The Imposter Complex

by Notus Oren

Tom Riddle escapes at the end of Chamber of Secrets, and is quite surprised to find that nothing about the future is as he ever thought it would be. Soon, Tom finds himself on a globe-spanning quest to follow the path his forebear blazed and perhaps, at the end, to put a stop to him once and for all.

27. Denison Has You, Tom

The Imposter Complex, Chapter 27: Denison Has You, Tom.

Disclaimer: Particularly graphic violence in this chapter.

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Drip

...

Drip

...

...

Drip drip

That infernal noise was going to drive me mad, I just know it.

'Crouch!' I snapped. 'How close are you to plugging that leak?'

Our host shifted at my shout, but I ignored him with a practiced ease.

'No sooner, my lord.' Crouch admitted gruffly from where he hung in open space by the ceiling. The once-deranged man had taken to Flight like a duck to water. 'These enchantments are, I'm afraid, beyond me.'

I scowled, but was not surprised. This place was always intended to be vindictive.

'Whatever, fine, get down here. I have a task for you.'

Crouch swept down in a single elegant motion, ending in a kneel at the foot of my chair. I seized his chin with my over-long, spiderlike fingers, inspecting my work.

He looked drastically better than when he had first come to me. His eyes no longer moved freely in separate directions. His thoughts were coherent, he could maintain a semi-normal attention span. He had even stopped screaming in his sleep. He could almost pass as an ordinary person when out in the world. All-in-all, a fine prototype for my other servants that have so long languished in Azkaban.

'The re-emergence of Grindelwald has complicated matters greatly. We can no longer afford to wait for the optimum opportunity to present itself; we will need to manufacture one ourselves. I need you to travel to England, liaise with our man in the field. Tell him we're moving the timetable forward... six months. He is to compile a list of assets that he needs in order to fast-track things, and then you are to report back to me.'

Crouch hesitated. I saw the doubts in his mind, even as he tried to quash them.

'You have concerns, Crouch? Well air them, by all means.' I drawled, my mocking tone evident.

'No my lord, it's just... you had said we had to move slowly. To avoid attention from Dumbledore.'

'Indeed, even now he attempts to seek me out. His tenacity is... almost admirable. But I believe he will be more than preoccupied by Grindelwald. Ironic, a silver lining to our latest contender.'

'Yes my lord.'

He remained kneeling there.

'Crouch?'

'Yes my lord?'

'Are you waiting for me to Crucio you?'

His eyes widened, stretching the burn scars that lingered still across his face.

'N-no my lord!'

'Then why are you still here?'

I summoned my wand to my hand with a flicker of willpower. Crouch yelped fearfully, and shot into the air, splashing loudly through the suspended circle of water in the ceiling, my cackling laughter echoing off the walls in his wake.

:—:

'..om? Tom, are you still with us?'

I jerked abruptly awake in my chair. I must have dozed off.

I looked around at the other inmates, and the small bespectacled man in a short sleeved button-up shirt, who was peering concernedly at me. We were all sat in a ring in a well-lit concrete chamber. Ah yes, Violent Sociopaths Anonymous. That's not what they called it of course, but that's what it amounted to.

'Yeah, I'm here.' I said groggily. 'I guess I preferred a quick nap to listening to Ruben have another fat cry about how his daddy beat him.'

Ah fuck. Probably shouldn't have said that.

'It's Reuven you fucking cunt, you want a fuckin' go?' The inmate in question fired up immediately, leaping to his feet. He was big, and inhumanly ugly, taller than me and thrice as wide.

He actually wasn't such a bad guy when he wasn't telling boring sob stories. If you ignored the odd spot of blood-rage.

'I don't fight men with a soul patch, it's bad for my dignity.' I drawled, knowing better than to show weakness to a half-ogre. I leaned comfortably back, or at least as comfortably as these hard wooden chairs would allow.

'At least I can grow a beard, fuckin' pre-pubescent little twink. What are you, a fuckin' six year old?'

I scowled, and the bespectacled man - our "counsellor" - hurried to intervene.

'Woah woah, now, none of that! That is not how we talk to one another in the circle!'

Reuven seemed to come back to himself. He looked down abashedly, and sat back in his seat.

'M'sorry Tom. That is behaviour what's unbecoming of a gentleman.' The half-ogre mumbled.

'I couldn't have put it better myself, Reuven. After all, that is why we're all here, isn't it? To talk out the stuff that gets in the way of us behaving like gentlemen.'

The counsellor raised his arms to the group expectantly, and was rewarded with an awkward chorus of agreement.

'That's right. Now Tom, do you have anything you'd like to say to Reuven?'

I sighed. Yes, nipping this in the bud seemed wise. 'I'm sorry for making light of your trauma, Reuven. That was beneath me. And I'm sorry for being disruptive, Rhys.'

The counsellor beamed. 'Apology wholeheartedly accepted, Tom. Now, where were we... Bryce, I believe you had something you share?'

I tuned out Bryce before he'd even started speaking. It would be another anecdote of how he liked to eat live insects as a child, it was always that sort of weird shit with him.

Instead, I turned my attention to the vision I had just received. I'd not realised Voldemort had been planning for a long con; his idea of "soon" as expressed in past visions must be rather looser than my own. A shame I'd thoroughly bollocksed up that extra time.

But Crouch returning to England... that at least was actionable. Rather, it would be, if I were allowed visitors in this dingy hole.

Denison prison was unlike any other place I'd been before. Oh it largely resembled your stereotypical prison; cell blocks, gyms, all in the same concrete, Brutalist style. But even the brief stint I'd spent here before my trial had been enough to convince me that escape was impossible. The month that had passed since then had only reinforced this impression.

Hence why I was subjecting myself to this... indignity of listening to petty thieves and thugs reminisce about where it all went wrong in their lives. Participation in programs like this, trite though they were, could get me out of here a lot sooner than ten fucking years, if I played my cards right. If I could get Rhys to sign off, I'd even get visitation rights.

Fuck I missed Gary and Sirius. Even when they were being annoying, at least they could hold an intelligent conversation. I would even have preferred the silent solitude of the Diary.

'Tom, got anything you would like to share?' Rhys' nasal tone cut through my contemplation. The circle had made its way round to me.

'Pass.' I said shortly.

'Okey dokey, no worries. Bill?'

I settled in for one of my few treats here; Bill loved to include all the gory details.

:—:

I set down my tray of gruel upon my lonely table in the far corner of the cafeteria. Actually eating in this place was little more than pantomime, but I did it for the same reason everyone else did: it was something to do.

That, and the cafeteria was one of the few other places I was likely to get proper entertainment. Hell, it was almost like it was designed for it, reminiscent of an old Greek amphitheatre, with cheap metal tables and chairs lining each stepped level. Built so that everyone in the room could see what was happening in the middle.

Tonight's source of blood sport came from the usual source: newbie inmates whose total knowledge about prison life amounted to that old, ill-advised adage. "Find the biggest guy there, and kick the shit out of him".

Two fresh-faced men, neither could have been more than twenty. They approached where Reuven sat, right in the centre of the room, enjoying his lunch. They were swaggering, proud and confident.

The lead one slapped Reuven's tray off the table, splattering gruel everywhere. The other cackled like a hyena at the sight.

Reuven closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. His friends knew the signs, and they all shuffled away from him. One even fled from the other end of the table.

The half-ogre stood up, and up, and up, towering over the young men. A small crowd was already beginning to form in a wide circle, murmuring amongst themselves. Across the chamber from me, a pair of guards appeared, looking over the confrontation with amused expressions.

'Pick it up.' He growled lowly, displaying his vestigial tusks.

'Nah, I don't think so!' The first man chirped, and punched Reuven as hard as he could in the balls.

The crowd went 'oooh', and the man grinned with premature triumph. He didn't realise they weren't oohing for Reuven. They were oohing for him.

A bassy rumble of malice rolled across the room, a sound felt more by the chest than the ears. A single gargantuan mitt wrapped around the lad's head like a regular hand might a tennis ball. He yelped as he was lifted bodily off the ground, up to Reuven's eye-level.

'I'm an ogrillon, boy!' He snarled. 'My balls are the toughest part of me!'

Reuven squeezed, and the man screamed, and then his head ruptured like a watermelon in a vice. Blood, brain, and shards of skull splattered absolutely everywhere, and the crowd thundered its approval. The headless corpse flopped to the floor with a wet thud.

The unfortunate chap's friend lost his nerve immediately. He tried to flee, but by now the crowd was too large. They shoved him back, jeering.

He gulped, and produced a knife from his sleeve. Reuven burst out laughing at the sight of it, little more than a pitiful shiv. For a moment I wondered where the hell he'd gotten his hands on a sharp object in here, before I noticed the guards snickering to one another. Ah, of course.

The man gave a weird high-pitched shout that I think was meant to be a war cry, and charged. He slammed the knife home into Reuven's chest, right where his heart would have been if he were human. If.

Reuven seized him by the arm with one hand, and laid the other upon his shoulder. The man wailed, and begged for mercy, but it was too late. With a sickening ripping sound, the ogrillon tore the man's arm straight off.

The man landed next to his friend, screaming his lungs out. He tried to crawl away, but Reuven followed. He put one vast foot on the man's chest, and slowly pressed down until the gargling wails petered out.

The crowd slowly began to disperse, as myself and a few others who'd remained at their tables golf-clapped politely. Dinner and a show.

It was at this point that Warden MacTavish wandered into the room, and realised what was going on.

'Oh for the love of- Really, Reuven? Again?'

Reuven came back to himself with a shudder.

'It wasn't my fault, boss! They attacked me! It was self defence!' He protested, doing his level best at the "Aw shucks" expression.

The Warden spied the knife still lodged in Reuven's chest. He sighed, and scowled at the two guards still standing near my table doing nothing.

'Ward, Langley, my office. Reuven, you're confined to your cell for the rest of the day. As for the rest of you,' He turned to address the crowd. 'Show's over, get eating or get out!'

He pulled out a short metal rod, and approached Reuven and the corpses. He jabbed the wand-like instrument at the scene, and muttered something under his breath.

A bolt of electricity struck Reuven, and he fell to the ground with a shriek, spasming. The corpses, and all the gore that they had produced, dissolved into a flurry of voxels. It swirled around in a great cloud before reforming into the shapes of the two men again, now in a state of perfect health. Thought they looked more than a little shellshocked. They shuddered back to life the moment they were complete.

'Alright you fucking drongos, you better have learned your bloody lesson. Get fat shit here back to his cell quick, and just maybe I won't blast you too!'

I turned back to my gruel, disinterested. Such aftermaths had become a common enough sight for anyone in Denison prison, a purgatory where even death was no escape.

:—:

I gasped for breath as sensation rushed over me, only to be rewarded with a lungful of gelatinous fluid. I flailed in reflex, breaking the surface of the gunk and slamming up against the side of the tank's rim. I half coughed, half vomited up the fluid, an instinctive panic still gripping me even though I knew I could breath through the stuff.

Strong hands seized me under my shoulders, and hauled me out of the tank, dropping me unceremoniously onto metal grating. I felt impossibly heavy, like a great weight had been lain atop me. I peeled open hundred-pound eyelids, only to squeeze them shut against the blinding light surrounding me.

'Welcome back to the Real, convict.' Somebody said in my ear with far too much mocking cheeriness. Manacles snapped shut around my wrists.

It had not felt nearly this bad the first time they'd pulled me out of Denison. This must be what being born was like. You'd think I'd be more familiar with the feeling by now.

I was pulled up to feet that barely held me, and somebody threw a blanket over my shoulders. MacTavish had a cruel sense of humour. I'd had no time at all to prepare myself for being yoinked. He had simply walked up to me, told me I had a visitor, and jabbed that infernal rod of his at me.

As I was led along a catwalk by whomever my handlers were, my eyes soon adjusted to what was, in truth, actually somewhat dim lighting. I knew what sight would meet me, but it was no less haunting for it.

Tanks. Hundreds of them, arrayed honeycomb-like across a vast chamber, each containing an individual floating in that same green fluid, each trapped in the same shared dream. The grim true form of Denison Prison. Forget the tourist-trap island fort that disguised the prison's entrance, this was what had long lain hidden beneath Sydney Harbour.

The fluid nourished us, prevented atrophy, protected from illness, ensuring that every prisoner would complete their sentence in safety. All whilst making it utterly impossible to escape. At least, not without help.

We reached the edge of the chamber, and traversed a maze of tunnels until we reached our destination. As we walked, I slowly reacclimatised to the rest of my real body, the little differences that the illusion I'd been living in for the past third of a year had failed to replicate. I was still left feeling punch-drunk by the journey's end.

I recognised the little room we entered as the same one they'd dragged me to for my interrogation all those months ago. The chains on the chair rattled menacingly at me as I walked in.

On the other side of the table, decked out in canary yellow robes that appeared to literally be on fire in some places, sat Albus Dumbledore.

I scowled, and turned to my handler.

'Put me back in the tank, I'm not interested.'

The man snorted. 'I don't care.'

He shoved me harshly into the chair. I went to stand back up, but the chains rustled again, and I thought better of it.

'There's really no need for roughness.' Dumbledore said to the guard in gentle rebuke. 'If mister Grey does not wish to speak to me, I will not force him.'

'Great, let's be off then.' I went to stand, but Dumbledore held up a hand lightly.

'I would ask however that he at least listen to what I have to say.'

I leant back in the chair and crossed my arms firmly across my chest.

'Well go on then.' I muttered. My objection had largely been performative anyway. I actually was wondering what the bloody hell he wanted now.

'Quite. But if we could have a little privacy?'

The guards grunted, and filed out of the room without complaint. Clearly they didn't consider me a threat to Dumbledore.

'I'm sure you're surprised to see me, Tom. May I yet call you-'

'No.'

'My apologies. I'm sure you're quite surprised to see me, mister Grey.'

'Most people don't have the balls to show up and gloat about their freedom to the man they threw under the bus, no.'

He had the common decency to at least feign an expression of regret. 'It was not my intention for you to be made to take my place in this prison. Alas, I underestimated the Australian Minister's capacity for spite. One would not expect such passion over such a simple thing as Yowie exports...

'But I digress. I have come to you today in the hopes of unmaking my error. Things have shifted in the political sphere whilst you have been down here, mister Grey. I may yet be able to produce the necessary pressure to see your incarceration reduced to time served...'

My eyes narrowed. 'Pursuant to what?'

He sighed. 'You must understand, I derive no pleasure in using your misfortune to further other ends. If things were simpler, I would not do so, I would ask for nothing in return. Few things rankle me like an innocent man imprisoned. But securing your release will be a complicated affair. I need to be able to justify flexing these particular political muscles.'

I gave a long, cold laugh. 'The great Albus Dumbledore, demanding tit-for-tat while he's holding all the cards. You're just as corrupt as the rest of them.'

Dumbledore frowned. 'This is not for my own benefit, mister Grey. I believe you have much to offer our society that should not be left to languish with you in such unjust confinement.'

I sneered. 'You can pretty it up all you like, Dumbledore, it is what it is. Fine, whatever, who do you want me to murder for you?'

Dumbledore had the cheek to look aghast. 'Merlin's beard, Tom, no one! I was merely hoping that you would accept a position as Hogwarts' Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher.'

I couldn't believe it. He was still on that train? Now? After everything?

My face twisted into a truly ugly expression. 'Well, what a fucking coincidence that the way you think I could best serve society is as your fucking employee.'

'You will recall I asked this of you last summer. Despite your age, the knowledge you display of the Dark Arts and how to confound them rivals many centenarian scholars I know-'

'Sounds like you know a lot of hacks, then. My knowledge base isn't that remarkable.'

'I think we both know that isn't true, mister Grey. Between that, and your quite evident opposition to Lord Voldemort and his sort, I would posit that you are the ideal candidate.'

I attempted to fiddle with one of the chains as he spoke, as a show of disrespect, but the links scuttled out of my reach.

'Don't you currently have a Defence teacher?'

He sighed. He was doing a lot of that, which I took as the small petty victory it was.

'We do. Professor Joplin is doing an admirable job indeed, but we both know he won't last any longer than the previous twenty eight have. Further, if by divine intervention he is spared a similar fate, his contract is only for the one year. I will need a replacement by September. What say you, mister Grey?'

Ten years in a pickle jar, or one year under Dumbledore's knobbly thumb. A more difficult quandary than perhaps it ought to have been.

'I accept.' I hissed out, barely audible.

For a moment, I feared I'd accidentally spoken in Parseltongue. But it must have been English, as Dumbledore sprang up with a wide grin.

'Wonderful. I will endeavour to engineer your release as soon as is feasible. In the mean time, well, I suppose it would be best if you keep your head down and try not to get into any trouble with your custodians. I shall be in contact soon.'

He turned to leave, but I called out, reluctantly. 'Wait. There's something you need to know.'

He looked at me mildly, waiting for me to continue.

'I've... heard things while I've been in here. New fish chattering when they think nobody's listening, that sort of thing. Lord Voldemort is moving again.'

He sat right back down, leaning sharply forward. 'You're sure?'

A part of me, a big part, was rebelling at the idea of giving Dumbledore anything for nothing. But this time pragmatism won out.

'I think so, or otherwise Crouch has found himself a new master. He's been scuttling all over the place, preparing for something. A couple months ago he was meeting with former Death Eaters in England. A few months before that, he was in Iran and Turkey.'

'I see.' Dumbledore said gravely. 'Do you have anything more concrete?'

I shook my head. Unlike with Potter, control over my visions from Lord Voldemort had proven elusive at best. I was not sure if this was due to his current status as a homunculus, or if it was because he was the Prime soul piece, but I feared what may happen if he learned of the connection himself.

'Just whispers. No idea how reliable they are.'

'...Very well. I will investigate this further. In the mean time, keep your ear to the ground until your release.'

And without further ado, he swept from the room, illusory flames trailing behind him, like the tails of half a dozen comets.

:—:

Dumbledore, as it turned out, did not make with a release nearly as quickly as I'd expected.

Weeks passed, and once again became months. I was permitted no further visitors, though the guards had gloated that Garrow Avery had tried more than once. More and more, the myth of Denison began to feel more real than the outside world.

There was a depressing timelessness here, in this monument to Brutalist design. The false, heatless sunlight that lay across the courtyards and shone through the windows never shifted, and the only indicators that any amount of time had passed at all were the clocks and calendars on the wall.

:—:

A tray clattered onto the table beside mine, followed by a tremendous bulk thudding down onto my bench.

I sighed. This, perhaps, had been inevitable. Really it was a miracle I'd managed to avoid it thus far.

'Good morning Reuven, how'd you sleep.' I began politely.

'Not s'bad. You?'

'Not so bad. Do you need something?'

'Maybe. Heard you was getting sprung soon.'

I looked up at the ogrillon sharply. 'Where'd you hear that?'

'About.'

So the guards had been gossiping. That was good news, hopefully.

'Well, it'd be news to me. I'll be sure to let you know.'

He laid one great hand upon my shoulder, and I held back a resigned sigh. Fuck.

'You know, I think you're the only cunt in here what I never fought.'

'That's probably because I'm the only cunt in here with a brain.'

He chuckled. 'I dunno about that. You've made quite a few cracks at my expense these last few months.'

'I... was under the impression that we'd agreed that was just in good fun.' I said, caution dripping from every syllable.

'Oh sure, o'course. Just seems like a waste, y'know? Like, what, you too chicken to larp at death?'

'Larp?' I enquired despite myself.

'Muggle word, I think. Means play pretend.'

'Ah. No, I don't quite see the appeal.

'Really? Not curious at all?'

His hand felt like an anvil on my shoulder, an all-too-apt reminder that in this false plane I was no more powerful than an ordinary man. I once again cursed my procrastination at ransacking some martial arts master's mind.

I managed a cocky smile. 'Tell you what, Reuven. Look me up when you get out of here, and we'll have our fight out in the Real.'

His grip tightened, hard enough to make my bones creak and an involuntary gasp to escape my lungs. 'Y'think I'm stupid, Tom? Out there you've got a wand and all.'

'No wands, just you and me. Fisticuffs.'

'No deal. I'd crush you like an egg and end up back in here.'

'I see. Well it's quite alright that you're scared of me, Reuven. I would be too.'

The hulking ogrillon belly-laughed at that. 'You've got a pair on you, Tom, I'll give you that. Alright, you're on.'

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief, and rubbed my shoulder sorely as he stood, and wandered off to find someone else to squish.

:—:

For the third and last time in my life, I burst forth from that living tomb, spewing up the gunk that had filled my lungs. As the attendants dragged me out, I managed to spill most of it right onto their boots. Nice.

'Watching them flop about never gets old.' I heard one chuckle to the other.

I felt the goo being siphoned off me by some spell, and then something soft struck me in the face.

'Get dressed convict. It's your lucky day.'

What followed was a good half an hour of very boring legal bollocks. Apparently Dumbledore had invoked some old-as-dirt ICW edict about legal supremacy over colonial states by their former sovereigns in order to get me remanded to British custody. In essence, forcing a retrial to be carried out in the Wizengamot. I can't imagine that would have gone over well with the Australian Ministry at all.

Now that it was out in the air, it wouldn't last long as a rule either; Dumbledore had expended a pretty major one-time trick on this. The old man truly was that hungry for qualified teachers, it seemed.

Eventually, they led me, still in chains, out into a little chamber, where a pair of British Aurors awaited me. I recognised Kingsley Shacklebolt, but not his turquoise-haired companion.

'Mister Grey.' Shacklebolt greeted me neutrally.

'Kingsley. Who's this one?'

'My new partner. Auror Tonks.'

'First name?'

Shacklebolt opened his mouth but Auror Tonks cut him off.

'It's a mononym.' She said firmly. Hmm.

A faceless prison employee approached, and handed a clipboard and a brown leather suitcase to Tonks. She signed the clipboard and gave it back, but kept the suitcase.

'What happened to Sherlock Dawlish, Kingsley?' I asked with a smirk.

It appeared I had overstepped, as Shacklebolt scowled. 'Not your concern.'

I held my manacled hands up in a backing-off gesture. 'Alright, keep your Auror secrets.

He grunted, and pulled out a short leather strap from his pocket.

'Our portkey.' He said, holding it forth.

Tonks and I gripped it tight, and in a whirl of colour and sound, we slammed down into a different room entirely.

I breathed in deeply. Ah, Britain. I have missed you.

The Aurors escorted me down to a courtroom, where within half an hour of deliberation over the patently idiotic charges that the Australian Minister had forced upon me, I was made a free man.

A healer was brought in to attend to me, and had proven irritatingly chipper enough to almost ruin my own good mood. Chattered about fucking nothing the whole way through his assessment, and I'd never been gladder to be out of an infirmary in my life.

Eventually, finally, they led me into a little vault-like room, where the leather briefcase Tonks had been handed lay on a polished wooden pedestal. All of the effects I'd had on my person when the Australians had arrested me lay within.

The Gaunt Ring was the first thing I snatched up, and when I slid it onto my finger, I felt safe for the first time in nine months. My wand - the Yew one - was second, and feeling it in my hand was like coming home.

I pulled off the cheap prisoner's garb that Denison had supplied me with, and slipped back into my own bespoke outfit. It hung off of me; I'd lost a lot of weight in the tank according to the irritating healer. I suppose there will be a lot of decadent trips to the Three Broomsticks in my immediate future.

Once I finished refilling my pockets with the many, many items which the Aurors had emptied out of them, I closed the case with a snap, turned on my heel, and walked back out into civilisation. I had three months to operate unfettered before Dumbledore got me under his thumb, and I intended to use them.

:-:-:-:-:

A/N: For some reason when I write for Voldemort proper, I don't hear Ralph Fiennes's voice in my head, I hear Bill Nighy as Viktor from Underworld. Feels more sinister to me.

Also sorry for anyone named Bryce, that name was just picked at random.

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