A/N:

written for the tomarry reverse big bang 2020. thank you dearly to the lovely admin for hosting this! and of course a huge thank you to my wonderful partner, Minryll, for going above and beyond with art for this story. you can find her art on her tumblr with the same user: Minryll!

title taken from the song 'hurt' by gabrielle aplin. excellent song with excellent vibes.

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What Goes Unsaid

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Chapter 1: The Eternal Winter

The boy was born into silence in the dead of winter, pulled from the warmth of his mother's body and into the horrid chill of a dark, candle-lit room.

The young woman on the bed was a ghastly shade of white. The birth of her son had drained what little colour she possessed from her face, leaving her with sunken cheeks and a waxen complexion.

Perhaps another time she could have been beautiful; if the stars had aligned to provide her face with fairness and her hair with glossy sheen. But it was difficult to imagine—the horror, the ugliness of this moment would be forever burned into the eyes of the matron who served witness to it, supplanting any fantasies of what could have been.

The matron cradled the newborn boy in his swaddle of woolen blankets, panic-stricken and fearful for the life of the young girl lying prone on the cot. The baby did not wail like most newborns, and his pale skin was several degrees colder than was normal for a living being. If the child was stillborn, the girl's suffering would have been for naught.

The matron's wizened, calloused fingers sought for a pulse, for the beating of that tiny heart. But Tom was cold and still, not at all a healthy child, and if he did not speak, did not breath very soon, he would die. The matron pushed and prodded at the child's chest, an attempt to instill life and produce sound.

"Can I see him?" The voice, frail and hardly stronger than the flickering candle flame by her side, rasped something awful. "Can I see Tom?"

The matron hesitated for a fraction of a second. The mother was not long for this world, the matron thought, and it would not do for the girl to see her child was headed for the same fate.

The boy, the child in the matron's arms, made an odd snuffling sound, tiny hands twitching weakly, surprising the matron from her stupor. His mother's voice had stirred him to life.

Perhaps the mother would do him some good. The matron deposited the boy into his mother's embrace, careful to stay close lest the infant slip from the girl's grasp.

When she spoke, her voice was rough, stuttering, thick with weariness. Fading fast. "He's so handsome, isn't he? Just like his father."

The father's name had been bestowed upon the pale, round-faced infant who remained so quiet, so motionless, that the matron wondered if he was mute. Unnaturally quiet for a baby.

The girl rocked her child, mumbling soft nonsense until her throat failed her. The rocking continued, slower and slower yet, until that, too, came to an end.

Still, the child did not cry. He did blink his large eyes as the matron pulled him from his mother's weakening arms. Just over the boy's shoulder, the mother's life was rapidly slipping from this world and into the next.

The matron murmured a quiet prayer and drew nearer so as to ensure the girl was not alone in her final moments.

Merope Gaunt gave her last breath into the stale air of Wool's Orphanage, safe in the knowledge that her precious son would be cared for. Her life for her son's was, in her mind, the fairest of trades. Her strength, her love, her magic, all of it bestowed upon her child.

No sooner had she departed did Tom Riddle begin to cry, his voice wailing into the night for the first time since his birth.

The matron cradled him close, rocking him. He did not soothe easily, and so she adjusted her hold, her hand cupping the back of his head. The boy's skin was damp and cold. Concerned for his well being, she wrapped the boy in another blanket and moved to the fireplace to warm him.

As the hour hand struck midnight, signifying the arrival of the new year, Tom fell silent. His eyes opened and fixated anxiously on the bright flames, on the vibrant, dancing colours of the roaring fire. The matron touched her withered fingers to his cheek. He did not feel any warmer. She would have to be patient.

So they sat together, old woman and young boy, until dawn rose over the orphanage. Rays of sunlight filtered in through the high windows, covering Tom's face in a delicate, ethereal glow.

The world around them was waking, stretching limbs and cracking bones.

In the arms of the matron, Tom's body remained cold.

To Tom, life did not make sense.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not fit himself into the world he lived in. There were many attributes of his that were strange and odd, but even so, there was no explanation—worldly or otherworldly—behind the frosty chill that had burrowed itself deep inside him, sidling next to the space where his heart ought to reside.

The world was warm, but he was very, very cold.

According to Mrs. Cole, he had always been a pale child. His skin was fair, waxen, cold to the touch. His eyes were dark, the pupils scarcely visible amidst the near-black of his irises. The matron at Wool's who had witnessed his birth—dead now, not that Tom remembered her—had mistaken him for a stillborn.

Tom did not like this. He did not appreciate being informed that he had been born weak, not when his life was already difficult. There was a frostiness that followed him around, clinging to him like a shadowy monster, cold as ice where its claws were tightly dug into his chest.

Needless to say, Tom preferred summers to winters.

In the sweltering London heat, the other children would sit nearby, the better to enjoy whatever freakishness he possessed that cooled the air around him. As though he was a boy molded from ice rather than from flesh. But it was company, even if it was reluctant company, and it was preferable to sideways glances and judgemental finger pointing. Tom learned to put up with it if only because they would dislike him more for refusing to help.

During winter, though, Tom suffered.

Any number of threadbare cotton blankets did nothing to help him. Sitting by the fire was his only solace, the only comfort he had, and when the children were ordered to bed, it was all Tom could do not to cry.

For in his room, in the darkness and the quiet, the monster tucked behind his ribs would feast.

Tom did not know what warmth felt like, and so he could only strive to imagine the pleasant comfort of not cold he experienced during humid summer months. He could curl on his side, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking, eyes closed, jaw pressed shut to avoid chattering his teeth too hard. Tom knew from experience that if it got too bad, he might bite his tongue by accident, and the pain of that on top of the cold made the cold unbearably worse.

Mrs. Cole often told him how his mother had died for him, how God's providence had delivered him safely into this world despite his ill health. Tom could not thank his mother for this existence of suffering, for leaving him here, alone, lacking all the things that every other decent boy his age had. Parents. A real home. Items that were his own and not shared with others.

Yet Tom could not hate his mother, either.

His monster liked it when he hated things. It liked the cold anger that Tom fought hard to keep below the surface.

If Billy Stubbs shoved him into a wall, Tom would not lash out. He would not allow the anger to cool his veins and slow the steady pulse of his heart. His lungs would expand, full of frosty air, his limbs numb and his mind blank as he pushed outwards in an attempt to force even a fraction of his suffering upon the world around him.

When Tom did let his emotions get the better of him, there were some benefits—namely, peculiar occurrences in his favour that he could not explain, neither to himself nor to the orphanage staff. However, these benefits also had severe consequences.

While the pleasure of tripping Billy Stubbs flat on his face felt glorious in the moment, that feeling did not last. The numbness of joy was temporary, eventually replaced by a gasping bitterness that scraped Tom's throat raw and left his body aching—the toll extracted by the darkness that lurked inside of him, insidious and profane.

And so Tom had to be careful. Whatever deal with the devil his mother had made to permit her son such unconventional abilities, it would not do for Tom's strangeness to be publicized, and it certainly would not do for Tom to give too much of himself over to this curse, lest he end up like his mother.

Dying, dying, dead. Lost to the illness that Tom now carried in his veins, inherited by blood.

Life did not make sense, but Tom could make enough sense of himself to know that he was not like other children. That he would never be like other children.

Tom's perception of himself solidified on this very fact: he was not normal. He would have to fight tooth and nail for recognition. He would have to work twice as hard to overcome his physical weaknesses.

When Albus Dumbledore informed him of his place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Tom was not fool enough to believe magic would fix all of his problems.

They shook hands; Professor Dumbledore's hand was warm and Tom's was cold. Professor Dumbledore stared oddly at him for a long moment, then went on to introduce concepts such as magic and soulmates.

Tom listened with rapt attention, unable to squash his hopes just yet. Magic existed. Magic was real. Tom had always been destined for a higher calling. Here was the proof!

But even with magic—

Professor Dumbledore lit the wardrobe on fire, the wood flaming with bright hues of red and gold. Tom was entranced.

Was magical fire different from non-magical fire? If Tom was to walk into those flames would he at last feel warmth?

Tom did not dare ask. He did not trust Professor Dumbledore with his secret. Their handshake was enough to remind him of the otherness that separated him from the rest. Perhaps magic could help him. Perhaps not. But Tom did not trust Dumbledore, did not trust the man to help him.

Discovering his status as a wizard could only confirm for Tom what he had already accepted:

There was something very, very wrong with Tom Riddle.

Tom was good at hiding things. He had to be, at Wool's, to keep hold of his possessions.

More importantly, Tom was practiced at hiding himself. He was practiced at blending into the shadows of crowded London streets, at mimicking the unhurried walk of a child on an errand for his mother. He knew when it was valuable to be seen and when it was valuable to be ignored.

In Slytherin house, his knowledge and skills were a blessing. Tom was evasive about his personal life. He wore gloves and avoided touching hands where he could. If not, then he would blame the temperature of his skin on the cool autumnal air or the damp chill of the dungeons.

Some called him Mudblood, and though Tom did not know exactly what that meant, he could guess, and he was quick to deny any such insults levelled at him. The degrading tone of the word set his nerves on edge, his heart hissing and spitting like a skittish alley cat with its back up against a wall. Tom did not want to be different, to be freakish. Here, at least, he was determined to fit in as much as possible.

Aside from the hostile views of his house, it was established very quickly that Tom Riddle was brilliant, if a bit peculiar. Tom learned new spells easily and absorbed information like a sponge. Professor Slughorn, the Head of Slytherin, took a liking to Tom quickly, too—a blatant favouritism that Tom hoped to twist to his own advantage.

But for all his cleverness, Tom was only a boy, a young one at that, and there were some parts of a person that could not be hidden away, no matter how hard he tried.

It was three weeks into the school year when Tom was frog-marched down to the Hospital Wing by a concerned Professor Merrythought.

Tom insisted he was fine, attempting to maintain a hold on his calm exterior despite his burgeoning fear and panic. He was terrified that he would be cast out of Hogwarts—the only place where he had ever felt he belonged—before he had even begun to set his roots down.

The nurse directed him to the bed, stripped him of his robes so he was clad only in shirt and trousers, and set about casting spells on him. Tom protested—this was being done without his consent, and he could not afford to pay for anything—but these concerns were dismissed by both the nurse and his professor. Reassurances that he would be looked after, free of charge, were spoken repeatedly until Tom was forced to comply.

Tom sat impatiently through the rest, embarrassed and afraid and almost-not-quite angry. Not quite angry. Here would be the most dangerous place for that. This was the most dangerous time to lose control of himself, under the discerning eye of the school nurse. So he held his temper. Fear of what he might do by accident if pushed to his limits far surpassed his fear of being examined.

The spells went on for some time, and then Tom was told to change into pyjamas—his own were brought to him by a House-Elf, a tiny type of creature that Tom had never seen until now—and relax while they waited.

They were waiting for a Healer.

Tom's mind made the automatic association of 'healer' with ' doctor', and with that association came memories of threats delivered upon him at Wool's. Threats of being shipped off to a place for mad people.

A tremor ran through him, one that had nothing to do with the chill nipping at his insides. Tom lay down on the bed, eyes closed, knowing that he ought to be spending this time preparing his arguments. Why he ought to be allowed to stay at Hogwarts.

Tom could perform just as well as any other student. He would perform better than any other student, if only he was given the chance to do so. If only they would give him the opportunity to prove himself, he could do anything. He would be unstoppable.

Some time later, perhaps hours and hours later, Tom was woken up. He could not remember having fallen asleep, which made him uneasy, and this unease worsened as he gazed up into an unfamiliar, smiling face.

The face above him belonged to a bland-looking, middle-aged man with a receding hairline. "Tom? How are you feeling? My name is Healer Selwyn."

Tom was not feeling things correctly. That was part of the problem. Tom sat up and cast his consciousness through all his body parts, a checkover of himself that he was used to doing. He still felt cold and uncomfortable, but he was well-used to those feelings.

So Tom said, "Fine." He winced at the hoarseness of his own voice and coughed once to clear it. "I'm fine," he repeated calmly, unwilling to give any sign of weakness until he was further informed on the situation.

Healer Selwyn's face remained pleasant, friendly. "I've just given you a bit of check up, Tom. Does anything hurt? Or feel uncomfortable? Feel free to take your time answering."

Tom deliberately paused so as to maintain the appearance of having taken the question seriously. "I'm fine," Tom said. "I don't feel anything hurting."

Just behind Healer Selwyn, a number of other people were hovering. The school nurse and Professor Merrythought and Professor Slughorn. And Headmaster Dippet, shockingly enough.

Healer Selwyn sat down. Tom hadn't realized there was a chair nearby. An awful dread began to pour into him as he took in the Healer's expression—still too calm, too understanding. Too pitying.

"Tom," said Healer Selwyn. "There is something I need to tell you, and I need you to know that myself, and the staff here at Hogwarts, are here to support you. There are potions we can give you to help manage the symptoms, to help make this as painless for you as possible. You are not alone."

The man reached out and placed his large, calloused hand atop Tom's smaller one. Tom felt rather than saw the flinch from the physical contact. The flinch from the abnormal cold of Tom's skin. If Tom could have, he would have pulled his hand away.

As it was, all Tom felt was terribly, horribly numb.

Tom stayed at Hogwarts. In his spare time, he did research. The Hogwarts library was one of the most extensive collections in Europe, according to Professor Slughorn. Tom would find a solution to his illness, or so help him, he would create his own. His singular focus helped, at any rate, to stave off the crisp, autumnal air as they inched towards winter.

If Tom could find a cure to death, all his problems would go away.

If he could become immortal, then nothing could harm him, nothing could touch him. His soul would remain whole and tethered to the Earth.

Tom worked hard all term long. His professors cooed over him like he was a newborn offering its first words. Tom hated them for it. Though his talents were impressive, it was not only praise he saw in their eyes. Their first reaction would always be pity, and he could not stomach that.

Tom turned twelve, then thirteen, then fourteen, and he grew no closer to an answer. He had read books that would make lesser men sick with revulsion, had learned rituals that would curse the soul to eternal damnation. But Tom was not foolish enough to believe in God and an afterlife. He had little room left for faith in his life, limited as his time was.

Summers at Wool's became a form of torture in their own way—he could not bring himself to enjoy the warm weather. Every second he spent in that blasted orphanage was a second of his life wasted. Knowing that fact soured his perception of Wool's further. It was a rubbish place. He hated it. And he could let himself hate it, in private, like it was a secret, so long as he kept himself controlled.

Tom hated a great deal of things when there was no one around to observe him.

When he was alone, when he was safe, he could slide into his emotions, into the anger that felt like the cold press of a flat blade against his chest crushing down on his lungs until his ribs were on the verge of splintering. Tom was not in control of his life, but he was in control of himself.

Tom turned fifteen and watched as his classmates turned their attention to romance.

Many students were rapidly approaching the start of their magical maturity—the point at which their power would accelerate, propelling them towards their prime years. Propelling them towards their soulmates.

Good cheer infested itself amongst his housemates as their joy expanded, jumping from one person to another like a particularly virulent cold. Shy glances and hesitant touches, blinding smiles and sappy terms of endearment. A blistering hope that someday the current object of their infatuations would reveal themselves to be a true soulbond. Desire for an ecstatic merging of two selves' magic into one.

The sight of it invoked disgust within him. Others were lazy and stupid, to allow themselves to be so easily distracted from their goals. To allow their weaknesses to overtake their ambitions. Though, upon further introspection, Tom was self-aware enough to recognize what the disgust was meant to disguise. He was bitter.

Tom was only a fourth-year, but he held an advantage over many of his classmates. His magic was more concentrated, more formidable than that of the rest, and he would come of age before a majority of them. If Tom could have been sure, he would have bet heavily on finding his soulmate before any of his cohorts did.

What a shame it was that he cared the least out of all of them.

What good was a soulmate when his own soul had an expiration date? What use did he have for a promise of love when it would not last?

A soulmate could not bring him warmth or joy. The concept of affection was to be discarded as a useless, frivolous weakness. Tom researched soul magic for his own ends, not out of any personal desire for a companion. Soul magic was powerful, if limited in its uses. If there was a way for him to leverage the connection, then he would consider the subject more carefully.

As it was, he was skeptical of his own soulmate's existence. His own soul—damaged, corrupted, dying —had already been judged unworthy.

There were more pressing events to worry about—namely, the war.

The Muggle war and the rise of Grindelwald. A man who boasted power unlike any other sorcerer. A man who promised to lead those with magic into an age of enlightenment. Tom scoffed at it all, at the symbol whispered to represent immortality, at those foolish enough to place their fate in another person's hands.

What did Tom care for the subjugation of Muggles? Every summer he was sent back to Muggle London due to the carelessness of those magical authorities whose job it was to look after him. What value could Grindelwald offer him when he was already marked for death?

As disorder and conflict tore through Europe, Tom busied himself with the task of survival. He held no illusions of what the future held for him should he fail. There was no room for slacking, no promise from any Healer that would dissuade him from his goal.

The only one who could be trusted to keep Tom Riddle alive was him.

One frost-bitten, autumnal night, Tom discovered the Chamber of Secrets. A legacy left behind by his ancestor—the reason for the magic that flowed rich and deep in his veins, granting him as much strength as it did weakness. A blessing and a cursed entwined.

As Tom stood before the looming marble statue of the ancient, long-dead wizard, there was a shifting in his bones, a violent rush that seared him to his very soul. It was the most potent of magicks boiling under his skin, itching to burst forth and roam free. Tom was jubilant, overjoyed. Here was the pinnacle of his existence, the proof of his power and his destiny.

Tom Riddle could not die, could not wither to the cold wastelands of fate.

How could he, when such potential existed within him?

The world could not be so cruel to deprive him of this, of his brilliant, beautiful future.

Magic was his birthright. It would submit to his control—he would swear it to this hallowed chamber, to the mighty Basilisk that slumbered in its depths.

"I will not die."

His words echoed thunderously off of the grimy, damp walls, the force of his oath ringing clearer than any incantation he had ever cast.

Tom dropped to one knee upon the chamber floor, then placed a palm down to steady himself. The chill of the chamber meant the stone felt normal—that was, the stone was close enough to his natural body temperature that he could not discern the cold of it from the cold of his skin.

Aside from that, Tom could sense the faint hum of magic that lived in this chamber, imbued in the very foundations of this room. Exultant, Tom got to his feet. With this discovery, something in him had changed. The course of his life had taken a new turn.

Tom returned to his four-poster bed and laid awake for hours, unable to sleep. Even the monster clinging to his chest could not ruin his good mood. He felt warmer than he had in years; he felt alive. His magic had unlocked itself. It was protecting him.

What he needed was more magic. What he needed was more time.

His magic burned. He had hope.

A/N:

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