Chapter Twenty-Three
Late January, 1943
Tom woke to an unfamiliar ceiling and a foul taste in his mouth. He checked himself, not moving until he was certain of his situation. Nothing seemed out of sorts except that he was nude and in an unfamiliar bed, which for Tom Riddle was, in fact, extremely out of sorts He sat up and looked around cautiously. Next to him laid a buxom woman, equally naked, and still asleep.
Tom struggled to put a name to the face, and couldn't. She bore a passing resemblance to certain members of the Black family, but he couldn't remember having met this particular woman before. He prodded at his memories, trying to connect his present situation to some reasonable explanation.
He remembered attending another meeting of Slughorn's Slug Club. He'd been drinking slowly, pretending he wasn't bored stiff, all in the name of making the connections that would help him change the world. Then this woman had entered, drawing the attention of a good percentage of the room. She was tall, with what Abraxas might have termed 'impressive assets.' Tom wondered briefly if she might be a vampire, because her skin was quite pale and she shared their ability to draw his attention in a way no one else could.
She'd flitted about the room, smiling at him now and then even as she spoke to others, until at last she'd approached him. The memories were hazy, and many parts seemed distorted. At some point, he'd become aware of the vague sense that the room had grown hotter. He also remembered thinking that he liked the way she smelled, something strongly floral. Then his memories began to blur even more, but he felt like he remembered being completely engrossed in her voice. He couldn't remember a thing they'd talked about though. And then at some point, she touched his arm and it was like electricity shooting through him. He'd grabbed her and kissed her as though his life depended on it. It was his first kiss.
She laughed and then led him from the party amid knowing smirks and jeers. When they reached an unused classroom, Tom didn't even question the presence of a bed with silk sheets or the candles on the floor or the rose petals scattered all over. All he could think about was undressing the woman before him and undressing himself and then he was pushing her down on the bed and they were kissing again and his hands were running up and down her body, frenziedly trying to touch everywhere at once, and then
Tom climbed out of bed, walked calmly to the bathroom, closed the door, locked it, knelt in front of the toilet, and threw up. He took a breath and threw up again. He took another breath that was interrupted by dry heaves, but at last there was nothing left to throw up, so he stood and flushed the toilet. He looked at himself in the mirror and felt sick all over again seeing the bites and bruises marring his skin.
"Tom?" It was the woman. "Are you okay?" she asked through the door.
He rinsed his mouth out and opened the door.
She smiled up at him, deep blue eyes twinkling in a Dumbledore-eque way that made him want to grab her throat and squeeze until those eyes bulged from their sockets and all twinkle left them forever.
Tom cast about for his wand, but he couldn't see it. He narrowed his eyes and cast a wandless summoning charm. His wand flew to his hand from under the bed, and he clutched it, bone-white wand matching his knuckles as he tried to steady himself.
The girl was beginning to look a bit concerned. "Tom? Why aren't you saying anything?"
He pushed past her, uncaring as she yelped and fell onto the stone floor, and left.
Around that time, he began allowing the basilisk he'd been caring for to roam the castle during the day. Had anyone asked, he might have realized the temporal connection between the event and his change of behavior, but no one knew enough to ask in the first place, and Tom wasn't in the habit of questioning his own motives.
A few months passed before he received a note with the owl post.
I need to meet with you. Hearts surrounded the words, and it was so childish he almost threw it away. However, the note was perfumed, and it was a scent he'd never forgotten.
So he went to the room he'd woken up in back in January. She was there, hands twisting together nervously, though she glowed with both apprehension and anticipation.
"What?" Tom asked curtly.
Her smile faltered, but she rallied herself quickly. "I guess you probably know this isn't what I really look like," she said, and she tapped her head with her wand, dispelling the glamour.
Hair changed from black to brown, losing length and volume. Complexion reddened, acne spreading across her cheeks and scabs forming at the edges of her lips and nose where she'd picked at the skin too often. Breasts shrank, hips widened, and toned arms thinned into the gangly limbs of a teenager who hadn't yet grown into their body.
"Myrtle Warren," Tom said flatly.
She flushed and nodded. "I wasn't going to tell you but…" She beamed that weirdly glowing grin again. "I'm pregnant." She reached forward and grasped his hands in hers eagerly. "I know this might not have been how we planned things, but still. A baby! One who will have the smartest, most handsome father ever."
Tom had no idea if she was telling the truth. He only needed to know one thing. "Did you use a potion that night?" If there was a child, and if his involvement in its creation had been the result of nothing more than hormones and alcohol...
She stopped, looking a tad sheepish. "Well, yeah. I wasn't confident that you'd be interested in someone you were only just meeting, so I wanted to improve my chances."
There was a flash of emotion - Tom didn't know if it was horror at what had happened to him or relief that he hadn't done it willingly. He closed his eyes, jaw clenching as he fought for self control. Quickly, before he could do something that could be traced back to him, he strode out of the room and cast a locking spell on the door. Then he hurried to the Chamber of Secrets, the one place he could truly relax.
The next day, Myrtle Warren died in a bathroom, and Tom looked down at her blankly. His soul burned, the feeling of it shredding far more painful than he'd expected when he'd been merely considering horcruxes as a thought experiment. He picked up his diary from where it lay on her still form. It was just a blank book given to each orphan on their birthday, but now it housed a portion of his soul.
"You might use it to reflect on yourself, boy. Maybe then you won't be caught off-guard when God declares you unfit for His kingdom."
He cast a simple diagnostic charm on her and considered the result. He raised his wand to his temple.
"Or don't. It'd be best for this world if you leave nothing behind when you die."
She'd been telling the truth.
"Obliviate."