AN: Right, first off I'm really sorry for going AWOL. I had my week's break and then a lot of things happened that left me with very little capacity to think much. But I'm back and am going to do my best to continue with the weekly update. In the worst-case scenario, updates will be once every two weeks but I'll let you know if it's going to be one of those weeks each time I post.
Mostly, this is because I wasn't able to create a backlog of edited chapters so I still need to send things to my betas. Sorry again. But for those of you who wanted more Tom, here he is :D Also, there are time jumps.
This chapter will go a little bit forward into the future whilst the next chapter will go back to the 1st September for Halley.
Chapter 7: Never attention's sweet centre
26th August 1993
They started with the last known location Flamel had been seen. Lysander assured Tom it had been coming out of Gringotts with Dumbledore, though how Lysander would know, Tom wasn't sure.
"I spent some time with Newt Scamander in my youth. On one of my trips, Scamander showed me a memory of Flamel. The man was scattered as anything - though they were in the midst of a fight with Grindelwald."
"Flamel was there?" Tom asked, surprised.
Lysander hummed. "Not at all what I was expecting, but all the better to get the Stone from him, aye?"
Possibly. He wasn't so quick to take things at face value anymore. The world had changed and, occasionally, Tom was left to play catch up.
He loathed that feeling.
"Flamel just walked into Gringotts without any sort of disguise then?" he asked, refusing to believe that Dumbledore or Flamel had been so careless.
"If the Daily Prophet is to be believed," Lysander said. "Gringotts is as secure as Hogwarts. More secure than Azkaban. The Flamels are old money; Sacred Twenty-Eight. Gringotts wouldn't allow anything to happen to them." Lysander sounded so sure, but then he too was old money.
Tom acquiesced. And, he supposed, if one didn't know who Flamel was or what he looked like then there was little harm in walking around on the arm of Albus Dumbledore. Still, how had they known?
"How was the Prophet so sure?" he asked.
"A reporter - Skeeter - nasty woman. But she gets information like no other," Lysander said, an unimpressed look on his face.
"Accurate information?"
"Not at all. But the story was printed in the morning paper and then by night, they had redacted it. Not common, and enough to make me think she was right."
Tom made a displeased noise. It had always grated on him that there was only one news source in Wizarding Britain. The information was so tightly controlled - even in the 1940s - but it seemed worse now.
Still, perhaps he could use that to his advantage eventually.
"If we're to assume that Flamel was there to loan the stone to Dumbledore, then that places him in England two years ago," Lysander said.
Two years was a long time to cover one's tracks and disappear again. "How do we track him?" Tom asked.
"Leave that to me. I have a suitable contact."
Tom was not inclined to leave it with Lysander, regardless of the Unbreakable Vow the man had given him, but he had no other choice. Not without leaving London himself or somehow alerting Voldemort's followers that he was alive. He did not want to do either.
"How soon?" Tom asked.
"As soon as she returns my owl."
Little Theodore left the manor on the 1st of September with a placid reminder of the task Tom had given him. The boy seemed nonplussed about having to watch Potter, which was the first emotional reaction he'd shown Tom.
Lysander assured him Theo would carry out his task with the same weight he took in his studies, and apparently the boy earned top marks amongst his Slytherin peers. Tom didn't really care if he was as dumb as a baboon so long as he reported back on Potter's mental stability. In the meantime, Theodore Nott could do as he pleased.
The 3rd of September brought with it a distinct change in Lysander that Tom had been waiting for. The Lysander he'd engaged with in Hogwarts was very different from the man who loitered around his manor tutoring his grandson. With Theo gone, Lysander shed his grandfatherly persona and in its place was a man driven by knowledge. By power. By magic.
He proposed a duel to measure Tom's power and any impact the additional soul had on him, and Tom readily agreed.
He was itching. The ebb and flow of unused magic lay under his skin, prickling at his fingertips. Growing each day. The last time he'd flexed it had been in the Chamber and that had been too long ago.
After supper, Tom followed Lysander down into the dungeons and past a room filled with intricate circles. His interest piqued at the interconnected circles; some were large and some were small, and from where he stood he'd glimpsed unfamiliar symbols in them. But it still wasn't enough to distract him from the promise of a fight.
They came to a room that was lit brightly by strategically placed candles. Another circle encompassed the room, but this one Tom was familiar with. A duelling ring.
Lysander stood at one end of the ring and shed his robes. Tom followed suit, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, and stepped into the ring feeling the heavy magic surround him. Charms and runes were cast and etched in and around the circle to keep the room and structure safe.
Tom grinned. Very good.
"What are the terms?" he asked. Lysander was old now. Nowhere near as old as Wizards could get, but he wasn't young. Tom didn't want to kill him; he'd have to start all over again if he did that.
"You knock your opponent unconscious, or they yield," Lysander said. "This is the first of the tests we'll be doing to measure the power and stability of your magical output. Do not hold back." Lysander shifted his stance so that his weight rested on the balls of his feet evenly.
Tom laughed. "As you wish," he said and threw the first spell. The bat-bogey hex was followed succinctly by a cutting hex in the next breath.
Lysander dodged it immediately, raising his brow at the unorthodox childish hex, and then immediately threw back his own spell non-verbally. Tom would have been impressed if it weren't for the fact that he was casting non-verbally long before they'd taught it in the 6th year curriculum.
They traded spells, easily matching each other. There was more movement than Tom had expected - the majority of the students in the duelling club had remained stationary, making them targets ripe for the picking no matter how many times Professor Goodrey tried to get them to do otherwise - but Lysander barely stayed in one spot.
A particularly nasty hex was sent his way and Tom dodged it. He cracked the ground and used the large chunks of stone as a shield against the unfamiliar spells Lysander was casting. He also used it as ammunition, but Lysander caught on and began sending them straight back.
Tom saw a little smile on Lysander's face and he pushed anger into his next spell. Lysander threw up a shield. How dare he laugh at me.
Then something new happened.
Lysander shifted his weight and chanted something Tom didn't recognise, and he sharpened in on what his opponent was doing.
The spell crackled with energy making the hairs on the back of Tom's neck and arms stand to attention. Lysander seemed to be drawing energy from somewhere, building and building it up and Tom had a feeling that a simple Protego Maxima was not going to stop whatever was happening.
Lysander's own shield was still raised. Somehow he was focusing on maintaining it and building up the energy around him, and Tom realised how narrow a window he had to act. He'd need to strike and strike fast.
A spell of his own then. "Eicio!"
The spell forced its way through Lysander's shield and struck him dead centre in his chest. There was a moment when nothing changed. Tom was still panting from the force of the exertion of shoving the power through his spell, and Lysander was still building up his energy. But the next moment he choked and gasped.
Lysander clutched at his lungs and the atmosphere dropped, almost returning to normal, though leftover static still charged the air and prickled at Tom's exposed skin.
Lysander was still gasping for air that would not come. He dropped to the ground and thrashed and withered there. His wand had dropped when he'd started choking and tearing at his dress-shirt, and was just in front of him. Within his reach.
Not that it would make a difference. It was incredibly difficult to concentrate on words or spells when you were trying to gulp down air.
Tom walked to the wall and leaned against it focusing on his breath. He left Lysander as he was, watching the fear grow as his eyes began to bug unattractively out of his head. Too wide, and so full of fear.
But at the point of unconsciousness, when he could no longer see the fear because Lysander's eyes were closing, he knew it was time to release the spell.
"Rennervate," he said.
Lysander gasped and shot up as soon as the spell hit him.
Tom stayed quiet until he'd gotten his bearings again. When the man picked his wand off the floor and stood up, Tom finally pushed himself off the wall.
"What was that ?!" Lysander asked, still breathless.
"I created a variation of accio. It summons the air inside your lungs," Tom said calmly.
"Merlin!" Lysander cursed, and began to cough. "Fila!"
A pop sound throughout the room, and then the Nott elf was there with a glass of water on a silver tray. Lysander took the glass and downed it quickly.
"More, Master Nott?"
He waved her away and there was another pop.
"What were you about to do?" Tom asked.
Lysander paused to look at Tom. When it seemed like Lysander was debating on whether to share the information or not, Tom wondered if it was familial magic. But the Notts were not known to have atmospheric magic, nor were they particularly flamboyant in their attacks. They were concise, persistent, and lethal.
"What was it?" Tom asked more firmly.
"I was channelling the frequency of my magic to match the atmosphere."
Tom was confused, but Lysander continued. "Effectively, I was converting the frequency of the surrounding pressure into one that would resonate at the frequency of my magic."
"Why?"
"Magic is a form of energy, and when a Wizard or Witch casts, it changes the surroundings." Lysander placed the empty glass on the table and drew his want once more. He muttered a spell and something shimmered into the air, stemming directly from his wand.
Tom watched, fascinated.
"Much like we interact with inanimate objects, magic interacts with energy. The stronger the magical force behind a spell, the more the surrounding frequency changes." Lysander focused more intensely on the spell and the shimmers became stronger, seeming to become wave-like in nature. Instead of disappearing like the others had, it seemed more and more like the waves were...replacing something else in the air.
Minutes later, the room was half-filled with shimmers and displaced magic and Tom felt a distinct change. The same lapping prickles against his skin.
"It's why, when there are powerful wards or magic emitting from something, people can sense it." Lysander released the spell and lowered his wand. He was breathing heavily again.
Tom considered what he'd just heard. It made sense. There had been times in the orphanage when the Muggles had all but parted ways for him like the Red Sea. And he had felt so off-kilter when Dumbledore had come near him that first meeting.
It was possible that he'd emitted magic unconsciously to warn the rest of the orphans off. And that Dumbledore had done the same in a show of strength.
"But you were turning it into an attack." Tom levelled Lysander with a cold look and the man shifted.
"Dominating your opponent with magic - suffocating them," he said with irony tinged in his voice. "Taking it to its logical conclusion, one could turn the very frequency one's magic relies on against them. It takes a long time, and you leave yourself open to attacks," he gave Tom a pointed look, "but it can work."
"Did you create the spell?" Tom asked. It was a useful one, to be sure, but not if countless people were aware of it.
"No. Merely adapted it from an old text." Lysander gave him a wary look. "It has a cost, though. Placing too much energy into the spell can overwhelm you like Fiendfyre."
That was not a problem for Tom. Control was his speciality. "Teach me."
"I will," Lysander said instantly. "But first we need to make sure your magic is stable enough. You obviously have the power for it." Lysander's tone had taken on a hint of petulance at how quickly Tom had picked up the spell, but both men ignored it.
"How do we start?" Tom asked.
"First I need to establish what was transferred over from the girl's soul. Then we go from there." Lysander did not also say that he would need to sleep a good few hours before they did anything else, but Tom could see it in the way the man was having trouble standing.
He wasn't pleased about that. Nor was he pleased that there had been anything transferred at all! But that seemed to be the catch of Soul Magic. Something needed to be exchanged for the power a soul granted.
"Fine. Then we start tomorrow." It wouldn't do for Lysander to mess something up because he was drained.
"Thank you, my Lord."
Lysander didn't realise what had happened until September had passed. Somehow, he had found himself a mentor of sorts to Tom Riddle.
He had been so enthralled in monitoring Tom - on testing out what had, up until this point, been theoretical equations. The equations were based soundly on theory that had worked in the texts he'd found, but they were theory, nonetheless.
Muggles, he had come to find, were far more useful while they tinkered away at their quantum mechanics, chemistry, or physics.
The things they created - televisions, aeroplanes, telephones - they were interesting. But the bombs, the guns, the research...that was powerful. It wouldn't bode well for the magical communities when they inevitably were found out. The witch trials would be a speck in the histories in comparison. But Lysander didn't plan on being there when it happened.
In fact, now that Tom was back, he didn't think it would happen at all. Not if they could convert soul energy into power.
He was giddy at the thought.
The tests had begun simply; first, they needed to establish how much power Tom had initially had before becoming a Horcrux. This was easier said than done and required a fair amount of Pensieve use in order for Lysander to ascertain the rough estimate. They would never truly know.
He would have just asked Tom to measure the power of a spell against the memory of it but too many factors were in play; he had half his soul. He had some amount of the girl's. He had a new wand.
Not to mention, memories were fickle things.
Lysander was not altogether happy that he had to base the measurements on something so fickle, but at least the Pensieve allowed for a more thorough viewing. It had proved what he had already known; Tom had been a capable student with a gift for magic. He was powerful.
The next thing they needed was a baseline. If they wanted to measure the output of magic a soul had on the individual, then they would need a starting point before they could compare it to the assistance of the Philosopher's Stone.
His Lord was enthusiastic about that aspect of it.
So Lysander taught him the spell he'd used in the duel. "When I ask you to, cast the spell. Keep casting it until you feel you no longer can, or the room fills with your magic."
Tom didn't ask when he would know if the room was filled with magic and so Lysander didn't explain it to him. He wouldn't be able to anyway; it was a purely instinctual feeling that thrummed at the base of your spine. Almost like the room felt lighter to the caster, or that they could interact with the very essence of the air in the room.
Lysander stepped out of the duelling ring and into a protection circle, took the stopwatch and readied the DictaQuil, then nodded. "Begin," he said, and watched as the room filled with an energy that felt just a tad more suffocating than he had expected.
Magic was somewhat like the Muggle concept of DNA. It was unique to each caster, some magic types were more easily wielded in some families, much like appearances were passed down. And if one concentrated hard enough, tuned into their magic enough, they would be able to sense the differences in magic.
An exciting thought followed, as it always did. What if you could track it? Track the magical signature beyond a wand?
Tom's waves of magic left a burning aftertaste in Lysander's mouth, and he was startled out of his thoughts. If he could sense it so tangibly, then Tom was pushing through faster than he had thought he would.
Lysander looked over at the boy that was not a boy in order to check he was not pushing himself, but Tom was standing there fairly easily. There was the smallest puckering in between his eyebrows which indicated a certain level of concentration, but less strain than was usual.
He felt it when Tom's magic took over the space. It wasn't gentle, but a solid snap, and Lysander felt his own magic try to writhe its way out at the threat. He tampered it down; he wouldn't win that fight.
"Time," he called, and the stopwatch stopped ticking.
Tom stopped immediately and as the spell dissipated, so too did the magic until the room had returned to its original state.
When it was done, he heard Tom breathing heavily, but the grin on his face made Lysander think that it wasn't out of exhaustion but exhilaration.
"How did that feel?" he asked as he began to input the calculations he'd taken.
"It felt right. Intoxicating," Tom said almost giddily.
That sounded about right, though he would need to make sure to tell the boy that it was dangerous to allow oneself to succumb to that feeling. Addictive, even.
"What are you calculating?"
"The rate of diffusion," he began. "Magic is denser than air - but only just. It would have to be so that spells could hit their mark. Thus, I must measure how quickly you can diffuse your magic through the room in order to understand how much power you have."
Lysander hummed when he got the number. It was impressive! 0.952 particles diffused per second. And while it seemed a small amount, the average he'd gotten to had been 0.627 when he'd first started. And the room was not small, either. Lysander had a feeling this was only the beginning though. Tom had managed to do this exercise too easily for it not to be. Would he be on par with the likes of Dumbledore?
He'd never managed to measure the old man, but he'd seen him in action enough to know that Dumbledore would very likely find this exercise easy as well.
He used those numbers in the simpler calculation. It was amazing how easily calculations could be made with the right equation, and the one to measure power was ridiculously straightforward. It was a shame. The Muggles, as disgustingly ignorant as they kept themselves, were very good at simplifying things.
The number he got was far, far, higher than what he had expected. "Well..." he said. "I believe that the remnants of the girl's soul have not harmed your capacity for greatness, my Lord."
"What does that mean?" Tom asked.
"It means that if I can stabilize it, there will be very few spells you will have trouble mastering."
"Will it be enough to kill Voldemort?"
Lysander considered the question. It wasn't always down to power, they both knew that, but if it was a battle of magical ability… "Unless we're able to measure Voldemort's power in the same way it's difficult to fully answer. But...I would hazard that it is."
Tom smiled. "Well, I suppose we'll need to get a hold of that stone, then."
AN: What did you think? Tom is a dick, isn't he? Might be a little on the nose, but hey ho. No-one said teenagers were subtle - even Slytherin Dark Lord ones.
The science in this chapter is based on Graham's Law of Diffusion. I tried to research it best I could but I am not a physicist, and this is fanfiction. There will be more science-y based things coming up too though I can't guarantee they'll be 100% accurate to real-life science.
The next chapter will be uploaded next week. Not sure what day, but sometime between Friday and Sunday :) Enjoy your week, and if you liked it, had thoughts or some constructive criticism, let me know. I always love hearing thoughts.
