Chapter 15

Less than a Spirit, Less than the Meanest Ghost

…Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall — Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone…

…Dumbledore soundlessly appeared in the front yard of a large beachside cottage, built into the rock of a small cliff. Silent apparition was an ability only a few had ever mastered, out of reach for a common wizard, but then again, Dumbledore had never been a common wizard. The cottage had been built by one of Dumbledore's distant relatives, the second cousin of his father's uncle or some such relation. Located on a private beach 20 miles north of Newcastle, random passersby were few and far between.

It was a beautiful bungalow, with spacious rooms split between two floors. It was seamlessly carved into the cliff face, filled with large fireplaces, comfy armchairs and expansive bathrooms. It afforded its occupants a picturesque view of North Sea waves crashing down on a white sand beach. It was here that Dumbledore had chosen as the first headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix.

It had been a whirlwind of activity and ever changing information over the past 36 hours. The First Wizarding War had been in full swing, with the dark side notching victory after victory. Deaths and disappearance of Order allies had become commonplace. Mistrust and suspicion dominated the social atmosphere, all but stamping out generosity and basic kindness.

The town square battle had left Dumbledore quite shaken; his dueling skills had deteriorated as he become more and more immersed in teaching and bureaucracy. As the Order power and membership shrunk, so grew the clout of the Death Eaters. But then, on Halloween, the entire struggle had been turned on its head. The greatest dark wizard of all time had been destroyed, by a mere child. It was incomprehensible.

After hearing the prophecy a year ago, Dumbledore had come to the grim conclusion that the wizarding world was in for a long, protracted war. If the Potter boy really was to be the one true savior and vanquish the Dark Lord, it would be years, decades even, before he grew strong enough to defeat Lord Voldemort. The boy would need to be protected and kept safe, he would need to train and study for years to learn the secrets of fighting dark magic. Dumbledore had decided to eventually take a personal hand in training the boy in the art of dueling. But somehow the child, just a year old, had defeated the greatest dark wizard in known history.

All of wizarding Britain seemed to be celebrating – how had the good news traveled so fast? Wizards were out and about, jubilantly rejoicing, with no care or bother at all to hiding themselves from muggles. Fireworks had been going off every hour, shooting stars flaming across the sky, and even the weather seemed to have suddenly improved.

But no one seemed to be asking why? Everyone except Dumbledore. What exactly had occurred in that bedroom? What spell had been performed? What enchantment had the Potters cast? Dumbledore had closely inspected the baby when Hagrid had arrived at Privet Drive. The only odd marking had been a curious lightening shaped scar on the child's forehead. Other than that the baby looked remarkably normal, plain even. Dumbledore wasn't sure if he had been expecting the baby to talk coherently or perform complex magic, but he had expected something…more.

It would be several years, after tedious research on Tom Riddle's life, exhausting travel and copious amounts of reading, that Dumbledore would begin to formulate a plausible theory about what had occurred that night. For now, he was just a clueless as everyone else as to how a child had ostensibly appeared to have saved the world from a dark menace. But for all he did not know, of one thing Dumbledore was sure of, the Dark Lord would someday rise again.

Tom Riddle had never felt such pain in his life. Raw, unadulterated, nerve wrenching pain. Worse than the early beatings at the orphanage, worse that the soul tears of his first few murders, worse than the burns sustained in the early battles of this war. Tom experienced such visceral pain, that he was sure this must be death. It felt like his fingernails had been ripped out and bent backwards. It felt like someone had taken a ball pin hammer to his knuckles. It felt like his skin had been slowly peeled from his bones. As the pain reached a spine shattering crescendo, blackness began to envelope him. He was suffocating, a fish out of water, gasping for air. His lungs burned, screaming for relief. He couldn't move, paralyzed, helpless against the pain. For the first time since he had been a young boy, Tom felt terrified.

Suddenly, the pain stopped. Tom found himself lying on the floor of the bedroom, the only sound the soft cries of that damned child. Too frightened to stand up just yet, he moved his eyes around the room. One of the walls was blown apart, scorched burn marks littered the ceiling. What the hell just happened? My curse must have rebounded, but how? How did I not foresee this? How am I alive? My god, my experiments must have worked. The precautions I began taking so long ago have borne fruit. I cannot die.

Tom decided to risk slowly moving his head, hesitant that the slightest twitch might bring back that wretched pain he had just been subjected to. Now the arms, ok, let me move my feet. Nothing happened, the body did not twist in agony – everything appeared to be in working order. Tom pushed himself up to his feet. The room spun a little, and then settled down. He could not see clearly, as if a milky film was covering his eyes, a watery cataract.

I wish that child would shut up. Where is my wand? I'll finish this once and for all. Tom searched the ground, becoming frustrated with his milky eyesight. No amount of rubbing seemed to lift the hazy veil. Debris littered the floor of the bedroom, there was the foolish girl's body, the crib…no it couldn't be…lying towards the back of the bedroom, directly opposite the crib, Tom Riddle stared down at this own scorched body.

Tom's mind teetered to edge of reason, threatening to become hinged at the impossible scene. He peered down at the body, his body, the fearsome Lord Voldemort's body. The chest had a large burn, where his killing curse had rebounded and struck him. The killing curse should not have made mark! His snakelike face had a vacant, unknowing expression plastered across it. Terrified, Tom raised his hands to his milky eyes. There were white, translucent, not the hands he had known all his life.

He was less than a spirit, less than the meanest ghost…yet he was alive. Over the years people would claim that there was only one person in the world who had ever survived the killing curse, Harry Potter. But technically Tom had survived the same curse as well.

He was now entering unchartered waters. What he was, what he would become, how he would survive – even he did not know. He had traveled farther down the path to immortality than any wizard in history, but was this the price? What now? Where would he go – Britain was no longer safe. He was supremely confident no one knew his deepest secret, but he could not stay here and risk being discovered. He would go…run far away…to a distant land…hide deep within a forest…on a foreign shore…that he had discovered a lifetime ago…the place which had once hidden Ravenclaw's greatest treasure.

Tom took one final look at his former body, the husk of his previous life. He stared hard at the white, porcelain face, into the dark slits which held burning scarlet eyes.

Burning, scarlet eyes – even in death they seemed alive and full of malice. Dumbledore shook off a shiver crawling up his spine and turned away from the destroyed body. The Ministry officials and Aurors in the room were bustling about, cataloguing evidence and taking pictures. But there was not the clinical feel that accompanied most crime scenes. There was happiness in the air, a sense of relief that juxtaposed the somber scene. They, along with the majority of the wizarding world, were overjoyed, so happy the dark cloud had been lifted. Dumbledore shook his head, the snake had simply shed his skin – he was not truly dead. It was going to take a great effort to convince the people in this room of that fact.

"Alastor," Dumbledore addressed the man standing in a corner of the Potter's bedroom. "Could I have a word?"

Alastor Moody looked over at the old wizard dressed in powder blue robes. Moody had just been promoted to the position of Head Auror and for many the appointment had never been an "if", but rather a "when". Moody's parents had both been experienced Aurors, catching dark wizards ran in his blood. He was a pure-blood and had grown up in the mountains of Scotland. Although many in the Moody family had been distinguished Aurors, Alastor had now become the most renowned. It was true that Albus Dumbledore was the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, was the only wizard that had given Lord Voldemort pause, and was a symbol of hope for the wizarding world during the First Wizarding War. But it could be said that Alastor Moody had more of an actual impact in helping defend the world from Lord Voldemort.

Moody had personally helped capture or kill dozens of dark wizards and it was said that half the cells in Azkaban were occupied due to his actions. Moody's dueling skills were legendary and he was feared among the Death Eater ranks for good reason. It was said he could think and act just as a dark wizard could – in fact, early on in the war, two Death Eaters had paid him a visit with a strong recruiting pitch. They were never seen or heard from again.

Moody had been a handsome boy in his youth. He had an athletic build, naturally strong with a wiry frame. In another life he could have been a professional chaser for the English national team. He had been blessed with long dark hair, vivid blue eyes and a youthful face. A fun and inquisitive boy he had been.

However, the man now standing in front of Dumbledore showed the wear and tear on having been on the front lines of a brutal war. A small chunk was missing from his nose, he had a few scars lining his face and his long dark hair had started to turn grizzled and grey. He also now sported a wooden leg, courtesy of Bellatrix Lestrange. But his vivid blue eyes were still alive, excitement dancing within them. A year from now he would be known as mad-eye, the result of a knife thrown by a desperate Death Eater hiding deep in the rolling hills of Ireland.

"Dumbledore, you shouldn't really even be here. This is now an official Ministry operation."

"Become Head Auror and have already forgotten I used to wipe the drool from your cute little face as a wee baby?"

"Alright, alright, keep yer voice down. What is it then?"

"Alastor I understand the celebrations and the festive atmosphere at the Ministry, I really do. But there is still work to be done."

"Of course, I know it. There are still Death Eaters at large, running around, more dangerous than ever without their leader."

"Yes, that is true. We must be vigilant. But the Dark Lord… Alastor…he will rise again."

"What do you mean?"

Dumbledore had anticipated the questions he would be asked, to produce some evidence of his belief that Lord Voldemort had not truly died. The truth was Dumbledore wasn't entirely sure himself just yet. Regulus Black's house elf had delivered the vital message some time ago, and Dumbledore had been convinced of the veracity of it, but the truth was that vein of dark magic had not been studied or traveled down in a long time. Dumbledore needed more time to study the subject, truly understand the steps the Dark Lord had taken. Dumbledore also did not want many others knowing this information. For if the Dark Lord ever got a hint that someone had discovered his deepest secret, He might take even more precautions in guarding it. How to convince others, while not giving them the truth?

"I believe the Dark Lord still walks the Earth, albeit in a weakened state. I want you to let the Aurors know this, to be on the lookout for any traces of him. Constant vigilance!"

"Yes, constant…What exactly happened here?"

Dumbledore turned away from the famed Auror, began speaking to himself just as much as to Moody.

"From time to time, over the coming years I will call on you to accompany on some…travels. Especially in the summer, when Hogwarts will be less busy. Yes, we have accomplished a tremendous amount. But there is still much to discover."

Tom found that as this shattered spirit he could still feel pain, hunger, even anger. Not loneliness or sadness, but then again he had never ever suffered from such pedestrian emotions. And his mind, his brilliant mind, was still whole and intact. Unfortunately, he was as powerless as the weakest creature alive, with no body and no wand to help perform any spell. He tried and tried to perform nonverbal, wandless magic, but alas, it was of no use. However, one power remained to him. Tom Riddle could possess the bodies of others.

After Tom fled the forsaken Potter house, he stuck to the coast and avoided humans at all costs. If one of them happened to be a wizard and realized what and who he was…the consequences could be dire. He sometimes inhabited animals – snakes, of course, being his preference – but he was little better off inside them than as pure spirit, for their bodies were ill adapted to perform magic and his possession of them shortened their lives; none of the animals lasted long.

Over the course of a few days, Tom was able to make it to the York shipyard. He traveled only at night, either slowly gliding along as a broken spirit or by possessing small animals he came across. He drank and ate all matter of horrible things to survive – muddy water, rotten berries, small insects. Nothing ever slaked his thirst or filled his hunger.

Tom glided across the dark docks, sticking to the shadows. A few longshoremen passed by him, but none of them would do – they were all too strong willed. Finally, a young lad walked by, headed for a ship about to disembark from the port and sail east. The boy could not have been more than eighteen, excited for his first real job. He was gullible and naïve and just the type of weak willed individual Tom preyed on.

When The Hotspur left the York shipyard its manifest said it was sailing to Lisbon, Tangier, then through the Isle of Gibraltar to Rome, Malta, finally finishing its voyage on the shores of Albania, near the city of Vlorë. It was supposed to be carrying oil, salt and various cured meats to all of those foreign ports. But now it was also carrying the wrecked spirit of the most dangerous dark wizard of all time.