EIGHT

Friday, 5 October 1945

If there was anything Tom couldn't stand most in this world, it was change. Especially when that change took something away from him. He had thought Hermione would be a hindrance to his plan. That it would change beyond recognition. However, in the few short months she had been in his life, he realized she was a vital part of what he wanted to accomplish. He knew that he didn't need her, the evidence being her own memories. He had gone fifty some years without her by his side and still managed to accomplish quite a bit. Even if he held a grudge against her the entire time.

But with Grindelwald's pardon, things hadn't changed in Tom's favor at all. In fact, for the past month, things had only been getting worse.

Witches and wizards that had pledged themselves to his cause had suddenly recanted. The following he had managed to amass since he graduated Hogwarts had been cut in half. From what he had been able to ascertain, it wasn't because they favored Grindelwald's ideology of Tom's, it was fear. At this stage of the game, Grindelwald held all the fear. From what Tom had learned having been inside Hermione's mind, that level of fear wouldn't be associated with his name until much further down the line.

What didn't make sense was that he couldn't remember having had to go against Grindelwald in her memories. He was certain he would have remembered something like that. A powerful wizard such as Grindelwald for an adversary would have stuck out. But the only way to clear up that misunderstanding was to speak with Hermione. Until he found her, he would have to settle for alternative routes to power.

Which led to Abraxas' plan.

He had brought it up one night after finding Tom in the library. Tom might have been the mastermind behind his rise to power; the one with the ambition and desire to rule, but when it came to playing games, Abraxas was the best.

"You want to host a fundraiser for the Ministry…" Tom started, his brows knit together as he tried to wrap his mind around it. "Here?"

"It may be a little unorthodox, my lord, but what better way to make someone think you're on their side by hosting an event such as this?" he questioned, studying Tom for any negative reactions. "The Malfoys are known for our hosting skills and our parties always stir up quite the chatter. It can be a way to show those that strayed we can protect them. That we are connected to the same establishment as the one they fear."

"You think those that fear someone as powerful as Grindelwald will spill all their secrets just because you host a party?" The doubt was plain in Tom's voice.

"Maybe not to someone like you or to myself, but…" his voice trailed off as a sly grin took hold of his thin lips. "Lips are often loosened with a steady flow of Firewhiskey and the right sort of entertainment."

Tom continued to frown, the doubt growing with each second that ticked by.

"I promise you, my lord. By the end of the night, you'll have gained back every follower that's walked away. And then some." He broke into a full grin as he added, "Even if they don't know it."

Since planning such lavish events had never been his thing, he left everything up to Abraxas. To date, the only party he had ever enjoyed attending was the previous Halloween. It was the only time he had ever felt his rage subside into practically nothing. Even watching Hermione with Draco from the shadows hadn't angered him. He still wasn't exactly sure when he decided he was going to bare his soul to her, but the look in her eye when he told her his plan was better than all the magic he had ever seen before.

Prior to his eleventh birthday, there had been nothing to look forward to. Even on birthdays, there was nothing special for anyone within the walls of Wool's Orphanage. His first year at Hogwarts, he had truly been enchanted with the magic of things, but that had quickly faded to envy.

He shouldn't have been so enthralled at the age of eleven. Magic should have been something he was exposed to since the moment he was born. He should have been taught his lineage from his own flesh and blood, not tossed aside like trash.

With a scowl, Tom shook off those thoughts and turned the corner to Knockturn Alley. Abraxas still had a few shops to pop into to make sure that everything was ready for the fundraiser the following day. When Tom had inquired about using the House Elves to take care of it, Abraxas had shrugged and said he fancied getting out for a spell anyway. Tom had chosen to accompany him at the last second for no reason at all.

He recognized the sign for Borgin and Burkes from some of the documents inside the Manor. The Malfoys were quite the collectors and Abraxas had a penchant for adding to that collection quite frequently. Tom himself had yet to step foot inside the shop and spent a great deal of time perusing the shelves and display cases when he finally did.

He had only been in there for a quarter of an hour before he saw it. Right there, in one of the cases atop the counter was a locket on a black velvet bust, sparking under the display lights. Had he not seen it before, he might have glanced right over it. As it was, the recognition was jarring. For a second, he could recall the memory he'd seen of Hermione in a tent with the same pendant draped around her throat; the pull of his own dark magic drawing him in.

"Anything I can help you with?"

Tom's gaze never left the locket as he asked, "Where did you get this?"

"I sold this to a woman nearly two decades ago. Poor thing passed away not too long ago and left it to me in her will."

He did look up then, taking in the sight of the slightly older wizard behind the counter. "Do you know what it is?"

He studied Tom for a moment before giving the smallest of nods. "I didn't believe the woman who sold it to me at first. Desperate little thing; I thought she was pulling my leg. Turns out, she was right." He reached over and tapped the glass with his finger. "This here is the locket of Salazar Slytherin himself."

Tom's jaw clenched at that. Yet another birthright taken from him instead of being passed down as it should have been. His mother, no matter how broken and desperate, should have never parted ways with this heirloom. It wasn't as if the money had done her any good in the long run anyway.

He could have asked the shopkeep to hold it for him. He could have gone to Abraxas and confided in his most loyal of followers and asked for the Galleons needed to cover the cost. He could have bartered with the wizard to get what he wanted.

But it was his.

So he took it.

His magic, like second nature, flowed between them, infiltrating the wizard's mind with ease. He broke through the thin barriers with little effort and exerted his control over the man; Mr. Burke.

"That locket belongs to me," he said, the calm of his voice a stark contrast to the swirling storm of his emotions on the inside. "It is mine by birthright and I want it back."

Burke struggled against Tom's control, but in the end, he submitted. They always did. Slowly, as though under an Imperious Curse, he reached for his wand he kept in a holster up the sleeve of his robes. He made a series of movements and uttered a charm until one of the panels on the glass case disappeared. He returned his wand to the holster and reached inside for the locket.

Tom reached for it, the metal of the pendant biting into his palm as he wrapped his hand around it. With it safely in his grasp, he pushed out with his magic, erasing this moment from Burke's mind. The moment Tom Apparated away, he would never remember having gotten it back from the woman who left it to him in a will. As far as he was concerned, he'd sold it, never to see it again.

When Tom relinquished his hold, he vanished only to reappear near a place just as familiar to him as Knockturn Alley.

Wool's Orphanage.

He stood across the street, glaring at the wrought iron gate and tall brick wall. It had been barely a full year since he had last been inside that particular establishment. He remembered being in his room, one that had always felt more like a prison cell, packing his things to get ready for the journey back to Hogwarts. He had been folding his clothes, wishing he could just use magic, when the orphanage's matron had tapped on his door and stepped across the threshold.

"Yes Miss Blanchard?"

Her weary smile was fleeting as she wrung her hands before her. She had always been afraid of him; moreso after Dumbledore had paid his visit. "I'm sorry to do this, Tom, but-"

"I turn seventeen this winter," he interrupted, going back to packing his trunk. "At which time I will be of legal age and am no longer a candidate for residency within these halls."

It wasn't as if that had been a secret. He'd seen it happen to other children. The morning of their birthdays, they would pack up and leave, never to be seen again. A few had broken down and begged to stay as they had no alternatives and some even left in the night.

She cleared her throat and nodded rapidly. "I'm sorry, Tom. Maybe this school of yours…" her voice trailed off as the look on her face morphed from fear to pity. "Best of luck to you, Tom," she added, turning to leave.

Tom knew the day he had left for the Hogwarts Express was the day the matron had been waiting for. Everyone beyond the gate had been counting down until they were free of him. While he didn't agree with Grindelwald's ideas as a whole, he understood them. That fear he encountered from the Muggles he had grown up around could be lethal.

Had he not been the violent type of different, they would have come for him instead.

His fist clenched tighter around the locket as he tore his gaze away from the orphanage. Jaw clenched, brows furrowed with hate, he strode away, wanting to put distance between himself and this place. He needed to clear his head before he tried to Apparate again. He had thought his destination would have been the Manor, but his emotions had led him here. Clearly he hadn't buried them deep enough.

"Looking for a good time?"

Tom stopped at the sound of a sultry voice coming from the alley he was approaching. He watched as a woman stepped forward into the light. He studied her, taking in her sun-darkened skin, olive eyes, and hair that flowed past her shoulders and almost down to her waist. Her clothes had been expensive once upon a time, but now they were in desperate need of a wash.

"Not interested," he said, resuming his walk.

"Are you sure?" she asked, a bit more song in her voice. A siren adjusting her tune. "You look as though your heart could use some mending," she added as Tom's footsteps began to slow. "Tell me that sour look on your face isn't because of some lass."

He turned towards her; the metal of the locket searing the flesh of his palm. He thought of what he'd learned from Hermione about it. His head tilted to the side as he sized the woman up, remembering how Hermione had let him know the creation had been from a Muggle whore. That he had used her death in the backstreets of London to split his soul and encase it in the locket of his ancestor.

Which meant he was destined to kill this woman.

Tom took one step forward and the woman broke into a grin before turning back down the alley she'd emerged from and beckoned him to follow with a jerk of her head. He moved with caution; a snake in the grass preparing to strike. Once they were off the main path, away from most prying eyes, she turned to smile at him. Only, the smile was quick to fade and whatever it was that she was about to say died on her tongue in favor of a scream.

One that never sounded through the air.

Tom watched as his magic wrapped around her and flung her against the wall. He heard the air rush from her lungs as the back of her head bounced off the brick wall. Her eyes rolled as she clawed at her throat in attempt to rid herself of the invisible force crushing her windpipe. She kicked her legs frantically as she twisted every which way when he lifted her up. And without so much as a blink, the sound of her neck snapping filled the air around them. He released his hold on her, the thud of her body hitting the ground just as loud as the breaking of bones.

He looked at her long enough to draw a deep breath and then tossed the locket to the ground. It landed, face up; the letter S practically glowing as he peered down at it. He reached for his wand and aimed it at the center of his chest. He braced himself for the pain that he knew would follow and then began to whisper the spell he had taught himself not all that long ago.

The pain increased with each utterance of the spell, almost becoming unbearable. But it lessoned ever so slightly as he extracted a fragment of his soul with the tip of his wand. He stared at it, watching as smoke like wisps flowed outward from the black and red orb. Carefully, he used his wand to guide it to the locket, pushing with all the strength he had left until it was safely secured inside the item.

The moment it was complete, he lost his grip on his wand. It landed on the ground with a loud clatter a moment before he fell to his own hands and knees. He gasped for breath and fought off wave after wave of nausea. Black spots danced at the edge of his vision, but he refused to lose consciousness.

After what felt like an eternity, it began to subside. Slowly, Riddle got to his feet. He smoothed out his clothes and raked a hand through his hair. Only then did he bend down for his wand and the locket. He stowed his wand in the pocket of his robes and then placed the locket around his neck, tucked beneath all the layers of fabric he wore.

"Dark magic isn't the answer, Tom," Dumbledore had once said to him. "It is a powerful thing, but often that draw doubles as a weakness."

The ghost of a smile touched his lips as he stared at the dead girl across the alley. While Dumbledore's words may have been true, Tom knew his situation was different.

For it wasn't Tom that was drawn to the dark…

It was the dark that was drawn to Tom.

A/N: as always, feel free to follow me on FB or TikTok at: madrose_writing