom she could offer me some advince on this case of recurring nighmares, but I find myself deeply ashamed to ask for anything at all.
The traitorous, pahetic voice in my head suggests that it would be most pleasant if the green man was in proximity, for he does often provide without forcing me to degrade myself by revealing my own needs. I sharply silence it, and glue my eyes to the ceiling, emotionlessly, as hours pass and pass, till sunrise.
Albus' PoV
I bask in the pleasant beehive feeling produced during Tuesday mornings in the Great Hall, before I actually notice that today's upheaval seems unusually wide-spread. It also occurs to me that most of the people whispering or shouting are holding a Daily Prophet, so I infer that either someone has cursed today's paper with a Confudus charm, or something important is written there. My first theory sounds far more credible, but since I am a very open-minded man, I do find myself a Prophet to take a look at. Surprisingly, something fairly interesting is indeed sprawled all over the front page. It actually reads:
Grindelwald's army collapses under internal conflicts. The Dark Wizard rumored to have killed a vast number of his own followers for unknown reasons, more on page 4.
Well, not unknown to me, I think, and sip my tea cheerily. Harry Potter, that sweet endearing boy, is seated a few seats away from me, looking at me with an impish grin extending from one of his ears, the left one I believe, right to the other. I obviously pretend to be utterly shocked by his silent suggestion that I, of all people, could have anything to do with such dreadful happenings, killings and all, but still do choke on my tea laughing.
I pleasantly observe him mirroring my wise action by choking on his own coffee, and note to myself that this young man has great potential for learning through imitation. My eyes then turn to the Slytherin table, where reactions seem to be less joyful and a little more disbelieving. Tom Riddle in particular looks quite striken but also very incredulous, his right eyebrow raised to amazing heights and his eyes squinting a fair bit as the animated newspaper.
If I did not know better, I would even say he seems to be mildly disappointed, if not crestfallen, but that would be a very rude thing to assume. He eats nothing, which is not actually even remotely unusual, and glides away from the Great Hall a little irritated, mumbling something that I do not quite catch. My state of mind does turn serious though, surprisingly it can, as I notice a few layers of glamour placed not only on his body, where I have been told by Harry that there might be a few nasty reminders he wishes to dispose of, but also on his face, and particularly under his eyes.
On a second thought, he does look paler than usual as well, and rather emaciated.
I turn around to my lovely teaching assistant, and find his bright green eyes following Riddle's form with evident concern, which makes me feel great relief. At least he seems to be fully capable of taking care of and noticing the occasional swings in Tom Riddle's fragile inner balance all by himself. I would have hated to have to interfere in any way in their budding relationship, even if to point Harry to the right direction, but evidently the powerful young wizard knows what he is doing, and perhaps I need his help more than he needs mine.
And anyway, I would not really know myself how to deal with Tom Riddle's frail mental stability, or lack thereoff, in spite of my admittedly vast knowledge and great magical achievements. I guess that these two wizards were destined to play a central role in each other's lives, whatever timeline they happened to interact in, and whatever the nature of the interaction might be; and I am not ashamed to say that in fact of being a grown man of a certain academic fame, I fully believe in fate. It is fate that brought Gellert to me and bound us in a profound, invincible way that neither war not death could, in the end, fully break.
So I guess it must be fate that brought Potter here, right by the side of his nemesis, ready to once again build most of his life around a man named Tom Marvolo Riddle. Just like he did before.
Potter's PoV
During my morning Transfigurations' classes with the second years, although I try my best to be an apt and entertaining educator, I find myself unable to properly concentrate. I am thinking of Riddle, that damned boy. What troubles me in not his reaction of irritation at the news of internal conflict within Grindelwald's side.
This was a very predictable one actually, since I know he greatly admires the man, a feeling that hardly ever occurs within Riddle otherwise. What did cause me to worry was his pasty complexion, the lack of energy in his movements and his evident and strangely weak face glamours, under which I could clearly see the signs of insomnia. I was hoping that even in an indirect manner, Nagini would help him break out of his spiral of horror and despair, but I guess that it will not be that easy. Perhaps I need to interfere more actively, even though I might risk an angry rejection once again. What I certainly cannot do is stand aside as he suffers, for it is suffering that will lead him to darkness and insanity.
These and more thoughts are passing through my busy mind as I impatiently wait for my class with the third years, where I''ll be able to take a closer look at Riddle.
But right now, Minnie McGonagall is asking me some unnecessarily complicated question on the transfiguration of pin cushions, so I do need to bring my mind back to the present moment and come up with a passable reply. She reminds me so much of a younger Hermione, that I actually have to bite my tongue a few times in order to not get the names confused, but what surprises me the most is that I feel no painful nostalgia for these people, such as 'Mione, that I so dearly loved and which I will probably never see again.
There is no place in my heart right now for anything but the raging war for Riddle's soul.