Hope you enjoy the chapter! Please R&R and come visit me at my tumblr - erikablair
Licking his lips unconsciously, Tom gazed hungrily at the child clutching his diary. His trousers were undone and rode low on his hips; pitch-black curls budded over the top, revealing his oncoming sexual maturity. Buttons were missing from his polyester shirt, the gaps revealing a still smooth, pale chest rising and falling with each breath. Tear tracks stained his face, yet despite his pinched expression, the boy's beauty was unquestionable. His face held the sharp, refined features of the aristocracy, softened by youth—chaotic, curly black hair, silken beneath his inquiring fingers, and plump lips so red they resembled spilt blood on snow against his lily-white skin. Tracing his fingers across the rapidly darkening bruise painting his neck, Tom pressed on it lightly, noting the boy's pained expression with rapt attention.
A tendril of magic wrapped around the fingers pressing into Harry's throat, alarming Tom before he noted the affectionate waver to it. Curious. Obviously, in his adolescence, Tom wondered why he wasn't at Hogwarts as he looked to be over 11. Considering how active his magic was, he dismissed the possibility that the boy could be a squib, which begged the question; how was he still in the muggle world?
Deciding to investigate, Tom disentangled himself from the boy's magical grip, feeling the loss keenly as he did so. Opening the door with a wave of his hand, he glided to the other rooms on this level. An extremely large boy lay in one of them, his bed bowing beneath his enormous weight. Coils of magic wrapped around the boy probingly – this boy had dormant magic! Tucked within the boy, its strength surprised Tom, and he knew if this lump had children, they would most likely have active magic. Shame that would never be realised, Tom thought leeringly.
Intent to discover what other hidden treasures the house held, he made his way to the third bedroom on this floor. Thin and bird-like, a woman slept next to cavernous indentations on the mattress beside her. The Uncle must sleep here too. Reflecting on the Uncle's earlier actions, he would guess that this woman was the boy's blood relation. Tom allowed his magic to prowl towards her, detecting dormant magic within her and even more potent than that of her son.
The prospect of feeding off of these two dormant magical wells left Tom feeling giddy. It was always much easier to synthesise than active magic. Due to its disuse, dormant magic didn't have any defining characteristics beyond its amount and power. Curled within its vessel like a well waiting to be tapped; it didn't fight, it didn't raise alarms, but once released, flowed into him, steady and eager. Significantly different from its counterpart, active magic adopted parts of its master's personality. Always slippery to catch and difficult to subsume. Tom needed to concentrate when feeding off of those with active magic. He needed to subdue it, so it didn't fight him as he fed – which made the affectionate winding of the raven-haired boy's magic even more curious.
Making his way downstairs, he strode towards the last occupant of the house. Tom sneered, seeing the pitiful man. Even more colossal than his son, he was struck by the sheer size of him. Descending his magic upon him, he noted that this man was nothing more than a common muggle. Useless to him. Killing him was enticing, but he dismissed it before the desire could take root; it would cause unnecessary complications. Hovering over him, Tom scrunched his nose as the aroma of sweat, alcohol, and arousal permeated off of the pig. What this beast wanted to do to the ebony-haired boy upstairs made his jaw clench and magic crackle and spit. No doubt, he had done it to countless other unsuspecting children. How many bodies were buried beneath the floorboards? The beatings of tell-tale hearts.
Energy waning, Tom returned upstairs, pondering how he could establish a blood connection with the magic-concealing muggles—leeching it from them. A drop of blood is all he required, and he wondered if the boy would be amenable to his plans. Considering his writings, Tom doubted it would take much of a push. He was irritated he had expended so much magic, but he needed to know; he needed to see. The boy who had written to him, words dripping with rage and desolation. A boy who had enough magic to quake the earth beneath him. He craved.
Decades of feeding in the muggle world had given him sufficient magical stores. Placed in Wool's Orphanage after his creation, it allowed him to feast upon unsuspecting orphans for years. Squibs, squib-descendants and the odd Muggleborn were his diets. Luckily with them still so young and untrained, it wasn't hard to conquer their magic. No one suspected his little black book for the mysterious illnesses and subsequent deaths that befell these children. It was chalked up to flu and brushed under the rug.
Tom contemplated leaving the diary when Wool's Orphanage shut down. But he decided to stay put. He didn't want to alert anyone, namely Dumbledore, on his methods for achieving immortality. So he remained in that dusty second-hand bookshop he'd been donated to, awaiting his next victim. He'd almost coaxed a bucktoothed, bushy-haired Muggleborn to take him, her fingers skimming the cover before her parents had dragged her out of the shop. Thankfully, only a few years passed before a bespectacled older man entered the shop perusing for books.
Active magic, powerful and seductive, lingered on the man. Tom could practically taste it. Using his allure and compulsion abilities, he compelled the man to take him to the source, finding himself in a school library. The few times he'd emerged after hours, he'd found the library to be woefully sparse. But he waited until he felt that magical presence again then called to it.
Scrutinising the boy, Tom pondered. He had such fury, such potential for darkness. Powerful and, judging by the marked assignments on his desk, quite intelligent as well. There was promise, and Tom bemoaned his purpose; it would be such a waste. Caressing the boy's face, he was caught off guard when he nuzzled into his hand, the boy's magic wrapping around him tenderly. Maybe it was time for a stroke of rebellion. Bending down, Tom placed his forehead against the other, their breaths intermingling.
"You're mine," Tom whispered fervently. "My Harry."
