Prolonged Author's Note: Well, I've decided to continue FtRCtT. I've really
lost all inspiration for this piece (especially with "Szajha" on the
pallet, as well). However, I'd feel guilty abandoning this piece when I've
come this far (However, I re-read "Bound" and think it's absolutely
hilarious how far I've come as a fan fiction author over the past year). I
would like to thank all of the rabid fangirls who e-mail me -- I wouldn't
continue writing if it weren't for you. I would like to thank everyone who
reviews incessantly. I was really shocked to read the reviews for another
TR/HP piece ("Apologies and Past Mistakes") and find that readers were
defending my ideas. Thank you for that -- It means a lot to me.
I won't lie to you -- I've become a bit uncomfortable in this genre since TR/HP became more mainstreamed, more popular. "Bound," of course, was one of the first (if not the first) TR/HP serials on the Internet and, back then, I'm sure it was innovative. Now, it just seems tired and slightly cliched (one of the reasons why I prefer "Szajha" which has artistic merit). But, anyway, thank you once again to all of my readers -- I love you all and I apologize for my severe lack of updates. I'll try to be better in the future.
By the way, yesterday marked my one-year anniversary of writing fan fiction. Thank you for many wonderful memories.
Happy Christmas, everyone!
Chapter Twenty-One -- The War Begins
Tom Marvolo Riddle sat at one of the tables in the Great Hall -- Something he normally refused to do while the students were loitering about. He scratched out some numbers onto a piece of parchment, paused for a moment, and then slammed the quill down onto the table. A dozen pairs of eyes rested on the Heir of Slytherin as he rose from his place at the table, shoving the paperwork into a leather satchel.
"Something not agreeing with you?"
Tom spun around to face Hermione Granger, one of the infamous Trio. He took a deep breath and brushed his hair back out of his eyes, trying to make himself look presentable.
"Hermione," he sighed. "Fancy meeting you here. Actually, I was just finishing up some project for Professor Dumbledore . . ."
"What kind of projects?" Hermione asked, childish curiosity in her tone.
"Secret projects," Tom smiled indulgently. "Now, how is your schoolwork coming along?"
"Don't patronize me," Hermione scowled, sitting down at one of the tables and unloading a massive leather-bound book from her bag. "I'm just reading up on the subject of medicinal magic. With a war brewing, it's bound to be useful."
"What do you know about the war?" Tom asked, peering over Hermione's shoulder at a recipe for Pepper Up potion.
"Not much," the girl admitted. "I've heard that Lucius Malfoy is on the rise, taking his place among the Death Eaters as the new Dark Lord. Malfoy doesn't have tact enough to bide his time . . . the battles will begin soon, don't you think?"
Hermione was terrified. Tom knew the feeling well -- It was the sort of fear that concealed itself behind jaded logic. Tom hesitantly unbuttoned his cloak and placed it around Hermione's shoulders. The girl looked up at him, surprised.
"It's chilly in here," Tom explained. "You'll catch your death."
And Tom Riddle didn't know what else to say.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------
"The war is just on the horizon," Minerva McGonagall sighed, leaning back into the armchair. "The Death Eaters will, undoubtedly take the first blow. I only hope that it won't be at Hogwarts. We're not prepared to defend ourselves, Albus. You know that . . ."
"I don't think that we need to worry about being the first victims of this unfortunate conflict. Lucius will think twice before attacking Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm certain of that. Besides, there are many other vital locations that the Death Eaters need to gain control of."
"He'll attack Azkaban first," Tom declared, sipping lukewarm mint tea from a tumbler. "He needs to form an alliance with the Dementors and gain control of any political prisoners that might be useful to him -- the Lestranges for instance." Tom smiled half-heartedly at the name. "After that, Lucius will turn his attentions to the mountain areas, trying to win over the giants. That will give us a couple of weeks at most."
"And after the mountains?" Albus asked, extracting a peppermint stick from a nearby jigger and sucking on the end. "Where will he strike after the mountains?"
"The headquarters of the Ministry of Magic in London," Tom replied. "Without the Ministry, the wizarding world in this portion of Europe will be thrust into chaos. Then the path will be cleared and Lucius will attack Hogwarts . . ."
"And once he gains control of Hogwarts . . ." Albus mumbled, candy lodged between his lips.
"Once he gains control of Hogwarts, the children will be lost. We will all be lost."
"How do you know all this?" Professor McGonagall asked, eyeing Tom with familiar suspicion.
"I trained him," Tom answered tersely. "I know my own strategies, after all."
"Our children aren't prepared." Albus rose to his feet and shuffled over to the window. "The past few Defense against the Dark Arts professors have been inadequate. Their experience in dueling and self-defense is lacking. They'll never be able to stand against a horde of Death Eaters." Albus stared vacantly out of the window for a few moments -- out onto the muddy grounds of Hogwarts and the storm cloud sky looming above it.
"Your time has come, my child," Albus whispered, extending a hand. Tom eyed the flesh -- peach-hued paper crumpled over bone. He took in the cracked cuticles, the dirt-stained fingernails. Those hands had formed thousands of children into adults.
Those hands had helped to form Tom Riddle.
Tom entwined his fingers around the Albus' wrist, pressing his cheek against the palm in a show of affection.
"Train them well, Tom Riddle," Albus smiled, never taking his eyes off of the sky.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------
"I'm to serve as the new Defense against the Dark Arts professor," Tom Riddle announced later that evening. He was lying in bed next to Harry Potter, reading a volume on useful enchantments for warfare -- a pair of lop-sided reading glasses perched far down onto his nose.
"You? A professor?" Harry smirked, tossing the latest newsletter from the International Association of Quidditch onto the bedside table. "Good luck with your classes. They'll be cowering under their desks while you attempt to instruct them."
"I think I'll be a competent professor," Tom sniffed. "You have to agree that I'm more tolerable than Gilderoy Lockhart."
"A lichen is more competent than Gilderoy Lockhart," Harry laughed, burrowing under the covers. "I'm simply saying that the students are somewhat frightened of you. That might make it difficult to teach them . . ."
"Hush up," Tom snapped, extinguishing the oil lamp and casting the room into shadows. Harry buried his face in the cotton fabric of Tom's nightshirt, inhaling the cinnamon-sweet. Harry's diminutive hands traced the lines of Tom's body -- the sharp lines of his ribcage, the smooth plains of his flanks. Finally, the two palms came to rest on his thighs -- fingers rubbing small circles into the flesh.
"Are you going to let me get some rest?" Tom asked, a smile curving the edges of his lips.
"Never," Harry whispered, breath moist against the shell of Tom's ear. "Is it against school regulations to proposition one of my professors?"
"Oh Gods," Tom chuckled, wrapping an arm around Harry's waist. "You've already slept with one professor this semester. What's the use of adding another one to the count?"
"Ew," Harry shuddered, remembering that ill-fated night spent with Severus Snape. "Don't remind me of that, you twit. It was a mistake -- a really awful mistake."
"Silence child," Tom smiled, kissing just below Harry's bottom lip. "Don't forget that we're talking about the man I was in love with."
"That verb is in the past tense."
"I suppose I can't be in love with two people at the same time, then."
"I'm somewhat possessive, I'm afraid."
"So am I."
The two of them lay there in silence for a few minutes, simply relishing the peace. After all, a moment of contentment was a rare occurrence for either one of them. Fighting each other had exhausted them though . . .
"I can't win this war alone," Harry suddenly declared -- a brief splotch of seriousness on an otherwise playful conversation.
"Who said you'll be alone?"
"Will you stand beside me?" Harry asked, grasping one of Tom's hands -- clinging to it so that Tom could never pry away. "When my protectors begin to fall, when Hogwarts is under siege, will you stand beside me then? When everything appears to be hopeless, will you give me faith?"
"All this and more," Tom said, kissing the tips of those fingers -- those fingers that had yet to see warfare.
"Love me," Harry commanded.
And that was all there was to it.
I won't lie to you -- I've become a bit uncomfortable in this genre since TR/HP became more mainstreamed, more popular. "Bound," of course, was one of the first (if not the first) TR/HP serials on the Internet and, back then, I'm sure it was innovative. Now, it just seems tired and slightly cliched (one of the reasons why I prefer "Szajha" which has artistic merit). But, anyway, thank you once again to all of my readers -- I love you all and I apologize for my severe lack of updates. I'll try to be better in the future.
By the way, yesterday marked my one-year anniversary of writing fan fiction. Thank you for many wonderful memories.
Happy Christmas, everyone!
Chapter Twenty-One -- The War Begins
Tom Marvolo Riddle sat at one of the tables in the Great Hall -- Something he normally refused to do while the students were loitering about. He scratched out some numbers onto a piece of parchment, paused for a moment, and then slammed the quill down onto the table. A dozen pairs of eyes rested on the Heir of Slytherin as he rose from his place at the table, shoving the paperwork into a leather satchel.
"Something not agreeing with you?"
Tom spun around to face Hermione Granger, one of the infamous Trio. He took a deep breath and brushed his hair back out of his eyes, trying to make himself look presentable.
"Hermione," he sighed. "Fancy meeting you here. Actually, I was just finishing up some project for Professor Dumbledore . . ."
"What kind of projects?" Hermione asked, childish curiosity in her tone.
"Secret projects," Tom smiled indulgently. "Now, how is your schoolwork coming along?"
"Don't patronize me," Hermione scowled, sitting down at one of the tables and unloading a massive leather-bound book from her bag. "I'm just reading up on the subject of medicinal magic. With a war brewing, it's bound to be useful."
"What do you know about the war?" Tom asked, peering over Hermione's shoulder at a recipe for Pepper Up potion.
"Not much," the girl admitted. "I've heard that Lucius Malfoy is on the rise, taking his place among the Death Eaters as the new Dark Lord. Malfoy doesn't have tact enough to bide his time . . . the battles will begin soon, don't you think?"
Hermione was terrified. Tom knew the feeling well -- It was the sort of fear that concealed itself behind jaded logic. Tom hesitantly unbuttoned his cloak and placed it around Hermione's shoulders. The girl looked up at him, surprised.
"It's chilly in here," Tom explained. "You'll catch your death."
And Tom Riddle didn't know what else to say.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------
"The war is just on the horizon," Minerva McGonagall sighed, leaning back into the armchair. "The Death Eaters will, undoubtedly take the first blow. I only hope that it won't be at Hogwarts. We're not prepared to defend ourselves, Albus. You know that . . ."
"I don't think that we need to worry about being the first victims of this unfortunate conflict. Lucius will think twice before attacking Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm certain of that. Besides, there are many other vital locations that the Death Eaters need to gain control of."
"He'll attack Azkaban first," Tom declared, sipping lukewarm mint tea from a tumbler. "He needs to form an alliance with the Dementors and gain control of any political prisoners that might be useful to him -- the Lestranges for instance." Tom smiled half-heartedly at the name. "After that, Lucius will turn his attentions to the mountain areas, trying to win over the giants. That will give us a couple of weeks at most."
"And after the mountains?" Albus asked, extracting a peppermint stick from a nearby jigger and sucking on the end. "Where will he strike after the mountains?"
"The headquarters of the Ministry of Magic in London," Tom replied. "Without the Ministry, the wizarding world in this portion of Europe will be thrust into chaos. Then the path will be cleared and Lucius will attack Hogwarts . . ."
"And once he gains control of Hogwarts . . ." Albus mumbled, candy lodged between his lips.
"Once he gains control of Hogwarts, the children will be lost. We will all be lost."
"How do you know all this?" Professor McGonagall asked, eyeing Tom with familiar suspicion.
"I trained him," Tom answered tersely. "I know my own strategies, after all."
"Our children aren't prepared." Albus rose to his feet and shuffled over to the window. "The past few Defense against the Dark Arts professors have been inadequate. Their experience in dueling and self-defense is lacking. They'll never be able to stand against a horde of Death Eaters." Albus stared vacantly out of the window for a few moments -- out onto the muddy grounds of Hogwarts and the storm cloud sky looming above it.
"Your time has come, my child," Albus whispered, extending a hand. Tom eyed the flesh -- peach-hued paper crumpled over bone. He took in the cracked cuticles, the dirt-stained fingernails. Those hands had formed thousands of children into adults.
Those hands had helped to form Tom Riddle.
Tom entwined his fingers around the Albus' wrist, pressing his cheek against the palm in a show of affection.
"Train them well, Tom Riddle," Albus smiled, never taking his eyes off of the sky.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------
"I'm to serve as the new Defense against the Dark Arts professor," Tom Riddle announced later that evening. He was lying in bed next to Harry Potter, reading a volume on useful enchantments for warfare -- a pair of lop-sided reading glasses perched far down onto his nose.
"You? A professor?" Harry smirked, tossing the latest newsletter from the International Association of Quidditch onto the bedside table. "Good luck with your classes. They'll be cowering under their desks while you attempt to instruct them."
"I think I'll be a competent professor," Tom sniffed. "You have to agree that I'm more tolerable than Gilderoy Lockhart."
"A lichen is more competent than Gilderoy Lockhart," Harry laughed, burrowing under the covers. "I'm simply saying that the students are somewhat frightened of you. That might make it difficult to teach them . . ."
"Hush up," Tom snapped, extinguishing the oil lamp and casting the room into shadows. Harry buried his face in the cotton fabric of Tom's nightshirt, inhaling the cinnamon-sweet. Harry's diminutive hands traced the lines of Tom's body -- the sharp lines of his ribcage, the smooth plains of his flanks. Finally, the two palms came to rest on his thighs -- fingers rubbing small circles into the flesh.
"Are you going to let me get some rest?" Tom asked, a smile curving the edges of his lips.
"Never," Harry whispered, breath moist against the shell of Tom's ear. "Is it against school regulations to proposition one of my professors?"
"Oh Gods," Tom chuckled, wrapping an arm around Harry's waist. "You've already slept with one professor this semester. What's the use of adding another one to the count?"
"Ew," Harry shuddered, remembering that ill-fated night spent with Severus Snape. "Don't remind me of that, you twit. It was a mistake -- a really awful mistake."
"Silence child," Tom smiled, kissing just below Harry's bottom lip. "Don't forget that we're talking about the man I was in love with."
"That verb is in the past tense."
"I suppose I can't be in love with two people at the same time, then."
"I'm somewhat possessive, I'm afraid."
"So am I."
The two of them lay there in silence for a few minutes, simply relishing the peace. After all, a moment of contentment was a rare occurrence for either one of them. Fighting each other had exhausted them though . . .
"I can't win this war alone," Harry suddenly declared -- a brief splotch of seriousness on an otherwise playful conversation.
"Who said you'll be alone?"
"Will you stand beside me?" Harry asked, grasping one of Tom's hands -- clinging to it so that Tom could never pry away. "When my protectors begin to fall, when Hogwarts is under siege, will you stand beside me then? When everything appears to be hopeless, will you give me faith?"
"All this and more," Tom said, kissing the tips of those fingers -- those fingers that had yet to see warfare.
"Love me," Harry commanded.
And that was all there was to it.