Chapter VII
The wizard, The Wandmaker, The Child
Tom turned his ring around his finger, his eyes fixed on the figure of the sleeping boy in front of him. Still pale enough for his skin to almost merge with the sheet covering him, denoting with a queer glow in the ambiant darkness, immobile and asleep...But alive.
Alive and with no sequels. As good as new when he should only be a putrefying mass in the ground at this hour.
He had watched the young Corvus Lestrange for a while now. The young Slytherin was a silent and awfully sickly child, bright and talented enough for his weak body to be one of the greatest pity Riddle had seen. Fate has seemed to play a very unfair game with him, and not content enough with plaguing the child with sickness, it had placed him in a fight for power inside the Lestrange family.
His father Lord Corvus Lestrange the Sixth, had had quite a lot of wives and as a consequence many sons. Each had found their tragical end in one mysterious way or another, none of them naturals. But no one had raised even one quizzical eyebrow for murder for the sole inheritance was common enough among the Lestranges. It was almost always in the main paternal branch, and the members on the motherside were generally safer.
Only three boys were left in the main branch : Fulcran, Cyrille and Corvus. Fulcran was the eldest, but also the least loved by their father, it was even whispersed that Lord Corvus Lestrange had killed his mother because she had been unfaithful, and that he couldn't look at his son anymore without thinking of her betrayal. Cyrille and Corvus were favored, for Lord Lestrange had deeply loved their mother, obsessively so. She had been his fifth bride, and had died of dragon pox...officially. Again whispers that she had committed suicide, having been blackmailed and bewitched into marrying him could be heard. In theses cases, the truth didn't dare to be heard louder than with theses mocking and faint whispers passed behind elegant hands.
Fulcran was known to be passionately jealous of his two younger brothers, and it was readily admitted that he had had a hand in the murder of his other siblings. But just one hand, the other had been the one of his dear cousin Euphrailde Lestrange, unstable enough for her sadism and thirst for blood to be qualified of manic. Tom had seen her once, and she had been, as expected, thoroughly charmed by him but he had found her cruelty almost crass, and her lack of refinement and control spoke of a mind far too weak to be used. She was a bastard child, and had long dreamed of replacing her alcoholic father by the grave, severe and powerful figure of Lord Lestrange, ready to destroy any competitions.
But Lord Corvus Lestrange had only eyes for his last two sons. And an even deeper place in his heart for his exceedingly talented youngest. When he had named his last son Corvus the Seventh, after himself, making his favor known, he could have just as well drawn a bounty mark on his youngest. Cyrille had tried his best to protect his younger brother, but having arrived at Hogwarts, his sickness had mysteriously worsened.
Well, Euphrailde and Fulcran Lestrange were known to be quite knowledgeable in poisons and curses.
Tom had watched the whole play unfold before his eyes. Cyrille Lestrange was after all in his inner circle and had a particularly strong...devotion toward him. If he were to lose his brother, his already unstable mind would have been plagued by a well-earned paranoia, but...he didn't. He didn't lose his brother. And the news that the Resurrection Stone had been used to save the life of Corvus had already passed through every ears of his inner circle.
If they had always looked at him like their lord, they now said the word with a new sense of awe, almost trembling when they bowed. They thought that he had given his permissions to the Stone for it to happen. Which was in a sense true, she was only able to do it because he had assured himself that she woud encounter Corvus. Because he had desired it. Saving the boy was not unwanted, he after all hated for talent to be wasted. But most importantly he had wanted to see it. The Power of the Stone.
And it was even more beautiful than he had thought.
The obsession of the Gaunt Household for it. Their careful guarding of it, to the point of not using it for fear of it being known to the public. The fact that they had pawned everything of their fortunes, squandered every square of it but the stone...All of it made sense. Even in their madness, when they couldn't remember what it was. They just couldn't separate themselves from it.
Before he saw them, Tom had regretted not bearing their name. After seeing their ruins, he was enraged and horrified of having to call the things they had become parents. The Gaunts are known to produce wizards with violent and unstable personnalities. But what they were...The horrors of ugliness and insanity they had become was burned inside his mind, cruelly crushing his naive expectations of glory. He had told himself he would never claim their name, even if he had to make his own...until now. For it was to the name of Gaunt that she answered. Her...
Even if he didn't bear their name. The Gaunt had left him more than their blood.
She was his birthright.
Maybe he had been wrong of tossing this name to the flames in his disgust. He let his head fall back against the back of the chair, taking a deep breath. He could almost smell it lingering in the air. Life. The clean smell of it among the last remnants death floating in the hair.
She was intelligent enough to know that she could not beat him. But it seemed that she still hated to lose. Stubborn. Proud. So she decided not to play.
Why a woman ?
The were ways to secure a woman. The ways to attach a woman to a man were simple enough.
Simple enough Black had said..."I am surrounded by idiots, am I not ?"
In effects the ways to bind a woman were simple enough. He wore the mask of seduction like a charm, did he not ? Many were devoted to his smile, to the light of his eyes, and the words he knew to craft well. But it was because they did not know.
Thoses who peaked behind the curtains, thoses who recognized the shadow behind his smile...They feared him, but they feared only what they could perceive but not see. She feared what she knew. She feared what she could see. And they did not understand it.
For she was not merely a woman. And he was no simple man. No mere man. They both knew it. She knew it.
You are not even whole ! And yet...A silver of you, a piece of you is still greater than the most complete man of this world.
She knew about the horcruxes. How, he didn't know. But she knew, if she could smell death, maybe she could feel it too. And yet...He did not feel anxious, nor murderous now that he made a relative peace in his mind. She could not hurt him. And she had been ready to be hurt by him just for this occasion of saying the truth.
Funny...Tom Riddle could not remember the last time someone had actually told him the truth. Everything was always a game, wasn't it ? Empty flattery, veiled threats, admiration clothed in envy, sweetness hiding lust...A queer part of him had almost found itself relieved that she didn't want to play the twisted game with him.
That she just looked at him, and that behind his smile, behind his secrets...She...saw him. She had seen him.
And she had ran away once again.
"How dare you run away from me ?"
Just thinking about it, he could feel his magic running wild, coming out of him like a rabid animal fighting against his leash. The wooden wardrobe of the Infirmary cracked, as if the wood itself cowered pityfully in front of it.
The girl was one of the rare being that had seen and measured the full potential of Tom Riddle. He was no spoiled heir to her. She saw how terrifyingly glorious he was, in the same acute manner that made Professor Dumbledor look at him with a suspicion bordering on distress. And yet she did not mistrust or want to fight him...
When I look at you I feel so angry and grieved that I-...
She saw his glory. And she was grieved in front of it.
She feared it, but did not cower in front it. She admired it, but was angered by it, like one should be by the unfair might wielded of a tyrant. She contemplated it...And yet she did not want it.
I don't care.
"How dare you not want me ?"
The chair supporting his weight, shook a little bit more under the weight of his anger. She saw him and turned away.
Look at you. You could be perfect.
He passed a hand in his silky black hair, the strands falling back on his forehead in an effortless praise to his features. She knew it. And yet she could not be bothered.
I don't care.
"Really ? You don't care ?" he almost spat out.
And the shaking stopped, the armour ceased her creacking, the heavy air dissipated as Tom took a deep steadying breath.
Very well...So she didn't want to play. "Well, I won't play either." he whispersed to the dark with a smile "I don't have to play to win, my dear. Let's see how you like it when I am serious."
§§§
Being associated to the Rowle Household had its perks.
Hermione never thought she would one day admit that. But this morning, she was actually too excited not to be optimistic. The witch actually couldn't sit still as she was waiting for Ollivander to have a wand fitted for her, passing again and again damp palms on her skirt to straighten it. Living without a wand was nightmare, she felt as crippled as if somebody had cut her right arm.
Soon...She would be able to breath again. And the one who was giving her her breath back was a good man. And she would not have to lie to him. Her secret had apparently been disclosed to Ollivander under the seal of secrecy by her new guardians Lord and Lady Rowle, an apparent precaution against the possible reaction of the Stone to the contact with a wand.
She had never seen the Heads of the Rowle Households, but they had hurriedly taken her addition to the family with an absolute glee. Even the news that they only had an official guardianship over her, for she belonged to the Heir of the Gaunt, who had yet to disclose his identity for the public, could not put a damper on their excitation. And they basked in this world of secrecy and whispers with the assurance and pride of the priviledged. The Rowle were known to be superstitious and honestly thought it to be a mark of favour shown by the Heavens to be chosen to give protection to the Stone.
"Fascinating."
She couldn't repress her smile as she heard the familiar intonations. They brought her back to a world of memories, well, except that Garrick Ollivander was...not old. His hair still had a long time in front of them before turning white but his pale gaze, ever lost in a world of their own, burned with the same passion as they once did. His long-limbed, awkward and slim figure was almost completely twisted on the left under the weight of an enormous suitcase as he approached her in hurried steps.
"Hello, Mr. Ollivander." she said in a warm tone.
"Prodigious." he continued, as if he had not heard her. He put his suitcase down in a rushed but careful gesture before quickly getting closer. "Excuse me... I wouldn't want to presume but...May I ?" the wizard quickly asked, pointing at her right wrist.
Hermione nodded, amused, and rolled back her sleeve, baring the Stone for the eyes of the wandmaker. He quickly took a hold of the presented limb, manipulating it in his long almost spider-like fingers.
"It...has planted itself. Like a tree in a particularly good soil." he then traced the bulging veins in an almost reverent manner "And it's growing roots. Very deep roots, indeed."
Roots ? She hesitated before asking in a low voice "Do you...know things about this particular hallow, sir ?"
"Not anymore than what is told in tales, I am afraid." Ollivander absently replied "But I have a vague understanding of how hallows and old artefacts work so I can infer...I understand why I was put in the confidence. This little artefact does not seem pleased at the thought of sharing your body with another. I am afraid that if I was to give you a wand, it would destroy it before you could use it."
A cold weight fell inside her belly at this moment. "Will...it not authorize me to have a wand ? Is there no... way ?"
The wizard said nothing, tracing the stone with his fingers, poking the veins in a thoughtful manner. He seemed completely blind to her distress, taken by his thoughts as he was. "No, there is not..." Suddenly his hands stopped their manipulations "Unless..."
He let go of her arm almost violently enough for her to take a step back, before bending over suitcase, opening it by one movement of his wand and then beginning his quest in its bottomless depths.
When he rose and turned to face her again, he had something in his hands. It was a wand but...wrong. It looked like yew, but it also looked...dead.
"What is that ?" she asked hesistantly.
"Please...Hold it."
She looked at him, her brows furrowed and opened her mouth to ask for explanations once more, but as she caught his gaze, she finished by complying, holding out her hand. As soon as her fingers touched it, she felt a shiver pass through her entire body. Just as she thought...It was dead. It was dead yew.
And as she was going to retract her hand, the strangest thing happened. The wood didn't look dead anymore. It was shining as a young wood almost trembling against her palm. It...had started to come alive.
Taking a step back she let it fall, and as it encountered the ground, here it was, dead once again.
"This is what I thought." whispersed Ollivander.
"It made the wand come...It...The wand was not...dead anymore."
"It made it come alive. Yes...This is what the stone does. It restores."
Hermione looked at the stone on her wrist, calm volutes of a clear mist seeming to float in her transparent darkness. She furrowed her brows, said like this it didn't sound so...bad. And yet... "Then why is it called cruel and vain ?"
Before his pale and uncanny gaze she felt compelled to explain herself "I mean saving things...restoring them...It does seem quite good, doesn't it ?"
Ollivander smiled in this moment. And it was quite strange, like he didn't actually smiled at her. "I did not say that it saved things, young lady, only that it restored them. The Stone does not create life, it can only give back what was once taken. It resurrects but does not birth. This is why the truly living should not desire it. What can it give them ? It will only play them and leave them mad. But the dead...Only they crave it. All the broken ones...They think it can make them whole once again. They long after it. And since the Stone cannot give birth, it satisfies itself by stealing life back. But some things in this world...are better left dead. Yet, this hallow seems to have his own opinion on it, doesn't it ? It is not good, young lady. But maybe it wants to be. Maybe it tries to be."
"The living should not want it and yet...Why does everybody want it ?" Hermione took a shaking breath, and covered the Stone with her sleeve in an almost violent motion. "If only the dead desired it, I certainly would not be in this situation now, would I ?"
Again the wandmaker smiled, and this time he was truly smiling at her. He looked at her
"We must not simplify such an old artefact. Nor thoses who desire it. Only broken things dream to be restored. And there are many ways in which someone can be dead. Are the dead only in the underworld ? Don't you see sometimes...dead men walking ? Only shadows of themselves, haunting their own life as if it had already been taken away from them."
The words were invading her mind, showering her like the coldest shower. Broken things, Dead things...She then whispersed her voice as high as the lowest whisper. "Why has the Stone been attached to the Gaunt family for so long ?"
He only tilted his head on the side, looking at a point far away from her "Why indeed ?"
§§§
It attracted broken things...
When she thought about it, all of it made sense. The basilisk, the boy, Riddle...
Dead men walking.
Dead men walking.
Wasn't Tom Riddle the most broken of them all ? No mind could bear that kind of genius, that kind of greatness without breaking. He had already cut himself while making the two first horcruxes. He had already killed himself.
Some things are better left dead...
She let themself fall against the wall of the corridor.
Hermione almost wished to speak to the Stone. Just to ask it : What are you trying to do here ? But for the first time...she was afraid of knowing it.
When she opened her eyes again, she was in front of a very familiar door. Why had she come here again ? She didn't know what she was doing in the Infirmary at this hour.
She straightened up. Was she curious after all ? Did she want to see the resurrected child ? Did she want to know what kind of broken thing was awaiting for her behind this door ?
Before she could think, she was once again in the Infirmary, silently thankful that it was empty once again. Everything looked so...normal. The candles against the wall gave a soothing tone to the room, the sheets of all beds had been changed and folded. All but one. Only one bed was occupied, by a small child sleeping quietly. Alive. Not dead. Not broken, just sleeping. She let out a breath that she hadn't remember taking, almost wanting to laugh at her own anxiety.
The witch looked aroung for a while before she sat in the chair in front of the bed, passing once again her moist hands in the uniform. She didn't know why she was so nervous. Well, she had never been good with children. Correction, she had never been good with...people. She was just...too much.
But the child was sleeping, now. In a neater way than any boy she had ever known, his hands laying along his small body, the covers sitting on him comfortably. He was a handsome child, she thought with a smile. Young Corvus Lestrange...Well, she did not have very good experiences with this household. But he did not look very mad and monstruous, sleeping like that. His black hair were slightly curling in the ends, giving a softness to his already sharp features. He was not so pale anymore...
"You have come back."
She almost jumped back, when she heard the small rusty voice. She had been so lost in her contemplation that she hadn't seen him wake up. The witch passed a steadying hand in her neck, trying to calm down. The child had recognized her. Wait. How did he recognized her ?
"You...You know me ?"
He had green eyes...Her heart tightened up. Why of all things did he have to have green eyes ? Already memories of friendly green eyes flew in her mind, each one a vicious thorn in her heart.
"I was going away." the boy whispersed "You blocked my way. You took me back."
So she had...saved him, didn't she ? In a sense, she did. His cheeks had this healthy pink undertones, and he had such long lashes...His bright eyes shone with intelligence and a calm far above his years. When she looked at him, she just could not tell herself that she had done something she should not have.
"So you know what I am."
"I know you are the Stone. I also know what they say you are. They said that you were a daughter of the Rowle Household. That you were kidnapped as a child by their ennemies. And that then you spent your life on the run."
A bitter smile came to her lips, what a good liar Riddle was.
Hermione looked at the boy once again, and her smile took a more natural shape. This child...didn't seem very impressed, or fazed by having been so close to death. Well no, having been dead. Literally. He was just rotting two days ago and yet...He took the news of having been resurrected with an unparalled tranquility.
"You feel alone." quietly said the boy.
Hermione opened surprised eyes. Before smiling again. She liked that. Looks like there would be no game between them, no pretense, no lies. She felt the last invisible pressure slipping off her shoulders. "I do."
He nodded, as if for himself. "What is your name ?"
"Hermione."
He looked at her again. And his green eyes were truly strange. Not in a bad way. But in this deconcerting manner, this way that made you ask yourself if he was truly a child. His eyes...They were out of place on his small body. They were too intense, too deep for his soft hair which curled on their ends and his rosy cheeks.
"Hermione, tell me a story."
The witch almost let out a incredulous laughter. It was an order. He was actually commanding her to tell him a bedtime story. He just looked at her, so very sure that she would grant him his desires and instead of being offended, she just found herself thoroughly amused. In a genuine way. It had not happened to her in a long while.
"What kind of story do you want ?"
"A story...with a hero." the boy said, in a tone far too serious for the demand.
"Don't all stories have heroes ?" she teased him.
"No...No, they don't."
At that she did not smile anymore. Because as she looked in his eyes again, she understood. No, not all the stories had heroes. And this boy had just survived a tragedy. There had been no hero in his life. Maybe this word was for him this abstract and too good of a concept to even think that one could really exist.
All of sudden, she had an idea, and she started softly. "There was once a young boy...his name was Harry."
§§§
"He fought a basilisk with a sword ? At twelve ? And won ? I don't believe you. "
A feminine and soft laughter made itself hear from the open door of the Infirmary. "I swear it's true."
"Not that I believe you...but then, what happened ?"
Tom looked at the scene from the crack of the door, seeing the Stone, the witch, on a chair before the bed, a smile on her lips. The wizard looked at the scene for a while before turning away from the door.
So now, the hallow told stories. How...cosy.
A mocking smile came to flirt with his lips. Very well...His hands in his pockets, his shoulder and head against the cold wall he stood silently and listened, closing his eyes.
"If you are impressed with the basilisk, trust me, you are in for a wild ride. He kind of...encountered dementors at thirteen."
"Dementors ?"
"Yes...And a werewolf in the same year."
"It's just not possible. Anybody would have died with that kind of life."
"Well, he would clearly have died without me." said the witch with a laugh.
Oh ? The words ascended in Tom's mind like poison. What did that mean, now ? He rose himself from his support against the wall and a rumbling sense of disquiet awakened itself in him.
This flighty, frivolous, inconstant, fickle thing...Had she dared be loyal to another wizard ? And yet she ran away from him ? Him ?
"This is a long story. I think I should go, Miss Merry will soon come and you should get some rest."
"Wait !" the boy almost screamed before continuing on a more composed tone "Before you go...Does the story end well ?"
"What ?" her surprised voice asked.
"Stories in the wizarding world do not often end very well, do they ?" he explained in calm voice almost impatient in its bitter softness. "Heroes like that they..." Tom could almost see the child shake his head and pinch his lips. "Does your story end well ?
The girl stayed silent for a while. And when she talked again, her voice was clear and firm, and at the same time, there was a strange gentleness in it. "I'll make sure it will. I promise you."
Oh really ? Thought Tom with a sneer.
"How can you not know ?" asked the boy in an incredulous tone. "This is a strange story...You're telling it as if you were there. As I you had known this boy. Known him very well."
Known him very well...So she had cared then. Ohn he would make her know him too. Know only him. Oh, she would care. Let's see how she would care.
"But it's impossible for a wizard as strong as he was to be like that, to be as..."
"As what ?"
"As good as this Harry was."
"Well I promised you a hero, did I not ? And he did exist. I knew him quite well. Sometimes, I feel like I know him better than myself."
A Hero, wasn't he ? So she had been on the side of a hero before.
A good man, this Harry was. He could already picture the simpering fool with his hallow. This benevolent thief wielding the power of the heirloom of the Gaunts. And this fickle hallow...who genuinely admired this wizard.
She wanted good, didn't she ?
There was one thing that Tom was not. It was good. But it was what she wanted, right ? He would be better than good. He would be better. He was better.
There was a silence in which Tom was just looking at the wall without truly seeing it. A rictus came to cover his lips. Anger was burning inside of him so hard that it was blinding. It was strong enough to paralyze him and for a moment he could just feel his mind clawing at itself, shredding itself into pieces of madness.
Many men have become mad for the Stone...
"I believe you." quietly said the child "And if what you say is true then...you are lucky to have met him."
"I am." and her voice was almost shaking under the emotion "There is not one day that I do not rejoice...that a boy like him ever existed in this world."
All the lights of the corridor shut off as the walls started to vibrate. The rumbling disquiet had now changed itself in a cacophony of screams competing inside Tom.
A joyless smile came cover his lips. Oh, he didn't think he liked this Harry very much.
The wizard let out a trembling breath and passed a hand in his hair, putting the strands back in place in an effortless gesture. Oh, but he was better. The hero had lost her, after all. He did not plan to lose her anytime soon. She had come to him, and the story would end exactly how he wanted it to end.
He had lost some precious time misreading the situation, didn't he ? It was not the time to play. "I don't think you will like it very much when I am serious, my dear." he softly repeated.
To be continued...
So...We were in Tom's head and a lot in this chapter. Which is well...Very different from Hermione. This is quite a place, isn't it ? I think that Tom Riddle is such a genius, that it is quite impossible for his mind to bear it without him being a little...mad.
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