What's this? An update that didn't take seven months? Dear me, hope no one has a heart attack from the shock.
Anyways, enjoy my dears! It's Part One of The Date!
For Hadrian, the following week elapsed quickly. Days blurred together under the mounting anticipation that haunted his every step, and his classes barely managed to pierce through the bubble of intrigue and excitement that surrounded him.
From the way Riddle's gaze seared through him whenever they crossed paths, Hadrian knew the man felt it too.
It was maddening. It was intoxicating. Even the uncertainty of not knowing exactly what awaited him – of what Riddle wanted from him – made his gut clench.
Raina had despaired at his inattention, rolling her eyes whenever she caught Hadrian drifting too far into his own mind. Though given that it was her words that continued to swirl damningly in his mind, Hadrian thought it only fitting that she be the one to deal with his distracted state.
He knew she could not be too mad at him anyway, seeing as she never failed to reel him back to the present.
By the time Friday afternoon was upon him, Hadrian felt as if his entire body was thrumming with energy, primed to explode at the slightest touch. If anyone asked, he would not have been able to recall a single thing he had done that day; and it was only after they had returned to the carriage after classes ended that his mind began to clear.
He bowed out of the planned study session with his friends, grateful for Raina and Claire's subtle assistance, and set off to get ready for whatever the evening would hold for him.
Hadrian showered, washing his hair, and enjoying the fierce sting of the water that bombarded him. It cascaded down his body, erasing the tension that had been rooted in his shoulder ever since he had received Riddle's note.
Once done, he dried himself briskly and pulled on his underwear, then rubbed a towel over his head roughly until his hair stuck up in a fluffy mess. His scalp prickled at the harsh treatment, but as he tossed his towel into the basket, he could feel it already beginning to droop, falling into its natural unruly waves.
Hadrian left the bathroom, heading directly for his bed where his clothes were laid out neatly for him. He ran his fingers over the soft, cool fabric of his white shirt and smiled.
Raina might have reservations about this whole situation but that in no way impacted her good taste. The outfit she had picked was perfect.
He started getting dressed, the pleasant buzzing in his chest growing stronger with each item he slipped on.
Smoothing his hands over his grey slacks, Hadrian then tucked his shirt in and buckled his belt. Next, he picked up his tie and held it for a moment, admiring it. Against his pale skin the red looked closer to garnet than anything and Hadrian remembered quite suddenly the knowing look Raina had given him when she had first shown it to him.
"Minx," he muttered fondly, popping his collar, and winding the silk tie around his neck. Whatever fear or apprehension Raina felt towards the Dark Lord was evidently not strong enough to stop her from taunting the man. He flattened the tie against his chest and finally pulled on his matching vest, deftly doing up the buttons.
Pressing his palm against his stomach, Hadrian tipped his head back and blew out a breath, then turned to face the full-length mirror set up in the corner of his room. His eyes scanned over himself critically, hands reaching up to fix minor things – flicking bits of his hair, adjusting his collar, running a hand over the seams of his vest – until he was satisfied.
"Not bad," he commented, stepping back with one last cursory glance. He held up his hand and said, "Tempus."
Humming thoughtfully, he cancelled the spell. If he headed out now, he should be able to get to Riddle's office with time to spare.
Hadrian summoned his wand and holster from where he had put them on his bedside table and looped it through his belt as he made his way to the door.
Poking his head out, Hadrian listened closely for any voices or signs of movement. It was well after six, which meant that everyone should be at the Great Hall for dinner, but he did not want to take any chances.
Not tonight. Not with this.
He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, then swiftly cast a disillusionment charm and, after a moment of deliberation, a muffling charm. Together those spells would hopefully be enough to get him past any wayward students that might be lingering in the corridors.
Hadrian took a moment to collect himself, then left the carriage.
The sky was already dark, and the night air was cold enough that he regretted not bringing a jacket. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and wandlessly cast a warming charm to ward off the chill.
He thankfully encountered no one on his way up to the castle, though once he was embraced by the orange glow of Hogwarts' halls things became more crowded. Students hurried around him, some out of uniform, most not, but all of them swarming towards the inviting doors of the Great Hall, drawn by the promise of food.
Hadrian stuck close to the wall, moving along the fringes to avoid being jostled, and eventually managed to make his way to the staircases. He waited off to the side for a few minutes, tucked beside a suit of armour, and let the waves of students pass him as patiently as he could. Once the route cleared, he hopped onto the first lot of stairs and began the steady journey to the correct floor.
The higher he rose, the quieter things became, and Hadrian dropped his charms once he was well out of view.
By the time he was making his way down the hallway that led to Riddle's office he could no longer hear anything beyond the muted click of his shoes on the stone. This, coupled with the way the torches flared to life as he walked, then died off behind him as he left their ranges, created an eerie atmosphere.
Slipping into the defence classroom was a blessing in many ways, if only because his sudden spike in excited nerves banished any unease he might have been feeling.
Hadrian stood just inside of the classroom, his hands flexing at his sides. The moonlight streamed through the wall of windows to the left and drew his attention to the desk that sat at the very front of the room.
The last time he had been in this room outside of class he had ended up pinned against it, breathless and bruised from Riddle's kiss.
Even now the memory of it had Hadrian's lips tingling.
"Stop being ridiculous," he whispered, shaking his head, "you're acting like a child."
He would not have kissed a child like that, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Raina's mocked him.
Be quiet, Hadrian snapped back at it, flustered by the implications.
He pushed his tongue against the wall of his cheek until his jaw ached, then forced himself to walk to the back of the classroom and climb the stairs, hand gliding over the railing to ground himself. When he reached the platform, Hadrian merely stared at the dark wood of the door, his stomach twisting itself into knots.
He remembered all too well what had happened the few times he had been inside this office.
Still, not even that small pinch of embarrassment could stop him from knocking.
The door opened barely a moment later and whatever Hadrian had been planning to say died in his suddenly dry mouth.
Riddle stood before him, dressed impeccably and looking like every bad idea Hadrian had ever had. His dark pants were moulded to his legs, clinging to his hips in a way that was indecent, and his black shirt made his pale skin glow in the low light. The man had forgone a tie and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone in what could only be a calculated attack, leaving the hollow of his throat on display and giving Hadrian a glimpse of his collarbones.
Fuck.
He was not prepared.
Riddle braced one hand on the jamb while the other innocently opened the door wider. The move stretched his chest out, his shirt pulling tight around his shoulders, and for a few crucial seconds it was all Hadrian could focus on.
"Good evening, Hadrian," Riddle greeted, voice low and warm. It skipped along his spine, and Hadrian snapped his gaze up. He shivered at the sound of his name being said like that – like a dessert being savoured.
Being wanted was not an uncommon occurrence for Hadrian. He had had his fair share of trysts over the years, and he knew very well that he was considered attractive, whether by his looks, his abilities, or his growing influence.
But there was something about being wanted by this man that set his insides aflame.
Riddle smirked at him, oozing satisfaction at Hadrian's blatant staring, but any annoyance he might have felt at that smug arrogance failed to form. It was overridden by the knowledge that Riddle had dressed like this for him. He had dressed like this because he wanted Hadrian to look.
And that fact was all Hadrian needed to regain his balance.
"You're early," Riddle stated, fingers drumming on the wooden panel.
"Your note said 7 o'clock, but I figured you wouldn't mind if I came a bit sooner," Hadrian told him calmly.
Riddle hummed, his eyes taking their time scanning him. "I certainly don't," he said when their gazes met again. The man moved aside and gestured for him to enter, tipping forward into a shallow, welcoming bow.
Hadrian snorted at the mocking motion as he stepped through the doorway, willingly submitting himself to Riddle's game, and received a sharp little smile in return.
When the door swung shut and the lock snapped into place Hadrian felt more at ease than he had all week.
It felt good to be here, to know that in this room there were no pretences.
A hand slid around him to rest on his lower back, guiding him further inside. Amused, Hadrian allowed himself to be corralled towards the table that was to the right side of the room.
His eyes jumped around the office, noting the subtle differences in layout, and something else.
"Where's your familiar?" he asked curiously.
Riddle glanced at him, coming to a stop beside the table. His fingers flexed against Hadrian's waist once before retreating. "Nagini? She's staying at my manor tonight. She didn't want to be here."
Hadrian raised his eyebrows, a little incredulous, "She's…not still mad about Yule, is she?"
"You mean the night you broke into my home, assaulted my follower and trapped her in a bubble?" Riddle shot back.
"You mean the night I rescued my kidnapped mother, hit the man that sold us out, and didn't kill your snake?" Hadrian replied snippily.
Riddle stared at him for a beat, eyes narrowed, before his expression shifted, and he conceded with a slight nod. "She wanted to give us privacy tonight," he said.
Hadrian tilted his head to the side at that, fighting a smile. "And why on earth would we need privacy?" he asked coyly.
The man looked at him, expression blank but for the amusement lurking in his eyes. Then, without warning, Riddle reached up and traced his thumb over the arch of Hadrian's cheek, his fingers curling loosely under his jawline before falling away.
The touch was fleeting, barely enough to register, but it froze him in place.
"Come sit," Riddle beckoned, stepping back. Hadrian automatically followed, eyes skimming over the table absently as he resisted the urge to press his hand to where Riddle had touched him.
It was a remarkably restrained in design, no elaborate centrepiece between the dinner sets or ostentatious decorations. He brushed a finger over one of the silver forks as Riddle pulled his chair out for him.
Hadrian squinted and was met with another glimmering smile. Riddle nodded down to the seat pointedly, watching him closely with an air of eagerness. After a moment of consideration Hadrian moved to sit, because if Riddle wanted to play the chivalrous host, then he was hardly going to stop him.
"Wine?" the man asked, gliding around Hadrian to take his glass. With his other hand, Riddle pulled a dark bottle from the ice bucket that hovered beside the table.
"Please," he nodded, smothering his bemusement. Being personally served by the Dark Lord was not exactly what he had been expecting when he had first read the note. A house-elf, or everything already in place when he arrived would have made more sense than this.
But it was…nice in a bewildering way.
Riddle poured a generous amount out and handed it to him, using the opportunity to ghost their fingers together. Hadrian, steadfastly ignoring that, took the glass and tilted it, watching the deep red liquid twirl along the sides; then raised it to his nose to smell. Despite its popularity, he did not typically drink wine.
"What type is this?" he asked, pulling it away to study.
"Pinot Noir," Riddle answered, pouring his own drink, and then taking the other seat. "It seemed appropriate," he added, swirling his glass twice before setting it on the table. After that, he leaned forward, resting his elbows comfortably next to his plate and steepling his fingers together to perch his chin on his knuckles.
It should have been awkward. It should have been painfully uncomfortable. But staring into Riddle's true face, pinned beneath those red eyes and watching the firelight dance over his skin, all Hadrian could think was he was beautiful.
Like this, it was easy to see how this man had conquered a country.
There was a shroud of danger that hung around him, an innate warning that was subtle enough to be enticing rather than off-putting. The steady weight of his gaze spoke of hard-won confidence, as if he knew that there was nothing he could not accomplish once he put his mind to it, and you could not help but believe it too.
And out of all the people in the world this man could dine with, he had chosen Hadrian.
"How have you been, Hadrian?" Riddle asked. "I heard that your wounds have healed nicely."
Hadrian fiddled with his knife. "Yes, I was cleared last week. I've been assured that the scars will fade with time. There should be no lasting damage."
"Excellent. It would be a shame if it effected your…performance. In the next task, of course."
"Of course," Hadrian agreed, lips twitching, more than a little delighted at the playful remark.
Riddle hid his own smile behind his hands. "Speaking of – have you any thoughts about the third task?"
Hadrian shrugged, glancing away. "Not particularly. It's a three-way duel, isn't it?" he asked, waiting for the man to nod before continuing. "I'll be fine."
"Confident," Riddle observed, and Hadrian gave him a droll look.
"As you are likely aware, I am the current undefeated duelling champion at Beauxbatons. I'm sure I can survive – so long as nothing goes spectacularly wrong with this one," he tacked on acerbically.
Old anger flared quickly in Riddle's eyes at the comment. "We have increased security for the task, and it will be held in the quidditch pitch. The structure and placement mean it is easily guarded and monitored," he assured.
"The same could be said for the first task," Hadrian pointed out. "I still got smacked into a wall after I finished my match."
"A result of faulty equipment, a mistake that will not be repeated," the man promised darkly. "Things will be different. For one, you won't be facing a dangerous creature."
"I don't know," Hadrian said dryly, running his fingers up and down the stem of his glass, "an argument could be made for Kaiser."
"Oh?" Riddle purred, his agitation disappearing swiftly. "Are you worried?"
Hadrian laughed, "If anyone should be worried it's her."
"Holding a grudge?"
His smile was biting as he replied, "She tried to kill me. She took my wand. She tried to keep it. Would you let such a slight stand?"
Riddle's look was answer enough. Kaiser would not have walked out of that forest alive if he had been in Hadrian's place.
"One might take your lack of aggression towards her in the past weeks as a show of disinterest. Or caution," the man probed slyly.
"You of all people should know the importance of lulling your enemies into a false sense of security, my Lord," Hadrian drawled, graciously overlooking the way Riddle's attention seemed to sharpen at the address. "When I go after Kaiser it will be in the arena. There's no point in wasting my time and effort on her before then. Besides, I kind of like the idea of her knowing what is coming and being unable to do anything about it."
"You are a petty boy, aren't you?" Riddle asked, though his tone was fond.
Would you want me any other way?
Hadrian bit his tongue to stop that question from leaping out, and instead saluted the man with his glass and took a drink. The rich flavour drowned the words with vengeance.
"It's an open secret at this point what it will be – but I know that everyone is looking forward to the third task. They are anticipating something extraordinary given what you revealed in the second task." Riddle stared at him, eyes roaming over the parts of Hadrian he could see. "Wandless magic of that level is quite rare. Not many ever learn to utilise it to the extent that you have."
The man's admiration crashed over Hadrian like a tidal wave, though the rush of pleasure he got from it cooled when Riddle continued.
"You've shown an impressive amount of skill so far. I doubt there was a single person in the audience that wasn't struck by how well you handled yourself in the forest. That fight was…exceptional."
Hadrian looked down to the table, frowning lightly at the praise. He swallowed, trying not to recall the sound the werewolf's spine had made when it had collided with that tree.
Riddle, seeing far too much, caught his discomfort immediately. "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he said softly. "You did what you had to to survive, and you saved another life in the process. Most would commend you on your actions."
"I'm not ashamed," Hadrian said back, voice steady with the truth.
Too keen to miss what he was not saying, Riddle cocked his head, resembling a bird more than the serpents he favoured in that moment. "Is that what worries you, then? That you don't feel remorse?"
Hadrian focussed on the bookshelf over the man's shoulder so that he would not have to meet his eyes. "I suppose it just felt different than I thought it would. I've grown up knowing that I would be a killer one day, but the actual act was not…" he waved his hand as if to explain.
"Up to your expectations?" Riddle supplied.
Hadrian huffed, shaking his head. "You do realise it was you that I was planning to kill one day, right?"
"Naturally," Riddle replied, his teeth flashing as his smile widened, "and while your use of past tense comforts me, I can admit that I would have welcomed the attempt regardless. Something tells me that it would have been the best fight of my life."
"You're just full of compliments tonight, aren't you?" Hadrian muttered, though the shadow that had been creeping into his thoughts was burnt away by the burst of giddiness Riddle's words evoked.
He paused then, a question slipping to the forefront of his mind. Hadrian rolled his tongue over his teeth as he debated whether he should voice it or not, but eventually he could not help himself.
"How old were you when you first killed someone?"
"Directly or indirectly?" the man asked, and it was such a morbid specification that it nearly made Hadrian laugh in disbelief. He swallowed the sound back, belatedly thinking of how inappropriate most would find this.
"Does it really change the answer that much?"
Riddle nodded, his smile now a tempered thing. He did not appear bothered at the turn their conversation had taken – but then again, why would he? What did he have to fear? This man had built his career on war and blood. He had no need to watch his answers or to lie about these things, because who would ever look to punish him?
"Both," Hadrian said after a second of consideration, an energising jolt racing through him.
Riddle dipped his head in something close to approval, and Hadrian was helpless to resist the urge to lean forward.
The man took a long drink from his glass, then began to speak. "The first man I indirectly killed was one of the priests that often visited the orphanage that I grew up in," he said, voice lyrical and entrancing, so much so that it took a few moments for Hadrian to process what he had just heard.
Riddle graced him with a mesmerising smile, seemingly amused by the open shock on Hadrian's face. The lightness faded however when he continued, "I exhibited magic at a very young age and though I was quite skilled at controlling it by the time I was six, there had been enough incidents over the years to build up a certain…reputation."
By the remnants of bitterness in the man's voice, Hadrian could guess what that reputation was.
"To the very religious matron I was, at best, being possessed by the devil. At worst, I was a demon myself, come to torment her and the other children and drag their souls to the depths of hell for all eternity. Either way something had to be done. In her desperation to 'fix' me she reached out to Father Joshua, who agreed that I had 'unholy' powers."
Riddle's posture was lazy and almost bored as he told his story, but his eyes were becoming grim and filled with scorn. His magic twined through the air, stifling and thick, and Hadrian was transfixed. He could guess where this tale led, and while a part of him hated the very idea of it, another part was ravenous to hear its end.
Red eyes peered at him, piercing.
"Tell me, Hadrian. Do you know much about exorcisms? Have you ever seen one performed?"
His arms prickled, his breathing quickening softly at the question. He could almost see the memories playing out in the man's eyes.
"…No," he answered quietly.
Riddle glanced away to the fireplace, staring into the flames with pursed lips. "I must say, neither do I. My memories of that day are not the clearest – from the stress, I imagine. I do remember the ropes they used to tie me down, and Father Joshua's pale face, but beyond that the event is lost to me. I only recall coming to in the aftermath. The room was in chaos, people were strewn about, all unconscious. And the good Father was dead on the floor beside me."
The mask of placidity broke then, something viciously pleased slipping onto Riddle's face. "I think the cause was deemed a heart-attack. More likely, he was standing too close to me when my magic reacted in defence, and he paid the price."
Hadrian released a shuddering breath. "What happened after that?" he asked.
Riddle looked at him, blinking slowly as if to dispel the daze he had entered. "I woke up. The restraints had burnt away, so I made my way back to the orphanage alone. I don't believe anyone in that room remembered why they were there or what happened. A side-effect from my magical outburst, probably, seeing as no one ever brought it up with me again."
Running his finger around the rim of his glass, Riddle smiled. "We attended his funeral. It was a very sombre event."
Hadrian held the man's stare, his mind whirling with what Riddle had revealed to him. It was almost hard to believe, but Hadrian knew all too well that stories like Riddle's were not uncommon.
Magical children hurt people all the time if they were scared or in pain, and they could even kill if they felt threatened enough. He had heard many tales over the years, particularly from his muggleborn classmates.
It was normal. It was expected, for all that it was a terrible occurrence.
He supposed it was just that he never would have thought Riddle would be one of those unlucky cases.
Hadrian frowned, trying to imagine what that experience must have been like – to be young and terrified and confused, restrained and surrounded by adults. He imagined raised voices and holy water being thrown on a small, thrashing body.
Ropes chaffing delicate skin. Crying out for help that no one would provide.
It sounded like a nightmare, if he was honest, but Hadrian still had trouble reconciling it with what he knew of the man across from him.
Fear was not something he would have thought Lord Voldemort could feel, foolish as the notion was.
The lull in their conversation stretched on for another handful of seconds. Riddle seemed content to let Hadrian absorb the story, nursing his wine and watching the emotions play across his face.
He only spoke when their eyes met again, deliberately insensitive. "Anyway, the first person I directly killed was Myrtle Warren. I was fifteen. She was in the year below me. Her ghost is still haunting the second-floor girls' bathroom, if I recall."
"Wait – what?" Hadrian asked, startled by the abrupt shift in topic, then quickly growing appalled when the words registered. "You killed someone at Hogwarts? While you were a student? Why did you kill her? How on earth did you get away with that?"
"Not easily," Riddle groused, leaning back in his chair. He looked annoyed, as if the entire thing had been an inconvenience. "I wasn't aware that she was there at the time, but she witnessed something I couldn't have getting out, so I had to kill her. I ended up framing someone else for it to make sure Hogwarts didn't close. Only one of my professors suspected me, and I even got an award for special service, so it all worked out rather well in the end, I suppose."
Hadrian remembered reading the old article when he had first researched Riddle.
"Dear gods, you are an arsehole," he breathed out, awed by the man's sheer gall. "Have you never heard of memory charms? Did you have to kill her?"
"Ordinarily I would have just wiped her memory, yes, but there were mitigating circumstances at the time. Besides," Riddle waved a negligent hand, "I had need of a dead body, and I am an opportunist."
"Why would you need a – you know what, I don't think I want to know," Hadrian cut himself off, disturbed at the possibilities.
There were countless rituals he could think of off the top of his head that required a fresh corpse, but he actually wanted to keep his appetite. It was bad enough knowing that the poor girl's ghost was still trapped in the school her murderer now worked in.
Had Riddle ever encountered her? Had he spoken to her at all? Did she remember it was him responsible for her death? What would it even be like to know that someone you had killed still lingered?
"Are you sure?" Riddle goaded, cradling his chin in his palm. "I would tell you the truth if you asked."
"I'll pass," Hadrian said firmly, and for some reason his refusal had Riddle smothering a chuckle. "Why were you in the girls' bathroom anyway? Seems an odd place to be doing illegal activities."
"Perhaps I will show you one day," Riddle offered, smiling secretly. "But that is a conversation for another time. We should eat."
At his words, their meals appeared on their plates with a quiet rattle. The delicious aroma filled the room, though Hadrian still found himself somewhat unsettled by their previous topic.
"You are sixty years too late to concern yourself with those events, Hadrian," Riddle said.
When Hadrian looked up at him, his expression was firm.
"I have never been a good man. You have always known that. Does hearing such things really change your opinion of me?"
It did not, but Hadrian felt like it should.
Riddle had undoubtedly done unspeakable things throughout his life to accomplish what he had. He had conquered a country and set up a system that stole children from their families. He had hurt so many people and killed countless more.
He had killed Hadrian's father. Kidnapped his mother. He had even hurt Hadrian in the past.
He was an awful person. He was the Dark Lord.
Hadrian had known and accepted all those facts long ago – but having it lain so plainly before him made him feel…culpable.
Doubt ate at him.
Gods, what was he doing here? What did it say about him that he knew what Riddle was capable of, and he was here anyway, talking and acting like none of it mattered?
What would his mother say if she knew?
No.
Hadrian closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. He would not let his thoughts stray down that path. He was sick of letting others dictate his actions. He had sworn to not bow to his mother's demands anymore.
For one night he wanted to be free from guilt. He wanted to enjoy just this one thing without worrying how it would be perceived.
He wanted to be selfish.
Hadrian lifted his head, sighing and loosening his tense muscles. "It doesn't," he declared.
Riddle, if he was satisfied with that answer, kept it to himself. Instead, he rolled an inviting hand at their dinner. Hadrian took up his cutlery and put his worries to the side, focussing on his meal with determination.
He poked at the leg on his plate with his knife, raising it enough to see the vegetables underneath. "Duck?" he guessed, surprised. He had not had this since coming to Britain.
His eyes jumped up to find Riddle pulling his own fork free from his mouth, clearly relishing the flavour. "It is a special night," was all the man said.
Hadrian stared at him, then down at his dinner, then at the glass of wine beside him.
He smiled to himself and began to eat.
OoO
Tonks sat sequestered off to the side, half-hidden by the railing of the staircase. Her eyes were fixed on one of the old, empty, and dust-covered portraits that was pinned to the foyer wall.
The night air was fraught with tension; the ruinous kind that settled in around your bones and ached when you least expected it. Her nails dug into her knees as she listened distantly to the argument ensuing in the next room - Remus' voice filled with confusion and frustration as he demanded to know, again, what had happened to Lily and Sirius.
Tonks had stopped paying attention to the answers he received, her own thoughts too chaotic to leave space for whatever Dumbledore and the others were saying.
Remus' voice rose again, anger weaving into it now. Tonks had never heard him sound so aggressive before.
She wished she could tell him. She wished she knew anything that could help ease the pain in his eyes.
It had been over two weeks now since that disastrous meeting. Two weeks since her world had crumbled, since Sirius had been called a traitor and detained somewhere, and she was still not sure how she was supposed to feel about that.
She wanted to be furious.
She wanted to feel hurt.
She wanted to find and shake Sirius and force the answers from him – but she did not even know what her questions were.
The things that Moody and Dumbledore had accused him of…it was still so hard to believe.
Sirius had always been their most stalwart member. The most loyal in the Order. He was the one who routinely put himself in danger for information and resources, and the loudest advocate that they fight against Voldemort's reign.
He was Tonks' big cousin. Her protector and guardian, the one person she had always been able to rely on.
The idea that he could betray them made no sense to her. Sirius would never do something like that. He would never have sold them out to Narcissa Malfoy of all people, not when he hated her and Bellatrix both, his voice always falling into a growl whenever he mentioned Tonks' aunts.
Moody would not lie about such things though, and Sirius had all but admitted it with his harsh words.
Tonks squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the warning prickle of oncoming tears. Her hands rose to grip her hair, desperate for something to hold her together.
Footsteps creaked above her and Tonks gritted her teeth, forcing the stone in her throat down as she felt Cedric slip into place beside her.
Above the rush of her pulse in her ears she could make out Dumbledore's familiar timbre – but it just made her gut lurch uncomfortably.
"The ritual merely plants an idea in the recipient's mind that they then carry out."
Merlin, just remembering those words had a chill rushing through her. She bit into her bottom lip, and the back of her neck erupted in a cold flush.
"It doesn't hurt, and the recipient wouldn't even notice the suggestion."
A warm hand gently wrapped around her wrist and tugged her hand from her hair. Tonks wasted no time in rotating her hand to clutch at Cedric's. She did not even have to look to know that he was just as bothered by what had happened as she was.
Tonks thought of Hadrian, of how fierce he was. She did not know him well, but even in their short acquaintanceship, she knew that she liked him. He had a spark in him that she could appreciate; a hint of mischief that made her want to smile.
She imagined his bright eyes dull and lifeless. His lively countenance turned serene and subdued under the influence of a compulsion – and shivered at how wrong it was.
"All I see are people willing to hide behind a child."
Sirius' words rand in her head, and Tonks hunched over at the burst of shame that grow in her heart.
Hadrian was seventeen. He was still in school, for Merlin's sake.
Tonks had not even been allowed to join the Order until she was well over her majority. Neither had Cedric, or any of Arthur and Molly's children.
Why had it seemed alright when it was Hadrian?
"What are we going to do?" Cedric asked, barely audible.
He sounded more uncertain than she had ever heard before.
Tonks squeezed his fingers and shook her head. When she answered, her lips scarcely moved.
"I don't know."
OoO
Voldemort watched as Hadrian finished off the last of his wine and enjoyed the simple glow of pleasure that lit those green eyes.
The boy put his glass down, his tongue darting out to chase the lingering taste; and as their plates were cleared away, he leaned forward in a comfortable slouch.
Hadrian's hand rose, fingers absently playing with his bottom lip, gently pinching the soft pink flesh, tugging, then releasing it.
It was delightfully distracting.
Everything about him was, really. Voldemort had never met anyone that had so wholly ensnared him like this boy had.
Watching how he had relaxed over the course of their dinner had been gratifying, their previous conversation thankfully not dampening things beyond repair. Hadrian's edges, while still present, had begun to soften; his entire countenance warming gradually as the night had progressed.
This was a side he had only caught stolen glimpses of in the past, and he revelled in being able to now look his fill.
"So, I had a question," Hadrian said, breaking the tentative silence that had fallen between them. His fingers settled at the corner of his mouth, seeming to not notice where Voldemort's gaze was fixed.
He hummed in encouragement.
"You…mentioned that you grew up in an orphanage," the boy prompted, head dipping down and glancing at him through his tousled fringe. Caution danced in his eyes.
He should have known that that would catch and consume Hadrian's attention.
Voldemort sat back in his chair, holding his half-filled glass close as he responded, "I did."
He waited, intrigued to see where this would go. Despite his own aversion to the topic, he was impressed that Hadrian was daring enough to broach it.
"Could you tell me about it?" the boy asked, brightening with curiosity.
Voldemort raised his eyebrows. "My early childhood is hardly the most interesting thing about me," he teased.
Hadrian's open expression shifted to something vaguely exasperated – an emotion he could not recall having ever had directed at him before. How novel.
Voldemort considered Hadrian closely for a moment.
Not many would have cared enough about his past to ask, and even less would be brave enough to after the titbits he had already revealed. They would have been warned away either by the grim subject or because of some misguided sense of propriety.
"Why do you want to know?" he asked.
"Because I know you," Hadrian answered. "I know you – but I don't actually know much about you." The boy smiled at him, soft and challenging. "Maybe I want to know how you became the man in front of me."
Voldemort controlled his instinctive reaction to that proclamation, but the sudden heat that enveloped him was blinding in its intensity.
I know you.
What an arrogant statement.
What a terrifying, dizzying concept.
Hadrian's gaze was steady and calm across the table. Unyielding and eviscerating in equal measure.
No one had ever claimed such familiarity with him before, but if anyone could do it, if anyone could see him, it would be Hadrian.
That thought was as unwelcome as it was exhilarating.
He was speaking in the next second, some part of him whispering yes.
"I was born and raised in Wool's Orphanage in London. My mother was a weak woman, both magically and physically. She lived only long enough to name me before she died, and I entered the care of the matron and her assistants."
"What was your mother's name?" Hadrian asked, sharp-eyed and intent.
"Merope Gaunt," Voldemort answered shortly, moving on before the boy could inquire more. "I don't remember much from those first few years, but I did know from a young age that I was different than the other children. I could move objects with just a thought. I could command animals. I could hurt people without touching them."
His fingers traced the intricate patterns that were delicately carved into the stem of his glass. Memories he had long locked away slipped to the forefront of his mind.
"I was an emotional child, but I admit that I found it difficult to empathise with those around me. Violence came easily to me, as did lying. Growing up in a post-war economy was hard, our resources limited, and that environment encouraged a, hmm, shall we say 'cutthroat' attitude in many of us."
It was difficult to explain to one who had not lived through such an experience. The gnawing hunger. The constant, persistent cold. The humiliation and indignity of being pitied.
Voldemort had made sure he would never endure such conditions ever again, and he found the idea of telling Hadrian the truth in this matter utterly unappealing.
The boy was far too compassionate, for all that he was capable of great cruelty. Even now he could see the worried frown beginning to form on his face.
"Once I had fully grasped the extent of how different I was, things became simpler for me. I honed my powers in between chores and lessons; and after the failed exorcism I learned to cover my tracks better."
Sympathy fluttered through Hadrian's eyes at the mention, though it was quickly replaced by an almost callous sense of humour. "I bet that came in handy," he mused.
"Indeed," Voldemort agreed, smirking.
He took a sip of his drink, then continued, "For the most part the other children left me alone. Those that irritated me tended to suffer the consequences, and as such, very few had the courage to confront me. By the time my Hogwarts letter arrived I had most of the orphanage well in hand. Still, having a name for my abilities, learning that I wasn't alone? It was a relief in many ways."
"I can imagine," Hadrian said, idly twisting his fingers together as he studied Voldemort, rivetted.
Though the attention was pleasing, Voldemort pounced on the unwitting opening. "And what of your childhood, Hadrian?"
The boy blinked, broken from his assessment. His unease was swiftly covered with a cocked eyebrow. "Am I to believe that you didn't run a background check on me? You likely know more about my childhood than I can remember."
A good attempt at a diversion. It was a shame he was not an easily distracted man.
Voldemort clicked his tongue in admonishment. "I have an entire folder detailing your life, Hadrian," he admitted, purely to see the ripple of indignation that fact caused. "But reading about something and hearing it first-hand are two different things. I want to know what your childhood was like for you."
Hadrian's expression flicked through a rapid series of emotions, all too quick to be properly identified. He looked to the side, biting his lip, eyes narrowed in contemplation.
Nearly a minute stretched out before Hadrian finally moved.
The boy stood, arms fluttering nervously by his side as he made his way towards the closest bookshelf.
Voldemort watched him go with hooded eyes, allowing the distance for the moment.
Hadrian dragged a finger along the polished wood of one of the shelves, back to the room. Unable to see his face, Voldemort instead studied the careful way his shoulders moved. Every breath perfectly even.
"Looking back, I know that my childhood was…unorthodox. I was trained more than I was raised. But that lifestyle, it was all I knew, so it wasn't strange to me."
Hadrian sighed, turning back to Voldemort. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned carefully against the bookshelf, apprehension plain on his face.
"My mother and I were having political debates by the time I was seven. Every conversation we had was a test of some kind. She would purposefully mislead me, back me into verbal corners, teach me to find hidden meanings and agendas. She taught me to be suspicious of everyone, to keep them all at arm's length, to trust only her."
Hadrian's mouth twisted up into a bitter smile, his gaze growing distant and rueful. "I was…a very attentive student to her lessons," he said quietly.
"Gods," he huffed, shaking his head, "I must have seemed so strange when I started at Beauxbatons. I was eight, and so utterly convinced that my mother was the smartest woman in the world. Every week I would write to her – entire essays about my classes and my professors and my classmates. Who was from which family, what their parents did, if they were useful."
Rubbing a hand over his face, Hadrian slumped heavily, pressing more into the shelf as his gaze skittered around the room. Guilt, of all things, was beginning to surface in his eyes.
"She had me writing reports," he said. "Every Saturday without fail, for years. And I never questioned it. I went through the junior academy like a little machine, doing whatever she told me. I was terrified of upsetting her, couldn't stomach the thought of it. I wasn't even a person. I was just…her obedient weapon."
Voldemort thought of the sounds Lily Potter had made while choking on her own blood, and wished suddenly that he had done worse.
Hadrian tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "It was only when I became a senior that I started to become myself. I can't pinpoint when it happened, it was as if one day I went from being Harry Potter pretending to be Hadrian Evans to just…being Hadrian."
The boy's true name was like a splash of cold water. It had been so long since Voldemort had thought of him as Harry Potter that it felt wrong to hear it now.
This was not the child he had hunted obsessively for years. This was not Albus Dumbledore's golden ticket, nor Lily Potter's tool. This was not his prophesised enemy in front of him.
Whatever Hadrian was now, it was not – would never be – that.
"The line between the two got so blurred over the years, and somewhere along the way it became the reverse."
"Hadrian Evans pretending to be Harry Potter," Voldemort concluded.
Hadrian nodded slowly, staring pensively down at his own boots. "It's funny, isn't it?" he joked blandly. "My mask was so good it became the real thing even to me."
"It's not funny at all," Voldemort corrected, standing and placing his glass on the table. "What your mother did to you was horrendous and the fact that she thought you could maintain such a façade without ramifications was downright stupid."
Hadrian watched him from the corner of his eye as he approached, but to his credit he remained where he was.
"You were a child forced into a situation outside of your control, carrying expectations that were, frankly, absurd." Voldemort said, stopping just shy of crowding the other against the bookshelf.
Hadrian snorted softly, tilting his head back and looking at him with a defiant glint in his eyes. "Let's not forget who was ultimately responsible for all of it," he replied, chin raised and mouth pinched.
Unintentional though it was, a spark of possessive pride rushed through him at the comment.
Hadrian was like this because of him. Everything the boy was, everything he had become, was because ofVoldemort.
He released a long breath, almost drunk off the knowledge.
Hadrian stared at him, his own eyes darkening with untold things. "I spent so much of my life preparing to defeat you," he confessed, reaching out to splay a hand over Voldemort's chest.
He burned at the touch.
"You, thinking about you, it was one of the only things that made me feel anything. I was so afraid of you, but some part of me was hopelessly drawn to the very idea of you. Knowing that you were out there, that one day we would meet…" he trailed off, dragging his hand up until two of his fingers slipped under the opening of Voldemort's shirt.
"You're not what I thought you would be like," Hadrian whispered. "None of this is what I thought it would be."
"What did you expect our meeting would be like?" Voldemort asked, inching forward incrementally, captivated by what Hadrian was saying.
Hadrian blinked, eyes crawling up from where their skin connected to Voldemort's own. He smiled crookedly, his earlier melancholy fleeing, "Well, I certainly hadn't imagined we would one day sit down and have dinner together."
Voldemort's hand rose to hover near Hadrian's cheek, the pads of his fingers barely skimming the warm skin. Dark lashes fluttered, those infuriating green eyes hidden for a heartbeat.
He was beautiful.
"I hadn't expected you to be quite so willing to challenge me as you have. You're playing with fire, you know?"
Hadrian's smile became impish as he used his thumb to widen the gap in Voldemort's shirt, baring more of his throat. "You are beginning to sound like Raina," he told him.
Voldemort's demeanour cooled at the mention of Hadrian's pretty friend, his own smile dropping away. "High praise coming from you," he replied, somewhat sourly.
"It really is," Hadrian agreed, amused eyes glinting knowingly up at him.
Something acidic was building in his chest. "And where do your friends think you are right now?" he demanded lightly, one hand clutching the edge of the shelf close to Hadrian's hip while the other curled around the edge of his jaw.
Do they know where you are? Do they know that you are with me?
Voldemort wanted to rip out the affection in Hadrian's eyes. He wanted to erase everyone that had ever touched him and smother those memories until he was the only on Hadrian could think of. He wanted to bury himself so deep under his skin that nothing would ever remove him from Hadrian's heart and mind.
Hadrian lounged before him, unflinching in the face of the violent desires blazing in his eyes. "Raina and Claire know exactly where I am," he said, his hand retreating until just his fingertips rested against Voldemort's sternum. "They think you're trying to seduce me."
His ire vanished in an instant, replaced with smug assurance. "And what do you think?"
Emboldened by the subtle hitch in Hadrian's breathing, Voldemort took the final step, pressing them flush against each other. He swayed close, lips caressing the corner of other's mouth as he murmured, "Would you let me seduce you, Hadrian?"
Fire would not have blistered him as much as the raw need that consumed him did.
"Yes," Hadrian breathed, gripping his shirt harshly and looping a hand around the back of his neck.
Voldemort grinned viciously when Hadrian kissed him. Surging up into him like a spring tide.
He tasted divine.
He tasted like victory.
OoO
The door shut behind Alastor and Remus, cutting the simmering tension like a knife and leaving them suspended in a gaping void of unspoken words and misunderstandings.
The embers of her anger spluttered without the source right in front of her, and Emmeline let out an aggrieved sigh. She closed her eyes, rubbing her forehead to starve off the burgeoning headache that was weaving inside her skull like thorny vines.
She listened as Albus, the only other person remaining besides her, lowered himself into one of the chairs, his robes rustling loudly in the sudden quiet of the lounge room.
Adjusting her shawl, Emmeline turned and began to approach her mentor. She stood to his right for a long minute, studying him in silence.
Albus was looking more worn each day. The lines in his face had deepened in the past months, and there were dark shadows lurking in his eyes that concerned her.
The years had not been kind, but Emmeline suspected that he felt the weight of their losses more keenly than any of them ever could.
He was diminishing before her eyes, a little more of him scraped away every time she saw him.
They were losing, and badly. They had been on the backfoot in this war for more than a decade, forced into a corner and scrambling to regain their strength. Emmeline could hardly remember a time when they were not underground.
It rankled to know how far they had fallen.
With another sigh, she dropped into the seat next to Albus, learning forward to rest her face into her hands. The stress from the last week was finally catching up with her, and she was running on fumes at this point.
First Sirius and Lily refused to cooperate, and now Remus was beginning to stir trouble. On top of that, from what she had observed, neither Nymphadora nor Cedric were entirely comfortable with what had happened.
They were fracturing right down the middle.
She closed her eyes to relieve the dryness, pressing her palms against them.
"We're going to need to watch Remus," she said tiredly. "He's too emotional, he might do something reckless. Dora and Cedric too – we can't risk any of them letting slip what we're planning."
Albus did not reply, but she could feel his agreement.
"If word somehow gets out…if they twist things – you know Arthur and Molly will refuse. And gods forbid if Harry hears of it."
Emmeline had only spoken to Harry the once, but she had heard plenty from the others. She had followed his progress in the tournament with interest, and she had a good idea of what he was capable of. She did not want to imagine what the boy would do if he caught wind of their intentions.
With a heavy heart, she looked at him beseechingly. "Are we doing the right thing, Albus?"
His eyes rose to meet hers. There was an aching kind of regret in those blue depths, but it was faint compared to the blazing determination.
"It must be Harry," Albus said, sidestepping her question completely.
"Because of the prophecy?" Emmeline asked, jaded and with a tremor in her voice.
She respected divination, truly. It was an intricate and terrible power that only few were able to wield. She respected it, but she did not like it. Not when she had lost dozens of friends while waiting for the call to be answered.
She knew that others in the Order held the prophecy close, that they believed in it with all their hearts, and she knew Albus had propagated the idea for years.
She knew he thought Harry would be the one to defeat Voldemort, which was why she was shocked when Albus spoke.
"No."
Emmeline straightened immediately, staring at her mentor with wide, puzzled eyes.
"'No'?" she echoed, hands twisting in her shawl. "I thought you believed –"
"My own belief in the prophecy is irrelevant," Albus gently interrupted. "Prophecies are, in their nature, self-fulfilling. Harry was set on this path a long time ago by his mother. He has trained all his life to complete this task. He has been pushed and moulded for this singular purpose, and as such, he is the best candidate to do it. It is because of the actions of those around him that Harry is even in a position to meet the requirements."
Emmeline frowned, her gaze drifting down to her knees. She felt shaken.
"But even if Harry was not the one the prophecy was intended for, he would still be the most suitable to fulfil it," Albus continued, looking off to the side, eyes hazy with thought.
"What do you mean, Albus?" she asked when he fell quiet.
He turned back to her, smiling resignedly. "Tom has so few weaknesses," he began, confusing her until she remembered that was Voldemort's true name.
"But for someone so convinced of his own superiority, he has always been a remarkably emotional boy. Driven by his own desires and controlled by his obsessions. He sees Harry as something desirable, something he wants to possess – the lengths he has gone to to drive a wedge between Lily and her son shows that. His need to mark and claim…it reveals more than he realises."
Albus folded his hands on his lap. "Harry holds some importance to Tom now, and we can use that. Tom would hesitate to kill Harry purely because it would mean he would lose the chance to keep him."
His mouth curved into a deprecating smile, "Tom has always taken good care of things he views as his. Destroying Harry, killing him, it would be akin to admitting defeat. It would mean that Tom was not good enough to find another solution, and that would be unacceptable in his eyes."
Emmeline ran her hands up and down her arms, feeling chilled at the remark.
Albus blinked, his focus returning to her. "Harry is the best person to fulfil the prophecy because he has the one thing no one else does. Access. He is the only one Tom has let close in years. He is the only one that could hurt Tom. The only one Tom would be reluctant to strike down."
"You make it sounds like he loves Harry," Emmeline said. "I didn't think he had enough of a heart to love someone else."
He chuckled, head bowing, "You mistake me, my dear. Tom values him, certainly, and on some level cares for him, but only in terms of what Harry can do for him."
Albus stared out the dark window.
"If there is one thing Tom cannot do, it is love someone."
Dumbledore: tom cant love anyone
Tom: lmao let me makeout with my boyfriend
Anyway, we'll get the next half of Riddle and Hadrian's night together in the next chapter! I would love to hear your thoughts so far!
As always, my tumblr is 'Child_OTKW', if you want to come along to discover theories, scream at me, discuss new snippets or get some behind the scenes commentary! Thanks guys!